Free Terminal Justice by Alton L. Gansky Page A
Authors: Alton L. Gansky
to let his guest in. “I’m going crazy here. What took you so long?”
“Somalia is not an easy place to move around these days,” Mohammed Aden replied. “Only 15 percent of my country’s roads are paved. That and the fear of being killed by rogue clan members make travel unpleasant.” Aden, like many Somalis, was relatively short. His hair was cut close to the scalp, and he had a pleasant way about him. Fluent in English, the former professor at the Somali National University in Mogadishu was an important cog in the Barringston Relief work in Somalia. He was a bright man who worked with both the local and the nearly nonexistent national government to expedite food shipment. In many ways he was a diplomat who walked the narrow path of negotiation. He was a vital source of information on Somali activities that might affect relief efforts. He had more than once been accused of being a spy for the CIA, and he had more than once been just that.
“Since you’re smiling, I assume you have had some success.”
“I have,” Aden admitted. “But we will need to travel, so pack your bags.”
“We won’t be coming back?” Roger asked suspiciously.
“Probably, but take your things anyway. You don’t want them stolen, do you?”
“They won’t be safe here?” Roger asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“Nothing is safe in Somalia,” Aden replied coldly. “We will betraveling to the north via airplane, but we won’t be going to the airport. An acquaintance of mine has a small private plane near here. He will fly us to Bohotleh Wein in the north.”
“This friend is trustworthy?”
“As trustworthy as anyone can be during these times,” Aden said. “You’re paying him enough to be loyal. He flies anyone who can pay him, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. We will take a car to Johar which is two hours north of here, then we will wait with my friend until well after dark. After that we fly to Bohotleh.”
“Bohotleh?”
“It’s a small town on the northeastern border of Ethiopia. One of your relief camps is nearby, so you can visit it if you want.” Aden pointed at the small leather suitcase and briefcase near the wall next to the window and said, “We shouldn’t waste any time. The drive could take longer than I planned.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Roger said.
“Knowing is the only way to survive in Somalia,” Aden replied seriously.
Ten minutes later they were in a vintage Toyota Land Rover, bouncing over damaged pavement and dirt roads. Dust and heat poured in through the open windows. When Roger first entered the vehicle he instinctively reached for the seat belts; there were none. Aden caught the habitual act and smiled. “Seat belts are good in an automobile accident, but they slow you down if you must run for your life. Besides, the belt would only leave you bruised after the drive we are taking.”
“Swell,” was all Roger said.
The drive to Johar was easier than Roger thought it might be, but it did have short spans where the road had deteriorated to a series of oddly shaped potholes of various depths. Aden managed to steer around the worst of them, but he hit a few with sufficient force that smacked Roger’s head on the ceiling and passenger door, causing him to spew a string of obscenities. Aden took it all stoically.
Two hours fifteen minutes and one flat tire later they arrived at their destination, an old barnlike structure on the outskirts of Johar. They were greeted by a tall, lanky Somali who shook hands with Aden first and then Roger. Aden and the man spoke in Somali for a moment, then Aden turned to Roger. “This is our host and pilot, Mohammed Arteh.”
“Another Mohammed,” Roger said, smiling at the somber-looking Somali.
Aden shrugged, “It is a popular name in an Islamic country. Come, I’ll show you the plane.” Aden walked toward the dilapidated barn and pushed back a large sliding door that groaned each inch of the way. In the
“Somalia is not an easy place to move around these days,” Mohammed Aden replied. “Only 15 percent of my country’s roads are paved. That and the fear of being killed by rogue clan members make travel unpleasant.” Aden, like many Somalis, was relatively short. His hair was cut close to the scalp, and he had a pleasant way about him. Fluent in English, the former professor at the Somali National University in Mogadishu was an important cog in the Barringston Relief work in Somalia. He was a bright man who worked with both the local and the nearly nonexistent national government to expedite food shipment. In many ways he was a diplomat who walked the narrow path of negotiation. He was a vital source of information on Somali activities that might affect relief efforts. He had more than once been accused of being a spy for the CIA, and he had more than once been just that.
“Since you’re smiling, I assume you have had some success.”
“I have,” Aden admitted. “But we will need to travel, so pack your bags.”
“We won’t be coming back?” Roger asked suspiciously.
“Probably, but take your things anyway. You don’t want them stolen, do you?”
“They won’t be safe here?” Roger asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“Nothing is safe in Somalia,” Aden replied coldly. “We will betraveling to the north via airplane, but we won’t be going to the airport. An acquaintance of mine has a small private plane near here. He will fly us to Bohotleh Wein in the north.”
“This friend is trustworthy?”
“As trustworthy as anyone can be during these times,” Aden said. “You’re paying him enough to be loyal. He flies anyone who can pay him, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut. We will take a car to Johar which is two hours north of here, then we will wait with my friend until well after dark. After that we fly to Bohotleh.”
“Bohotleh?”
“It’s a small town on the northeastern border of Ethiopia. One of your relief camps is nearby, so you can visit it if you want.” Aden pointed at the small leather suitcase and briefcase near the wall next to the window and said, “We shouldn’t waste any time. The drive could take longer than I planned.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” Roger said.
“Knowing is the only way to survive in Somalia,” Aden replied seriously.
Ten minutes later they were in a vintage Toyota Land Rover, bouncing over damaged pavement and dirt roads. Dust and heat poured in through the open windows. When Roger first entered the vehicle he instinctively reached for the seat belts; there were none. Aden caught the habitual act and smiled. “Seat belts are good in an automobile accident, but they slow you down if you must run for your life. Besides, the belt would only leave you bruised after the drive we are taking.”
“Swell,” was all Roger said.
The drive to Johar was easier than Roger thought it might be, but it did have short spans where the road had deteriorated to a series of oddly shaped potholes of various depths. Aden managed to steer around the worst of them, but he hit a few with sufficient force that smacked Roger’s head on the ceiling and passenger door, causing him to spew a string of obscenities. Aden took it all stoically.
Two hours fifteen minutes and one flat tire later they arrived at their destination, an old barnlike structure on the outskirts of Johar. They were greeted by a tall, lanky Somali who shook hands with Aden first and then Roger. Aden and the man spoke in Somali for a moment, then Aden turned to Roger. “This is our host and pilot, Mohammed Arteh.”
“Another Mohammed,” Roger said, smiling at the somber-looking Somali.
Aden shrugged, “It is a popular name in an Islamic country. Come, I’ll show you the plane.” Aden walked toward the dilapidated barn and pushed back a large sliding door that groaned each inch of the way. In the