Dead Centre - Andy McNab [71]
The aircraft veered left and right as Joe sorted himself out for the landing. Surf broke on beaches that were covered with shit. It reminded me of the ones in Libya. The sea might look inviting but this was no holiday destination. The shoreline was there to launch boats from, but that was it.
I knew a bit about Somalia’s history. I knew it had got its independence from Italy in 1960. Power was transferred from the Italian administrators and it became the Somali Republic. There was a lot of socialism going on in Africa in the 1960s. The continent was a proxy area for the Cold War. East and West fought each other for domination. The Soviet Union already had a foothold in the Somali Army, and became the dominant foreign influence in the 1970s. It armed, trained, and gave development assistance. Somalia became very pro-Soviet, as so many other African countries did during that time.
The relationship with the United States was fucked. They suspended aid. Then the infighting began. The Somalis couldn’t seem to get away from the model Joe was on about, with everybody at everybody else’s throat. There was fighting between clans, between government troops and guerrilla movements, and between the whole country and neighbouring Ethiopia. The war spilt over into northern Kenya. Ineffective government and rampant corruption had put the tin lid on it.
By the late 1970s, the Soviet Union had binned Somalia as well. All of a sudden it had nothing, and people were starving. They had to come creeping back to the West for help. The government was completely fucked. After another round of infighting and civil wars the clans had taken over in 1991. No sooner had they done so than they started to fight each other. In that year alone, hundreds of thousands of Somalis had died. Violence, disease and famine were relentless enemies. Half the children under the age of five died. Forty-five per cent of the population did a runner into neighbouring countries. Of the remaining 55 per cent, a quarter were on the verge of starvation.
Then, in 1992, the USA had stepped in. Operation Restore Hope was where it all began. The infamous Black Hawk Down incident was where it ended. After that, the US withdrew completely and left the country with no hope at all. The clans carried on fighting each other, and I supposed they’d continue until no one was left.
The aircraft bounced across a stretch of dirty, rubber-stained concrete. The sea crashed against the rock defences to my right. Goats tried to pull berries off some scrub to my left.
The terminal was ahead, with the airport’s one pan immediately in front of it. It looked exactly as I was expecting – a low-level, two-storey Soviet-style concrete block. What I wasn’t expecting was for it to be in such good condition. The white paint and fields of glass gleamed out at me.
Joe had been waiting for my reaction. ‘I know, man – great, isn’t it? Until last year it was like the rest of the city. But the UN paid for the place to function.’
A banner below the control tower read: SKA. Doing a difficult job in difficult places.
I knew SKA. They were based in Dubai, and also had the contract to try and make Baghdad and Kabul airports function too. I liked the understatement of their message. It was a bit more subtle than Where there’s muck there’s brass, or Give war a chance.
I could make out more of the runway once we’d turned and faced back along it. What I’d thought were rocks protecting the edge nearest the sea turned out to be concrete that was crumbling into it. Maybe that would be the next phase of the build.
We taxied closer to the terminal. A ropy-looking Russian airliner stood on the pan. A mass of people huddled with loads of luggage in the shade of the wing. I didn’t know if they were getting on or getting off.
Beyond them was an old military hangar.