The Pirates of Somalia_ Inside Their Hidden World - Jay Bahadur [87]
The pirates may have been keeping a low profile, but their associates were not. Lounging in the courtyard of a whitewashed stucco house, chewing khat in the mid-afternoon heat, were a half-dozen young men dressed in polo shirts, Hussein Hersi among them. These were pirate groupies: friends, cousins, and miscellaneous hangers-on, bumming around Eyl with the sole purpose of begging handouts from the impending ransom money. Their greed was a potential ally in my quest to get on board the Victoria.
We returned later in the afternoon to find them rooted to the same spot, lethargically chewing like a herd of pasture animals. I made a simple offer: help me to get on board the ship, and CBS’s subsequent news report would put such pressure on the Victoria’s German owners that they would load the ransom money onto the next available aircraft. My pitch had the desired effect; they immediately roused themselves from their stoned stupor and rushed to their vehicles.
The next hours were filled with fitful anticipation of the decision from pirate command. After another visit by our money-hungry go-betweens, Omar announced the bad news: the gang’s Garowe-based leader, a putative clairvoyant known as “Computer,” was less than enthusiastic about my proposal.
“He says there’s no way you’re getting on that ship,” Omar reported. “They think that you’re a CIA spy.” Computer would not even consent to allow Ombaali, the ex-pirate, to film the footage. The day’s efforts had come to naught, and there was nothing to do but wait for tomorrow to try again.
On the morning of my third and final day in Eyl, I awoke at twenty past five to Colonel Omar, fully dressed in his combat fatigues, obnoxiously snapping his fingers at his cousin in the bed across from me. I had counted on another two hours of sleep, but there was no chance of that; with military discipline, the Colonel had mapped out the day’s schedule, and it began now. I sloshed what little water was left in the wash bucket over my face and back, running it through my sand-laced hair. Snatching a rare glance in a mirror, I briefly considered trimming my dishevelled beard.
This early in the morning, the wind was quiet outside, but my soldier escorts were not. Shouting and wildly gesticulating in the direction of the sea, they were trying to draw my attention to a fact that was as plain as the empty water in front of me: the MV Victoria was gone. The word was that the ship had weighed anchor late the previous night, as if on one of its routine repositioning manoeuvres. Only on this occasion it hadn’t stopped, its lights getting gradually dimmer as it pulled out of the harbour. Where it had gone, no one had any idea. But one thing was clear: they had left because of us. A few uniforms, some innocent inquiries, and one paranoid leader in Garowe were all it took.
The pirates were spooked.
* * *
Rejected by Computer and his underlings, I was forced to turn to an inside source for information about the gang. A few weeks after I returned from Eyl, Hussein Hersi, pirate informant, agreed to visit me at my guest house in Garowe.
12
Pirate Insider
HUSSEIN HERSI WAS NOT A PIRATE. BUT HE WANTED TO BE ONE.
In his early forties, Hersi was tall, with a closely shaved head and a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses perched high on his face. A black diamond-pattern ma’awis hung off his hips, terminating just a few centimetres above the ground, and a crimson shawl was slung over his right shoulder. The latter, he later explained, was not mere fashion. “It’s a kind of pirate gang sign, like with the Crips and the Bloods,” he said, referring to the infamous Los Angeles street gang rivals. Coiling around his right bicep was a menacing black snake tattoo, a serious transgression under the dictates of Islam. So anathema was this choice of body art that Colonel Omar disdainfully referred to Hersi only as “Tattoo.” (Later, the Colonel began repeatedly prank-calling Hersi,