Hanad and Abdi sit up against the courtyard wall in the clammy evening heat. A large straw mat has been laid out, which serves both to keep us off the insects and to catch all the pieces of khat leaves they are dropping as they chew the night away. Nearer the perimeter wall, Mohamed and his men are also reclining and chewing, Kalashnikovs never further than arm’s reach away. Somewhere in the distance, we hear the echo of automatic gunfire. The bursts are short and infrequent. Nobody seems too concerned. I ask where it is coming from.

“It is from the south of the city,” replies Hanad, my fixer, “those people are crazy. You go over there and they will kill you. As soon as they hear which clan you are from, they will kill you, without even knowing who you are.”

I’m sat in Galkacyo in north-central Somalia. The city straddles the boundary between the autonomous regions of Puntland and Galmudug. Due to tensions between rival clans, the city is effectively divided into northern and southern zones. Crossing from one area to another is not advised. My guest house is in the northern zone, controlled by the Puntland Harti clans.

Getting here is a long, uncomfortable journey. It involves jumping from Hargeisa to Berbera, then on to Bosasso in a rusty old Soviet Antonov, piloted by three chubby Ukrainians. As I clamber into the sweaty cabin, which features a mix of different seating (including rather classy tiger print), I wonder how low you have to score at Ukrainian flight school to end up on the Somalia circuit. One pilot walks past my seat, breathing heavily. He doubles as the baggage handler. Was that vodka I smelt? Hopefully not.

My flight is packed with Somalis, many of whom are returning from visiting the vast diaspora spread across Kenya, the USA and Europe. Stood queuing in the sweltering heat on a Bosasso runway, I turn curiously to the person behind me, who is African but not Somali, and ask where he is from.

“Zimbabwe. And you?”

“Italy.” I push him for details on his trip, but he answers my question with another question.

“Well, why are you here?”

“I’m here on holiday.” Technically this is true, although everyone on the plane (and throughout the trip) finds this very amusing.

He smiles a knowing smile. “Me too.” I question Hanad on this strange encounter later. He tells me the man is a private military contractor, training a militia in the south of the country. Later in my journey I meet a number of white South Africans who are also not keen to discuss the reasons for their presence in Somalia. Once again, like me, they are just here on holiday.

The next day we set out in convoy from Galkacyo to Garoowe, the capital of Puntland. Less than twenty kilometres into our trip, one Land Cruiser developed a suspension problem which forced us to stop. As we sat drinking tea and watching the local mechanic hammering away at the bottom of the vehicle, a man on a motorbike arrived with some breaking news from Galkacyo. Sheik Hanad, a Sufi activist from a group called Suma Wal Jama, had just been

killed in a bomb explosion. People were saying it was the work of Islamists from the south, in response to his open criticism. Armed Sufi supporters were rallying in town, determined to find those responsible. We had chosen a good time to get out of Galkacyo.

Our second night was spent in the capital of Puntland, Garoowe. It is a non-descript trading town. We have not been in our hotel for ten minutes before a representative from the government security forces arrives, and demands that I go and register at their headquarters down the road. As always, there is heated discussion between our men with guns and their men with guns. In the end we acquiesce. Hanad, the only one in the group who can speak English, tells me to keep quiet and reveal nothing about our itinerary. I assumed that having the authorities know where you are at all times is a sensible safety precaution, but apparently they are not to be trusted. As instructed, I sat in the Chief of Police’s office and stayed silent, while those around me engaged in another angry sounding discussion. Just as tempers seemed about to fray, the chief picked up my passport and his scowl was replaced with a smile.

Sei Italiano! Benvenuto!

It turns out Somalis in this part of Somalia have nothing but positive things to say about their former colonisers. Most of the older generation could still remember some of the Italian they learnt at school many years ago. Spaghetti is still the staple (when people eat anything at all). The Italian government had recently been trying to strike a deal with the Puntland administration to construct roads in return for oil prospecting rights. This deal was obstructed by the Transitional Federal Government in Mogadishu, Hanad tells me, because they were worried how oil money would change the balance of power in their relationship with their independent minded northern territory. Given Italy’s current financial situation, it seems unlikely this deal will be revived any time soon.

