Free The Road to Hell by Michael Maren

Mogadishu when the Western expatriates showed up there with dollars. The Somali police tried to keep a lid on the outward manifestation of lasciviousness. A police squad known as the
buona costuma
enforced dress codes for women, arresting those who wore too-tight jeans or showed too much skin. The girls usually bought their freedom with small bribes or traded sex for the opportunity to return to the clubs.
    E xpatriates in Mogadishu invested vast amounts of their time and energy trying to live as normal a Western lifestyle as possible, which usually meant procuring food items that were not available in the local markets: fatty American beef, chocolate, butter. Once secured, these items would be used sparingly, mustered for maximum impact, such as when the boss came to dinner. Sometimes they would be hand carried from Nairobi. Sometimes Americans would stock up at an Italian shop at Fiat Circle that carried imported items. Often the embassy would provide them.
    Notice: 100 pounds of butter will be arriving on a government flight. Those interested should sign up on a list at the K-7 compound.
    The American Embassy staff would flock to K-7 like Somali refugees lining up for their rations of sorghum. Everyone signed up, and then the butter was parceled out among those with the highest ranks. It rarely made itdown to the contractors and others who were actually doing the work in Somalia, remaining instead in the hands of senior officers.
    Once in a while when someone would leave the country, he would hold a house sale. His kitchen would contain freezers full of butter and beef and turkeys, beer and whiskey, Rice-a-Roni and Hamburger Helper, and other rare goods, hoarded for some eventuality that had obviously not arrived. People talked about food, bragged about food, delighted in their goodies. Sometimes it seemed that it was all anybody ever did. Living the Western lifestyle became a game and an obsession with those who never left the capital.
    In 1981, expat life was transformed by the arrival of the VCR, which changed the very nature of being at an overseas posting. Now there were movies and videotapes of month-old football games, that sort of thing. They provided escape and brought people closer to home. Where once an American foreign service officer might have decided to wander out into a local market, driven to such madness by sheer boredom, there was now the option of staying home with episodes of the Cosby show fresh from the diplomatic pouch.
    A diplomatic shop in Mogadishu sold cheap whiskey and Dutch beer. Land Cruisers were always blcked up to its gate, and expatriates stood around with checkbooks and ration cards in hand. So many bottles of whiskey and so much beer were allocated to each person. There was a healthy trade in unused ration cards that kept expats busy. Most bought their entire ration. It was impossible to know when the shop would be out of stock.
    If one took the time to breathe Mogadishu in, to stop and watch it for a moment, one would have glimpsed a unique time fading quickly into history. The ancient charm of the city had withstood Portuguese invasions, Italian fascist colonialism, and ten years of Soviet-sponsored “Scientific Socialism.” Now it was about to experience a seemingly benign invasion of young aid workers, people with money and a culture and lifestyle that was contagious. Nothing in Somalia’s history had prepared it for this.
    Two days after Cassidy finished a two-year tour of Peace Corps service in Kenya, he was ecstatic to be on his way to Somalia to work for USAID. After the Peace Corps, USAID was a giant step up the development ladder. The money and benefits were good, but best of all for Cassidy, he would get to stay in Africa doing development work.
    USAID in Somalia was swamped and desperately in need of his help. Somalia had gone from being a socialist Soviet-aligned arch enemy tobeing an ally and major recipient of American aid in the space of a few years. There was