Obock

Godoria Grave Markers

It has been so long since I last blogged that my incredibly tech-savvy, Kindle and Ipod toting father said I was slacking. Since a daughter can’t let her septuagenarian father down, I promise to be a more dedicated and habitual blogger in the future.

I think it’s about time to get down and dirty with some of the real issues regarding my relocation to Djibouti. Let’s do so through the lens of a recent trip I took to the field as part of a cross border mission with UNHCR and IOM colleagues from Yemen.

We left Djibouti for Obock-a town approximately 3.5 hours drive north of Djibouti town. Located on the Red Sea, Obock is less than 25 km from the coast of Yemen.

It is quite an experience to travel through mountains, deserts, around salt lakes and on the sea all within the span of 3 hours. Our biggest hazard was stubborn suicidal camels occupying the middle of the road.

The reason for the trip was simple: to meet with authorities in Obock and visit one of Djibouti’s most frequented migration routes and departure points for Ethiopian asylum seekers.

To say that this well-travelled migration route is rough is a wild understatement. It can take up to a month on foot to make it through the rocky mountains to the desert then on to the sea. Some refugees have the means to pay illegal smugglers to help them cross portions of the terrain; others must attempt to do so on foot.

To contextualize, Djibouti is rarely a destination in and of itself for asylum seekers/migrants/refugees in the region. It is a transit country, “used” for safe passage to Yemen, and/or Saudi Arabia. Once in Saudi Arabia, many migrants can hope to earn $150 a month: a fortune compared to what they could earn at home, but so little given many risk and lose their lives along the journey.

We arrived in Obock, having been escorted in convoy by the Secretary General of the national refugee agency, and were met by the Préfet- the head of the local government. To sum up a meeting conducted in French and Arabic (I am destined to an eternal career in translation…argh), the local authorities are swamped by the number of what they called “economic migrants” in the region. They lack the funds for a proper coast guard, as well as for facilities in which to detain migrants. Interestingly, they openly admitted breaking international law by refouling (returning) people back to the other side of the border (given that Djibouti is party to the International Refugee Convention, they know this is illegal). What they didn’t articulate but made quite silently clear was: 1) it is in their best interest to turn a blind eye and let people risk their lives at high sea (in this way these persons are no longer the responsibility of Djiboutian officials but become Yemen’s “burden”) and 2) they have no interest in determining whether the Ethiopians were refugees fleeing persecution, rather blindly labelling them all economic migrants.

After the meeting was abruptly cut short as a Q&A got quite political, we were invited to convoy to Godoria, the actual departure point to Yemen- approximately 30 minutes through a roadless desert along the Red Sea. Nothing in site but the ominous truck tracks in the sand of countless human smugglers’ vehicles. The tracks were so recent that the sea winds hadn’t yet blown them away. Occasionally you’d see a gazelle, or an empty plastic bottle or bag-the only evidence of recent human presence.

I will be frank and admit that I was naively shocked to see groups of refugees off in the distance, huddled under small desert bushes on a small peninsula that jutted out into the Red Sea oblivion. I cannot even articulate how hot it was in this coastal desert, nor could I contemplate making the journey on foot that was difficult in an air-conditioned UN truck. I learned that refugees pay $60 to jam into overcrowded and shoddy fishing boats in hopes of making it to Yemen. It is true that Yemen was close; not only could you see it, but my Yemeni colleagues received a “Welcome to Yemen” text from their cell phone service thinking they had made it home safely. But to say that Yemen is close is not to say that the journey is guaranteed. It is merely the “safest” risk a refugee could take.

I have never felt more powerless in my life- standing on the cliffs of the Red Sea, in the company of the Head Official of the Djiboutian refugee agency, the highest UN official in Yemen as well as the IOM and watching refugees waiting. Waiting to risk their lives at sea. And us watching, doing nothing. It wasn’t until that moment when I looked down, and realized that I was standing atop a fresh grave of an Ethiopian who had recently lost his or her life on the trek. I looked down the coast and saw many such stone markers, impromptu gravesites. In any other situation, it would be a beautiful resting point. But in this context, it couldn’t be more bleak.

We drove back silently, contemplating what we had seen, knowing that droves of people would soon appear for the daily 6pm sunset departure.

This was my third day on the job. I didn’t really know what to say.

Scenes from my Apartment

Please go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxW63ow_oNM to see my first ever super mega Djiboutian film cleverly entitled: Scenes from my Apartment.

Enjoy.

Moving Day

On May 28th I moved in to my 1 bedroom apartment. (And by “I” I mean the taxi driver and building guardian. They schlepped my 3 suitcases up to 4th floor walk-up apartment in seconds). Furnished with modern amenities such as 2 (count them 2) air conditioners, 2 ceiling fans, fridge, stove/oven and a washing machine, I am a happy little Djiboutian camper.

I live smack dab in the center of town, surrounded by street cafes and shops. I am mere blocks from the main square (Place Menelik/Place du 27 juin) and the markets. I am also right in front of a mosque, but with all do respect Allah, my AC blocks out the first call to prayers, which is at 4:30 am.