The main aim of my trip was to get to the coast and investigate the pirates. This was not unrealistic, after all, Hanad had very close connections with them, and had even organised an interview for a European film crew a few weeks earlier. However, things had not gone entirely according to plan. The pirates, an understandably paranoid bunch, would not let the film crew come out and film any of their hostages on a ship they had recently hijacked. However, they did agree to take a camera out onto the boat and ask the hostages any questions they wanted answered. This all went smoothly, but a few days later some of the pirates were captured by the US Navy.

Their first reaction was to blame the film makers, accusing them of putting a GPS tracking device in the camera equipment (which they confiscated). The film crew, along with Hanad, were able to escape, but Hanad’s brother was not so lucky. He was picked up in a tea joint (that we would later visit) and held hostage for weeks while the pirates insisted that Hanad admit he had betrayed them. I will never forget what Hanad said when I asked how he got his brother back.

“First, I paid the tribal elders to mediate in the matter. But they took weeks, and all the time they were just asking me to pay for khat and nothing was being achieved. Eventually, I decided to settle matters myself. I borrowed some guns and an RPG from a dealer. Then I bought the ammunition. Six rockets and thousands of bullets. The bullets were very expensive. Then my friends and I went down to where the pirates were staying, down at the coast, and I told them that if they did not give my brother back, I would use the RPG to sink their boats. ”

The calmness in Hanad’s eyes as he told this story was unnerving. I asked whether he was worried.

“No, I had to get him back. I would have killed them all. They did not want trouble. They returned him to me.”

There were three things I liked about this story. Firstly, that an arms dealer in Somalia will let you borrow the weapon for free as long as you buy the ammunition you intend to use. Secondly, that despite what you might assume, bullets do actually cost a fair bit in Somalia. And thirdly, I was very happy that Hanad was on my side.

Given the current state of affairs, Hanad thought it unlikely that the pirates would want to meet up with me. But we could still head to the coast and see how they worked, and talk to the local communities about how piracy had affected them. The most fascinating thing I wanted to find out about was how some local initiatives had actually defeated the pirates. How and why were the Somalis having some success where international naval forces were failing so miserably? We jumped in our beat up Land Cruiser, and headed off on a six and a half hour drive through the desert to Eyl to find out.

An hour in, we lost phone reception. I enquired what we would do in the event of a breakdown.

Hanad said it was simple. “We use your satellite phone to call for help.”

“And what satellite phone is this exactly?”

“The one I asked you to bring along…”

Arguing about who was at fault was pointless by this stage. We had no sat phone. We would have to hope Allah carried us through without a breakdown. He did.

The journey to Eyl is not an easy one. Although sections of the route are paved, much of it is over rocky terrain, making access to the coastal town very difficult for anything apart from a convoy of 4×4s. Or a shaky lone Land Cruiser, if you are lucky.

Three years ago there was a spike in the level of piracy in Somalia and the Gulf of Aden, with over sixty vessels suffering actual or attempted attacks. This was over double the 2007 levels. Those unfortunate enough to be captured found themselves held hostage for weeks or months while ransom payments were negotiated. If you got picked up by pirates in 2008, odds were high you would have an extended stay around Eyl.

My hunt for the pirates first brought me into the office of the Eyl District Commissioner. The office, like the town, is a simple affair. Behind his desk are two posters. One is by Mines Advisory Group, advising of the different types of UXO (Unexploded Ordinance) found across the country from the civil war. The other is from the Ministry of Justice, funded by

Norwegian Church Aid. It states quite simply “Stop – Piracy money is unlawful in Islam”. The Commissioner’s view of the pirates, like most people I spoke to in Somalia, was very negative.

“The pirates were very bad for this community. They would drive around town at high speeds in their new Land Cruisers causing danger to residents. They would drink and gamble. They even encouraged our young women to prostitute themselves with promises of money. Eventually, the community decided to stand up to them. I gave them 24 hours to get out of the town, or we the citizens would fight them and force them out. There would have been much bloodshed. In the end they went peacefully.”

The pirates have not gone altogether. They have simply moved further south into central Somalia, where there is less government control. They now operate from areas such as Garacad, Hobyo or Haradheere, a day’s drive from Galkacyo, which is currently home to the hijacked Italian oil tanker Savina Caylyn.

The decision to expel the pirates from Eyl was a local one. Similar efforts were made by the communities in Bargal, Laasqoray and Bosasso. The Commissioner and his people received no outside assistance with this task, whether from the central government or the international community. Nor have they received any reward since making this risky decision.

