from the rock-hard to the soft desert grains.
She passed through a handful of scattered villages, wattle huts where local tribes made their homes. The road crested a final hill and then descended to a checkpoint with a pair of mesh gates closed across it. A dilapidated fence stretched away for a hundred feet in both directions and a wooden door had been hung between posts just next to a ramshackle gatehouse. A mobile phone mast stood ten yards behind the gatehouse and half a dozen armed soldiers faced each other on either side. Beatrix stopped the jeep while she was still three hundred yards away and assessed her next move.
The Kenyans looked tough and fierce, but their attention was focussed to the north. It must have been different here, once, before the resurgence of the jihadist fighters in the mangrove swamps just across the border. There had been many instances of hostile incursions, culminating in the attack on the shopping mall in Nairobi that had killed so many people not long before. This was one of the most dangerous border crossings in the world and the young soldiers would have been hopelessly inadequate if al Shabaab came at them in numbers. That must have been the reason behind the obvious surliness with which they examined those coming south.
On the other side of the gate, the Somali guards were more relaxed, yet she couldn’t ignore their AK-47s. They laughed and joked and had an easy, natural arrogance that Beatrix thought might well be dangerous. She had been hoping for a quieter crossing, but that was not going to be possible here. Attitudes towards women were prehistoric among the jihadists and she was sure that there would be an incident if she tried to make her way across the line here.
Beatrix had made a career out of listening to her gut and she wasn’t about to stop now.
She turned around and drove the sixty kilometres back to Dadaab.
THE ROADS quickly became busy with people and traffic, and she had to lean on the horn several times to clear stray donkeys from her path. She drove into the enormous refugee camp. There were structures made of wood, canvas, and sheeting material with the word USA printed on it. The streets disappeared off in all directions, some servicing neat lines of UN tents and others picking paths through accommodations with no sense or design. It was nothing like the other refugee camps Beatrix had seen. This one had an air of dogged permanence about it, and the facilities that would be associated with a town of a similar size had all sprung up like mushrooms on a compost heap: shops, bars, makeshift offices.
Beatrix found her way to the UNHCR Reception Centre in Dagahaley and asked for directions to somewhere she could stay for the night. The clerk behind the desk gave her directions to a small area where tents could be hired for a few pennies. She drove the short distance to the facility and took one.
She hoisted her rucksack over her shoulder and went out again into the dusty street. The camp was labyrinthine. An open sewer trickled alongside the gutter, choked here and there with dung and fetid strips of plastic. There was a camel butcher who advertised that, for religious reasons, he only slaughtered his animals at 3am. Next to that was the Candaalo Beauty Salon where you could have your hair braided and cut and henna tattoos applied. She passed men and women who were bedding down in the doorways of their tents, the better to watch the stars above and the people who passed by.
She stopped a local for directions and walked on for a hundred yards until she found the metal shack that he had described. It was called the Sabrina Hotel and was in the Ifo 2 area of the camp. A metal sign daubed with black paint greeted visitors in English and Arabic “with open hands.”
She pushed her way through the door into just the kind of bar she was looking for. Most of it was open, with a collection of mismatched patio chairs and tables spread out across a dusty yard. The
She passed through a handful of scattered villages, wattle huts where local tribes made their homes. The road crested a final hill and then descended to a checkpoint with a pair of mesh gates closed across it. A dilapidated fence stretched away for a hundred feet in both directions and a wooden door had been hung between posts just next to a ramshackle gatehouse. A mobile phone mast stood ten yards behind the gatehouse and half a dozen armed soldiers faced each other on either side. Beatrix stopped the jeep while she was still three hundred yards away and assessed her next move.
The Kenyans looked tough and fierce, but their attention was focussed to the north. It must have been different here, once, before the resurgence of the jihadist fighters in the mangrove swamps just across the border. There had been many instances of hostile incursions, culminating in the attack on the shopping mall in Nairobi that had killed so many people not long before. This was one of the most dangerous border crossings in the world and the young soldiers would have been hopelessly inadequate if al Shabaab came at them in numbers. That must have been the reason behind the obvious surliness with which they examined those coming south.
On the other side of the gate, the Somali guards were more relaxed, yet she couldn’t ignore their AK-47s. They laughed and joked and had an easy, natural arrogance that Beatrix thought might well be dangerous. She had been hoping for a quieter crossing, but that was not going to be possible here. Attitudes towards women were prehistoric among the jihadists and she was sure that there would be an incident if she tried to make her way across the line here.
Beatrix had made a career out of listening to her gut and she wasn’t about to stop now.
She turned around and drove the sixty kilometres back to Dadaab.
THE ROADS quickly became busy with people and traffic, and she had to lean on the horn several times to clear stray donkeys from her path. She drove into the enormous refugee camp. There were structures made of wood, canvas, and sheeting material with the word USA printed on it. The streets disappeared off in all directions, some servicing neat lines of UN tents and others picking paths through accommodations with no sense or design. It was nothing like the other refugee camps Beatrix had seen. This one had an air of dogged permanence about it, and the facilities that would be associated with a town of a similar size had all sprung up like mushrooms on a compost heap: shops, bars, makeshift offices.
Beatrix found her way to the UNHCR Reception Centre in Dagahaley and asked for directions to somewhere she could stay for the night. The clerk behind the desk gave her directions to a small area where tents could be hired for a few pennies. She drove the short distance to the facility and took one.
She hoisted her rucksack over her shoulder and went out again into the dusty street. The camp was labyrinthine. An open sewer trickled alongside the gutter, choked here and there with dung and fetid strips of plastic. There was a camel butcher who advertised that, for religious reasons, he only slaughtered his animals at 3am. Next to that was the Candaalo Beauty Salon where you could have your hair braided and cut and henna tattoos applied. She passed men and women who were bedding down in the doorways of their tents, the better to watch the stars above and the people who passed by.
She stopped a local for directions and walked on for a hundred yards until she found the metal shack that he had described. It was called the Sabrina Hotel and was in the Ifo 2 area of the camp. A metal sign daubed with black paint greeted visitors in English and Arabic “with open hands.”
She pushed her way through the door into just the kind of bar she was looking for. Most of it was open, with a collection of mismatched patio chairs and tables spread out across a dusty yard. The
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