The Pirates of Somalia_ Inside Their Hidden World - Jay Bahadur [83]
For some, however, Eyl’s economy was thriving. Floating beyond the surf, in plain sight, was the MV Victoria, a German-owned freighter hijacked on May 5 while transporting rice to the Saudi port of Jeddah. The recent onset of the monsoons had heralded the end of “pirate season,” and the Victoria was the sole remaining hostage vessel of the fleet that had once jammed Eyl’s harbour. Another ship was being held a few kilometres down the coast in an inlet known as Illig, or “Tooth”; its jittery hijackers had reportedly moved it there on account of hostility from the local people.
We turned northwards and within two minutes were out of Eyl on a path running along the beach towards a large walled house rising out of the dunes. A vacation home for the Farole family, the compound had also been an abortive experiment in fisheries development; the seaward-most building in the compound was in fact a small-scale seafood processing plant, its breeding tanks and refrigeration units now empty. Before the project could get off the ground, much of its infrastructure had been destroyed by the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, a fate also suffered by Eyl’s fishing industry as a whole. Since then the compound had been virtually abandoned; the wires that had once led from the generator to the main residence were severed, and a nearby well lay in ruins. Sand deposited by the wind in sweeping dunes had half reclaimed the compound, spilling over the wall and into the courtyard.
* * *
Following a quick late-afternoon nap, I was taken back into town to meet the village elders. As we sipped shah around a listing wooden table in the centre of town, Omar introduced me to Abdirizak, a stout man with a crooked smile and yellowing teeth, whose official position was something resembling a town sheriff. Beside him was a lanky man with gold-rimmed glasses, Abdul, another of the town’s leading citizens, who I was told spent much of his time combing the hills for diamonds and precious metals. The exotic sweetness of the tea cascading over my tongue, against the backdrop of the setting sun, brought me a feeling of tranquillity I had not experienced in a long while.
“Look around you,” Abdirizak said. “We have nothing. Do you even see any two-storey houses? There is no pirate money here; it all goes to Garowe.”
“This is not a pirate town,” Abdul added. “It is safe and peaceful here; even foreigners, like you, can walk around at midnight with no problems.”
“We appreciate that you’ve come here with so little security,” said Abdirizak. “It shows that you trust us, that you respect the people of this town.” Though I had not considered a carload of AK-toting soldiers to be “light security,” my retinue was apparently meagre compared to the veritable invasion forces marshalled by BBC and Al Jazeera reporters during their recent visits to Eyl.
“We’re not criminals. No one here likes the pirates,” Abdirizak said, gesturing in the direction of the ocean. “Those two ships are the last ones here, and I think they are very close to being freed. Everyone in Eyl will be happy to see them go.”
Hawa Abdi Hersi, a middle-aged woman with a black headscarf and a leathery face, joined us at the table; consistent with the trend of unofficial titles, she was introduced to me as the “spokesman for the women of Eyl.” The three spoke eagerly about the problems facing the women of the town, the need for education, and democracy. I listened in silence.
At my request, the two men agreed to convene a town gathering on the following day.
* * *
Back at the guest house, dinner consisted of tuna canned in Las Qoray—one of the few products bearing the exceedingly rare stamp of “Made in Somalia”—and plain spaghetti, which we scooped off a communal platter with our hands. A few of the soldiers had managed to hook up a small generator, which emitted a soothing half buzz, half hum. Daylight was quickly supplanted by the pale hue of two flickering bulbs.
Half