“Since this time, we have received very little assistance from the international community. The UNDP, UNICEF and UNFPA have all visited here, but done nothing to help us. Since the pirates left, the only development work to occur here was the construction of the fish processing house on the beach. Yet even this lacks freezers and other vital elements. It is empty and unused.

The international NGOs do a lot of work on the main highway, but they do not like to stray from it as driving is too difficult.

If we could request one thing from the international community, it would be to improve the road from here to Garoowe. With a good road we could start businesses linked with Garoowe and Galkacyo and sell our fish. Also, the UN workers in the city could come on holiday to Eyl!”

Hearing that the NGOs did not want to risk their shiny white Land Cruisers on that hellish road was not surprising. An improved road does not seem like too high a price to ask for guaranteeing the rule of law in their town. This lack of assistance is especially galling to local politicians when contrasted with the amount of money being spent on anti-piracy patrols. Over a dozen countries have sent warships to protect their shipping in the Gulf of Aden since 2008. There are also the multi-national task forces such as EU NAVFOR. The estimated annual expenditure on all this patrolling, which is split amongst the participating countries, is $1.5 billion.

GorGor, a local journalist, emphasises this feeling of neglect by the international community. “There is a piracy problem here because there are no opportunities. If people remain as fishermen, illegal trawlers have decreased our fish stocks. If you go out fishing today, you will not catch enough to pay for the fuel. Spain, India, the Arab nations, they are all stealing our fish. We require capacity building and investment from other nations to give young Somali men options other than piracy.”

GorGor and his fellow residents in Eyl question the mission of the foreign navies. “Some people say they are here to protect the foreign fishing vessels while they steal our fish.” They also question why navies were not sent earlier to prevent the illegal dumping of European toxic waste in their waters, which they allege has been happening since the early 1990s, and has recently been back in the news after the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami washed up the waste on the Puntland coastline.

This suspicion is not helped by what is seen as a heavy handed policy of stopping and searching local fishing boats. The first day that I was in Eyl, there was uproar because a local resident had his boat confiscated on the way back from a fishing trip. While GorGor’s fellow countrymen are incorrect in their assumptions about the foreign naval vessels, these conspiracy theories thrive in an environment in which there is no direct communication or consultation between the foreign powers at sea and the Somali people on the shore.

While in Eyl collecting all this information, I also got a chance to go down to the beach and see firsthand the effects of foreign fishing. There are abandoned boats strewn across the coastline. There was also another visible sign of Somalia’s problems. Backing onto one of the most picturesque patches of beach is a huge concrete compound. Hanad tells me this was built by the former Puntland Finance Minister. I ask him where the minister got the money from for such an extravagant project. This is so funny it warrants translating into Somali for the guards, who also burst out laughing. Apparently this is a typically European thing to ask.

Our time in Eyl is soon at an end, and I (rather unwillingly) leave this pristine Indian Ocean coastline, with waves that could attract surfers under different circumstances, to head back to Galkacyo, and eventually, my exit point of Djibouti. On the way back, we break down outside the very tea joint where Hanad’s brother was kidnapped a few weeks earlier. Monstrous trucks, loaded with cattle and other goods, thunder past on their way to Mogadishu. Hanad gets progressively more agitated, which in turn stresses me. This would not be a good place to run into his former pirate friends. After a tense two hours, we finish repairing our second breakdown of the trip, and get going again. Amid all the tension, it is amusing to see that Somalis have the same attitude to manual labour as most other countries: one guy does all the work, while everyone else crowds round and comments on it.

By the time we return to Galkacyo the security situation has deteriorated. Nine men are dead after a machine gun battle at a mosque, and from the sounds of things outside our compound, far more are keen to join them (or have the other side join them). I try to go up onto the roof to photograph the gun battles, but am prevented by Hanad. He is unsure what the rival militias would do if they spotted a white person in this compound, but neither he nor my guards are keen to find out. So we spent the end of my trip as we had spent the beginning, sat on a mat, chewing khat, talking about Somalia. For a land where life is so uncertain, I was surprised by the warmth and generosity of my hosts. Even my guards, two of whom were Mogadishu veterans, were very sociable, and (albeit through a translator) keen to discuss their lives with me. The next day I left, saddened by the thought of what the West’s $1.5 billion a year could be doing for Somalia, were it not being wasted on naval patrols.

Is The Western Anti-Piracy Policy Working?