As recommended, when renting an apartment in Djib City, you must ensure that your apartment has a “groupe electrogene” (a generator group). Because outages/blackouts are so frequent and occur for hours (sometimes up to 12 hours a day) you should only rent an apartment that has its own generator. In most cases, when a blackout occurs, the generator kicks in immediately, and you are good to go. I quickly discovered, however, that neither the AC in the living room, nor the washing machine is hooked up to the generator. So you just have to hope that when load your washer, you’ll have a good hour without a blackout. I was not so lucky on my first try. Stupid westerner loaded her machine at 12:30 in the afternoon (prime time for the first blackout of the day) and shortly thereafter Djib lost electricity. My full side-load machine wouldn’t work for hours and leaked water until 5pm when the power came back on. I was stranded at my house like a dumbass sopping soapy water off my bathroom floor (indoor pool) for 5 hours. I’ll learn…

Overall, I am very content in my new digs and had a mini-housewarming on Friday the 29th in the afternoon. Some friends from UNHCR and UNDP came over after I found the black market. Muslim country that it is, you cannot buy/sell booze on Fridays (think Sunday in Massachusetts…I mean Newton and Djibouti have so much in common). My sneaky friend and I hopped a cab on a Heineken mission and were informed “Ici, c’est le ghetto”. Ghettos are the perfect spot to find women selling ice cold Heineken for 400 francs (approx $2.50), which for Djib is REALLY cheap…all on the holy day (sorry Allah). With the exception of a minor ant invasion that occurred, people are excited to have a friend with a sweet apartment. (Translation: YOU should be excited too and come visit. Djibouti truly is the Boston, Paris, or Mineola of East Africa).

Day 1

Clad in linen and dripping sweat, I made it to work on day one thanks to the driver. I quickly discovered that I was to work directly under the big boss, the UNHCR Representative (hereafter Madame or The Rep) in Djibouti. Her first words upon meeting me were, “Hmmm…looks like someone’s going to get a tan”.

I liked her already.

Madame strikes me as an atypical diplomat. She is not here for the perks, the schmoozing, or the high glamour ex-pat lifestyle. She makes her purpose crystal clear and demands the same of me: never forget why you are here- it is for the refugees.

My title “reporting officer” was quickly changed to “PI Officer” (Public Information Officer), which seems to be a UN euphemism for “journalist”. In addition to writing all Geneva headquarter reports, a weekly situation report which is distributed to HQ and the region, I will be writing all content for the much underused UNHCR Djibouti website. The goal is to put Djibouti on the map. And my personal goal is to get a story on the front page of the main UNHCR webpage…so stay tuned.

I just went on a bit of a rant about the functionality of the office...but given the fact that blogs are public, I should censor myself a bit. If you are interested, I'll send you the deleted paragraph via email...just let me know!

Ok, back to work...

BREAKING NEWS: CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF QAT

I realize that my reporting is way behind schedule, however, I have BREAKING NEWS:

It is CLOUDY in Djibouti.

Bienvenue a Djibouti

May 22, 2009

From my humble and hopefully imminently temporary abode at the Ali Sabieh hotel in the sweltering “city” of Djibouti, here’s my first update from my new country of residence.

I left Brooklyn on Monday May 19 at an ungodly hour before the sun even dreamed of rising to discover my departure hinged upon the sleepy desk clerk’s ability/authority to rectify the misspelling of my name; the UN had cleverly listed me as Meghanmahoney.

Errors fixed, I paid 5-10 times the average Djiboutian’s annual salary to allow three overweight suitcases containing my entire life to go on three different air company’s planes. Teary-eyed, I made my way through security and mentally prepared for my 24-hour journey.

LaGuardia-Dulles-Rome-Addis -Djibouti

The flight from Addis to Djibouti left when it felt like it, which, luckily for me, was 45 minutes ahead of schedule.

I arrived early at the International Airport of Djibouti. The plane door opened with a wave of heat (think hot dog breath) in my face. Descending the stairs onto the tarmac we were swarmed by masked Djiboutian doctors. At this point I was assuming that all of Djibouti feared that the lone white chick from Brooklyn had come to spread swine flu and/or Christianity to this tiny nation. Not far from the truth, doctors jammed thermometers in our ears. Anyone who knows me already envisions a menopausal sweatisode in 100 degree temp dreading attention from strange doctors wielding tools. I could see the quarantine room ahead, and I already had images of me setting up camp in my new studio apartment at the airport, room Q.

Maintaining my composure and an average body temperature, I made it swiftly passed the health and customs officials. It seems that in the eyes of the border guards, my 1 month visa was sufficient for an 8-12 month stay…

I sat in the oppressive airport heat for any sign of the UN. A cheerful HCR driver appeared (much) later to pick me up and dropped me at my hotel although he had no further instructions. Hmmmmm.

At this point, it was well past 13:00, so everything in town had closed for the afternoon. I’m sure locals say things slow down because of the heat, but the real reason is it’s time for mass consumption of the qat/khat (I will dedicate an entry soon to this narcotic) which had just arrived from Ethiopia. Dehydrated from my long journey, I desperately needed water, and to change money. A non-French speaking hotel porter kindly brought me to the ladies who work Rue du Rome. These veiled women sit all day long on tiny stools with sacks full of cash hiding under their layers of clothes waiting to exchange money. Reluctant to hand over too much cash to my new street banker, I exchanged $40 and hoped for the best. It wasn’t until changing money the next day at the bank that I realized these women give you the best rate around and everyone in town concurs.

After a quick nap and a shower, I ventured out to find internet to in hopes of receiving news from the office. Found a great internet connection, but had no info from the UN. I sent out a few “I made it” emails, had IM contact with all sorts of people I missed in NYC and then had my first of many blackouts. My headlamp is totally my new best friend.

I stumbled into one of Djibouti’s dozen pizzerias, and surprised by the great quality (NYC foodies: put Djiboutian pizza on the delish list!). I kept my distance from the plethora of French and American soldiers decked in shorts and beer bottles and quietly meandered back to my hotel.

I awoke startled by the phone. A voice in Frenglish told me my driver was here. It was 8am and I was in pajamas on my first day of work. Awesome.