Free The Road to Hell by Michael Maren Page B

exaltation from proximity to disaster and ruin, as others from success.
    A t the end of 1985, Chris Cassidy was on his way back to Mogadishu. Beside him was Tone, whom he had since married, and their six-week-old son, Bernie. Tone would have preferred waiting until Bernie was older before bringing him to so remote a place, but Chris had his dream job waiting for him back in Somalia. It was the job he had been preparing himself to take from the moment he had left Somalia the first time. Chris had departed Somalia as a well-meaning generalist and was now returning as an agricultural expert. Now he would be doing something real. He would be working with Save the Children on a project to teach refugees how to become self-sufficient farmers.
    His first glimpse of Somalia from the plane was of the lazy port town of Merka, south of Mogadishu. Farther inland he could see the fertile Shebelle River valley. Somewhere along that strip of green, he knew, was Qorioley, the town that would be his home for the next five years. As the plane made its final approach along the beach into Mogadishu, he saw what looked to be about fifty Somali men, prisoners, stripped naked but fora cloth around their waists, hammering rocks in the brutal sun, black bodies shining on a field of rolling white sand.
    There was a blast of thick warm air as the cabin door opened. The Cassidys were loaded down with baby stuff: a crib, a stroller, bags of disposable diapers, and boxes of baby food, as well as lamps and batteries and blankets. Just because Tone and Chris were willing to rough it in the African bush didn’t mean that little Bernie had to suffer for one minute. He’d have all the advantages of a First World life, while understanding something about a world that didn’t offer that life to everyone. Cassidy was determined that Bernie would learn a work ethic. He would understand life in a way that those TV-drugged kids in the States never would.
    The family stepped slowly down toward the tarmac as the stairway wobbled beneath them. Below, Chris could see the plane surrounded by Somali police in blue berets lounging about the terminal, holding their automatic weapons as if they were as harmless as umbrellas. Fixers and greeters from various aid agencies milled among the police, smiling and patiently waiting in the hot sun for the Westerners they would usher through the erratic and intimidating Somali immigration maze. They would get the right stamps in passports and keep luggage from the grasp of customs officials seeking to supplement their salaries. Anyone who was not picked up by a fixer was at their mercy. A newcomer without an experienced escort would be like fresh carrion to the airport vultures.
    M ost of the non-Somalis on the plane were in the aid business, consultants and relief experts, development mavens, men and women of all ages and European nationalities. Flights in and out of Mogadishu were full of them, coming and going from Nairobi. Some were transiting from Europe. Most were on weekend rests in Kenya’s consumer-friendly capital or game parks, fat from buffet dinners, relaxed from hours of lounging around glistening swimming pools and sipping drinks proffered by trained-in-the-art-of-service Kenyan waiters.
    As they started the long walk across the tarmac to the arrivals building, it seemed like a mile away. Thick heat radiated from the sun-baked tar. The fatigue of a 12,000-mile nearly nonstop journey made their knees weak and left them feeling vaguely ill. Tone held the baby tightly as Chris scanned the crowd for a friendly face, someone to reach out and take some luggage and welcome him to Somalia. Each of the other passengers walked toward a Somali face, a warm glance, and a promise of efficient passage. Chris looked around nervously as he led his young family toward the sign that read Arrivals. The faces of the Somali fixers all looked familiar. Helooked into their eyes hoping that one of them was there to meet him.