Somalia has a coastline of over 3000km. This is an impossibly large area to patrol. It is therefore surprising that foreign governments still choose naval patrols as their preferred option for fighting piracy. Navy patrols off the Somali coast have reduced the success of attacks, but in response the pirates have simply increased the number of attacks. There were 97 pirate attacks in the Somali region (and 142 worldwide) in the first quarter of 2011, which represented an increase of over 100% on the previous year. Many pirates are also captured then released again (following confiscation of their weapons) due to the complexity of putting them on trial. Over 600 have been through this process so far, many of whom no doubt returned to piracy after release.

The war on piracy cannot be won at sea. Piracy in Somalia thrives because the government there lacks the capacity to combat this form of organised crime on land. They require police, courts and prisons, not only to deal with the pirates, but also Islamic extremists and criminal gangs which specialise in people trafficking.

It also thrives because of how easily the proceeds of this crime flow into (and then out of) Somalia. According to the International Maritime Bureau (IMB) between $150 and $300 million was paid out in ransoms last year. Tougher regulations must be put in place to prevent ransom payments being made, and make the laundering of these payments more difficult. Yet this is still focussing on cure rather than prevention.

The Somali people need to be given opportunities other than piracy, and this will involve and international effort to develop the infrastructure and economy of Somalia, a far more difficult (and politically less attractive) way of spending taxpayer money. The idea of investing in a country that is at risk of being overrun by Al Shabab Islamist militants does not sit well with potential investors, but the current policy of ‘containment’ is simply not working.

One potential source of funds for this development is oil. Puntland is believed to be rich in the natural resource, but has been off limits to oil companies due to the lack of security. Canadian oil and gas company Africa Oil Corp has recently signed a deal with the Puntland government to sink two exploration wells. Yet it may be political, rather than security, problems that impede this source of revenue for development. Hanad, a Puntland NGO worker and activist, highlighted the tensions between the government of semi-autonomous Puntland, and the Transitional Federal Government, based in the southern capital of Mogadishu. “An Italian company offered to develop the road infrastructure here in Puntland in return for oil exploration rights a few years ago. The Puntland government wanted to go ahead, but the TFG blocked the deal. They do not want the Puntland government to appear to be more powerful than them. They think the Puntland politicians want to take over all of Somalia.”

Hopefully Somali politicians will be able to reach a compromise that reassures foreign investors and begins to create the environment necessary for development. As the British think-tank Chatham House concluded as far back as 2008, “The most powerful weapon against piracy will be peace and opportunity in Somalia, coupled with an effective and reliable police force and judiciary.”

“Take as much sovereignty as you can stomach!” was Boris Yeltsin’s message to the regions of Russia in the summer of 1990, as the Soviet Union was collapsing around him.

Many areas did just this, and managed a peaceful transition to independence, with fifteen sovereign republics emerging from the ashes of the USSR. But even today, there are a few regions that didn’t quite make it. Most of these can be found between the Black Sea and the Caspian.

Everyone has heard of Chechnya, a small republic in the Caucasus region. They made headlines in 1994 after going to war with Russia, driving them out of their homeland and establishing the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria. Unfortunately for them, one of Putin’s first moves upon coming to power was to launch the Second Chechen War, thus brutally re-establishing control of the area for Moscow.

When the Republic of Georgia was newly formed it also had problems with separatist regions. South Ossetia and Abkhazia, both formerly autonomous areas under the USSR, declared their independence and went to war to preserve it. Both of these wars were characterised by atrocities, ethnic cleansing and a general disregard for civilian life, on both the Georgian and separatist sides. Today, these two regions maintain de facto independence from Georgia following cease fires, but the situation remains tense.

The Abkhazians, like the South Ossetians, have benefitted greatly from Russian help in their quest for independence. Support for these breakaway regions seems odd from Russia, the same country that fought fiercely to retain Chechnya, and said that Kosovan independence: “threatens the destruction of world order and international stability”. However, a quick look at historic relations between Russia and Georgia shows that Moscow’s seeming duplicity is not at all surprising.

The problems between Russia and Georgia date back hundreds of years. The Georgians found themselves unfortunately sandwiched between the Russian and Ottoman Empires, as well as the Persians. This meant lots of invasions, and eventual absorption into Russia. They tried to declare independence in 1918, but were once again invaded in 1921 and brought back into the Russian fold. These days things are not much better, with Russia positioning troops on Georgian territory in Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and threatening all-out war should Georgia attempt to retake these two areas. As a further provocation, Russia has also given out passports to residents of both areas, meaning any action taken against Georgia can now be represented as ‘in defence of Russian citizens’.

My trip to Abkhazia came as part of an 8000km road trip from the UK to Russia and back. On a map, heading through Turkey and then swinging round the Black Sea seemed like the most obvious route, however, I initially thought that driving between Georgia and Russia was not possible. In a way, I was right.

Ever since the 2008 South Ossetia War, Georgia has broken diplomatic relations with Russia and closed the border. Travelling from Georgia into Russia is illegal. Fortunately for me, Abkhazia is positioned between Georgia and Russia, and travelling from Abkhazia into Russia is a very simple process. All I had to do was convince the Georgians that this was not my intention.

Entry into Georgia with a Russian visa in your passport causes a few hassles, but nothing unmanageable. I cruised through the Turkish side at Hopa with no issues, and only had to deal with a few raised eyebrows from customs upon entering Georgia.

“You are going to Russia?”

“Yes, we’re heading to Baku (Azerbaijan), and then getting a boat.”

This explanation was not unusual; as people often bring in cars from Europe and go on to sell them in Central Asia. Where our story fell down was the fact that we were driving a battered, right hand drive, twenty one year old Volkswagen camper van with a custom paint job (yellow smiley face on the side) and an inflatable mattress in the back. Despite this, we were eventually let through.

Things did not go so smoothly once we reached the de facto border with Abkhazia by the River Ingur. Two uniformed Georgian guards sat in a sweaty shed, laughing heartily while watching Brazil get knocked out of the World Cup by Holland. They were friendly and approachable, but also quite insistent.

“Why do you want to go to Abkhazia anyway? It’s full of bandits! If you’re heading to Azerbaijan then it’s out of your way….”

After about an hour of trying to talk them round, they summoned their superior, who was less friendly and just as insistent.

“You cannot enter. It is not safe. You need to turn back.”

Turning back was not a good option. We were on a strict schedule, and not getting access here would mean tracking back to Turkey then getting a ferry to Russia.

I tried everything. I showed them my letter of invitation to Abkhazia (which I had arranged beforehand online). I showed them my Georgian visa. We told them we already had a hotel  booking in Sukhumi, the capital of Abkhazia. We were only going on a day trip, we would be back by nightfall, we would be very careful, we knew people there. Nothing was going to shake these men. Eventually, I lost my patience.

“Do I or do I not have a visa for travel around Georgia?”

“Yes, it is right here in your passport.”

“And is Abkhazia not part of Georgia? Or are you telling me it is another country?”

“No, of course not, it is part of Georgia!”

“Well then, I have every right to enter.”

They scratched their heads, muttered to each other, and eventually pulled a dusty ledger off the shelf. Things were looking up.

“OK, you can enter, but only on foot. You need to leave your vehicle on this side.”

We both knew what was going on here. They wanted a guarantee that we would not cross into Russia. I could see their frustration as they tried to enforce the government’s policy of no access to Russia when there was a completely porous border only a few hundred kilometres away. But leaving the vehicle was not an option.

Eventually, two EU monitors, who were presumably there to make sure the Georgians and Abkhazians didn’t start shooting at each other again, grew bored of sitting in their shiny new Land Cruiser and wandered over. As soon as they approached the Georgian guards lost a lot of their bravado, acting as if they knew they had done something wrong. After explaining the problem to the monitors, and sharing a few jokes about the World Cup (one was French, the other German) we were reassured it was simply a misunderstanding, and allowed to go on our way.

Entering Abkhazia was a surreal experience. We were still surrounded by the same lush green almost tropical vegetation. There were still cows everywhere, who still seemed to think the road was a warm sleeping area first and a driving surface second. But the signs of war were everywhere. The Abkhazia customs post looked like a military barracks. There were soldiers and heavy equipment everywhere. Just around the corner was a contingent of Russian troops, and you could hear combat helicopters patrolling. What really stood out was that everything had been shot. Everything. The Russians must have dished out a lot of bullets in this conflict, because people seemed to have unloaded whole magazines onto walls, down the road, into drainage areas. Even the trees looked like they’d taken a hit or two.

The Abkhazian soldiers were very surprised to see us, but also extremely welcoming. Soon we had a crowd of five or six heavily armed grizzled looking veterans peering into the van, asking to see photos of where we had been and maps of where we were going. They found my brother’s tongue piercing hilarious. One of them spoke a little English, which was still better than our Russian, and so as we sat waiting for the paperwork to be processed, we discovered that everyone there liked Italian music, one of them used to be on the Soviet Olympic swimming team and we were only the second set of tourists to successfully pass through that border that year.

After getting back our passports and saying farewell to our new friends, we started on the long, pot holed road to Sukhumi. Thin buffalo stood grazing among the abandoned houses. There were cemeteries every few kilometres, all carefully tended to, with an open soft drink left out for the deceased, who would also be pictured on the memorial. It soon became obvious that most of the dead were young men. Russian military insignia were painted onto many of the shattered houses. We were worried about mines, so the only places we stopped were at checkpoints, most of whom were too busy celebrating the Dutch victory to pay much attention to us.

After a few hours of driving through this beautiful but post apocalyptic landscape, the sun set, and we found ourselves entering Sukhumi at night time. I was worried about driving a vehicle that was so obviously foreign around at night in a new city, but once we actually got in our fears vanished. Sukhumi is a brightly lit, newly built seaside resort for Russia’s wealthy. There were Russian number plates everywhere. Prices were all in Roubles. Majestic government buildings towered over the waterfront bars. Well heeled Russians walked the wide boulevards dressed in designer evening wear, speaking loudly into their iphones.

We pulled up at the first hotel I saw, which was a bad move. At seventy five dollars for a double room, this was the most expensive place we stayed at on our entire journey, but what luxury! We had Russian satellite TV, two double beds, a mini bar and a sit down shower with eight adjustable nozzles for that full-body massage effect. After changing out of our filthy travelling clothes, we were informed by the friendly but non-English speaking staff that the restaurant was closed, so we headed out to find some food. It was around 11:30pm.

My brother and I felt a little like castaways, dying from lack of water. All around us there were restaurants serving up fresh seafood and delicious looking meat dishes; however, we had no Roubles. We needed to find a cash point, and fast. Perhaps it was the dehydration from a day of sweating in the van. Perhaps it was the lack of food, or the euphoria of having crossed our most difficult border yet. Whatever the reasons, it did not occur to us that wandering around late at night in a former conflict zone looking foreign was not a good idea.

Sure enough, less than half an hour into our quest, and only a couple of hundred metres from our hotel, a rather large gentleman and his smaller henchman approached us, barked something in Russian, and in no uncertain terms explained what would happen to us if we did not hand over some cash. With negotiations failing due to my lack of Russian (or weaponry) I handed over the twenty Euros worth of useless Goergian Lari I had in my back pocket, and the larger gentleman seemed happy. So happy in fact that he bid us welcome to his country and started to head off. Unfortunately, his smaller, drunker friend wanted to swap shirts. He took off his shirt and motioned for me to do the same. I had been calm up until this point, but there was no way he was taking the shirt off my back. I refused, and he started shouting, getting more and more aggressive. As my brother and I prepared ourselves for the inevitable fight that was about to break out, the larger man actually held his friend back and motioned for us to leave, laughing all the while. He was the most polite mugger I have ever met. Back in our hotel room, we capped the bizarre night off by eating cans of cold baked beans from our emergency rations, while sitting on extremely expensive imported bed sheets and watching Russian reality TV.

Heading out of Abkhazia over the River Psou into Russia was a boring but hassle free process. The queue to get out was huge, and consisted mainly of large SUV’s full of Russian families returning from their seaside holiday. The Russian border guards kept asking when we had first entered Russia, as everyone else they were dealing with drove into Abkhazia via Russia and went back the same way. It took a long time to persuade them that we had genuinely driven in from Georgia. After four or five hours of waiting, we were allowed through. We had made it into Russia, and had hit the half way point of our journey.

Abkhazia is going to great lengths to persuade the world that they are independent. It used to be just Russia and a few other non-countries that recognised them (South Ossetia and Transnistria). Recently they have added Nicragua, Venezuela and the mighty Pacific island of Nauru, but they still have a long way to go. Most UN member states are wary of granting recognition following bloody civil wars featuring ethnic cleansing. They would much rather see a referendum, which the Georgian government is rather unhelpfully refusing to organise. In the mean time, what we have is a tense standoff, aggravated by the growing presence of Russian troops, and now even the Russian navy is getting involved, with increased patrols to help Abkhazia guard its maritime border on the Black Sea.

Abkhazia is full of Russian troops. The banks are full of Russian money. The hotels are full of Russian tourists. All the businesses are dependent on Russian imports. The Abkhazians themselves are all citizens of Russia, watch Russian TV and speak Russian as a second language. Abkhazia like to think they are de facto independent. What I saw was a de facto colony of Russia.

I’m on my own. 3000km to go from from Dakar to Monrovia. It’s July 26th and the rainy season is kicking in. My Land Rover was built 34 years ago and had 7 previous owners. Still, I’ve got a Haines repair manual…

I’d given a lot of thought to the final leg of my journey. The FCO website was less than encouraging. The Casamance region of southern Senegal, Guinea Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone and Liberia all had plenty of travel warnings. They were particularly against lone travel, and travel through rural areas.

The lush forests of Casamance were an incredible contrast to the arid, desert like north of Senegal. It was also clear to see that the political landscape had changed down here. Military checkpoints guarded every major settlement and crossroads. Soldiers in APC’s, presumably there to confine the separatist rebels to the jungle, didn’t quite know what to make of me as I pulled up to their rope barriers. Everyone was very friendly, especially after I’d distributed some cigarettes, although many were keen to shake me down for expensive stamps in my “laissez-passer” – an unnecessary document I’d been forced to buy upon entering the south. Generally speaking, patience, and a feigned inability to speak French, got me out of paying almost all bribes. The bumbling Englishman abroad was an act which I perfected over my three week trip.

Border crossings are a nightmare for most travellers in developing countries, and getting into Guinea was no exception. My feigned inability to speak French had now turned into a very real inability to speak Portuguese, but I was made to understand very quickly what it would take to get through smoothly. Unfortunately for the guards, I had a lot of time on my hands, and not much money. Two hours (and a very thorough search of the car) later, I was through, without having to dip into my dollars.

The roads in Senegal had been average. In fact, most of the journey from the UK had been on a good tarmac surface. The minute you got into Guinea Bissau, all the development money dried up, and it was dirt tracks all the way. River crossings were mainly on a barge, which always involved a steep and precarious descent of the river bank. The rain, combined with overloaded HGV’s snapping their axles, meant plenty of water filled pot holes. It was difficult to judge the depth, but I went through a few that were waist height, and temporarily submerged my headlights.

Bissau was a beautiful city. The abandoned Portuguese quarter was reminiscent of a disaster film and the place had almost an abandoned feel. Most of the buildings were still riddled with bullet holes, and there was little visible evidence of international aid. Grizzled Portuguese ex-pats sat on their verandas, sipping cups of thick black coffee, watching the few lone locals go about their business. Stray pigs wandered the streets. Occasionally, a shiny Toyota Land Cruiser would glide past. If there were bustling areas, I could not find them.

The people at the Guinean Embassy were delighted to hear an Englishman wanted to visit their country. The Ambassador shook my hand warmly, gave me his card, and said if I had any problems, to get in touch with his brother, whose number he supplied. To ensure I got there safely, he even entrusted me to his driver, who offered to navigate in return for a lift to see his family in Conakry. “I drive this route all the time,” he told me, “16 hours, maximum. It will be easy.” While I didn’t relish the thought of a 16 hour drive, I had pulled longer stints in Mauritania, and knew that I had copious quantities of Red Bull in the back of the car for emergencies.

We left at 10am the next day, in fair weather. Progress was soon hampered by torrential rain, and the shocking road surfaces, which limited my speed to under 20km/hr in many places. My windscreen wipers also only had one setting – useless – which did not help. By 4am, I was beginning to despair. We were nowhere near Conakry, and my guide had taken me on a crazy detour through the middle of the jungle. After arriving at one river crossing, I sat in line, while watching a mango truck on the other side of the bank try to slowly descend the perilous 40ft slope. Predictably, he began to skid, and the cab ended up fully submerged in the river.

Our journey finally clocked in at 32 hours. During this time, I had two half hour breaks, one for breakfast (or dinner) at around 4am, where we sat and shared bushmeat with some local traders, and another stop for Coke to keep me going at around 7am. Over the course of the detour I drank 2 litres of Red Bull. Sometimes, we would have to get out of the vehicle and wade through a puddle to check its depth. Other time, we would have to shift a fallen branch. For most of the drive, visibility was less than twenty metres. Had I not been so wired on caffeine, I’m sure it would have been terrifying. We hardly passed any other vehicles for the entire journey. “What do we do if we break down?” I asked my passenger, in my best GCSE French. “Don’t worry, I used to be a mechanic!” he said, barely suppressing the laughter.

Conakry itself was a bustling metropolis, jutting out on an Atlantic peninsula. The police were just as bad as all the horror stories I had read. On the outskirts of the city, I was pulled over and ordered to pay a fine. By this stage, my Englishman abroad routine was beginning to pay dividends, and was well rehearsed. I began to talk much more quickly, waved photocopied documents everywhere, jabbered in nonsensical French and was eventually released.

After unloading my gear at the Mission Catholique, I took to walking or using public transport to avoid being pulled over and having bribes demanded. On one occasion, I foolishly handed over a piece of original documentation (rather than a photocopy). What followed was a scene that will be familiar to any visitor of a corrupt third world nation. Suddenly, I was politely informed that I had committed a series of grave road traffic violations.

“But sir, you are not wearing a seat belt….but sir, you are driving with flip flops….but sir, right hand drive vehicles are not permitted on our roads….” Mid-way through his attempted shake down, I remember the police officer saying to me, “Listen, you want your license back, give me $100.” I politely informed him that I could report it lost and buy a new one for only $40. “Give me $90 then.” You really can’t argue with that.
Luckily, my passenger had a friend in the police force, so after a few phone calls and an hour of debate, my license was returned to me.

The city was to be my base for the next couple of days, as I applied for a Sierra Leone VISA and planned my onward route. During the day, I would talk with the fellow residents of the Mission Catholique, who were mainly volunteers from France and Spain. Occasionally, I would wander into the city centre to use the internet, but this usually turned into an open workshop on filling out US green card lottery applications. It was sad to see how desperate most people were to get to the West, and to hear their frustration about the lack of development and corruption in their home country.

After handing over $150 and receiving my VISA for Sierra Leone from the very friendly people at the Embassy, I began my drive to Freetown. As usual, the roads were appalling. As I was leaving Conakry, a man on a motorcycle with a Kalashnikov over his shoulder started buzzing at my window and gesturing. Trying my best to ignore him, I sped up, but he was easily able to keep pace. After about twenty minutes of staring dead ahead and attempting to ignore him, I finally gave in and opened the window to see what he wanted. It turned out he just wanted to welcome me to Guinea, and wish me a pleasant journey!

My time in Guinea ended as it had begun: with a shakedown. However, the soldiers at the Sierra Leone border were far more welcoming. The first thing I saw as I pulled up was a huge billboard announcing: “Corruption Hinders Development!” This was a great relief to read, and luckily something that these men had taken to heart. They were amazed when they heard about my journey and one of then even offered to accompany me to Freetown and help me find a hotel.

Once again, I was foolishly talked into following a shortcut, and although the weather was slightly better this time, we were very lucky to make it in one piece. At times, the mud track simply vanished underneath a 200m stretch of water. It is a great credit to the Land Rover (and very lucky for me) that it never once stalled when wading through these mammoth puddles.

The approach to Freetown featured some stunning views of the jungle, as well as a huge mountain. The city itself looks like an amphitheatre, encircling a bay and stretching up steep slopes in every direction. Election fever was in the air, with presidential candidates cruising the streets to announce their policies. Everyone I met would proudly tell me how next week there were going to be free and fair elections in Sierra Leone. I drove past the International Court where various former RUF, CDF and AFRC leaders are being tried for war crimes. Considering the horror that most of these citizens had witnessed only a few years ago, people were incredibly optimistic about the future.

I was sad to leave Freetown, but had to rush as the border would soon close for the elections. I spent the night in Kenema, a rich diamond centre, sharing stories with the locals, and watching the rich Arab traders. I made friends with a man who had lived in New Cross, and now ran an electrical store. It was amazing how closely linked Sierra Leone still is with the UK. My journey from Kenema to Bo Waterside and the Liberian border was the most “off road” of all the off road sections of my trip, taking in rubber plantations, nature parks and more river crossings than I was comfortable with.

It was just before the border that I picked up Senesei. He was a refugee who had fled Sierra Leone to Liberia during the war. He had returned to Freetown for the elections, however, seeing that his party was not going to win, he was returning to Monrovia, where he worked as a mechanic. Once again, I offered him a lift and he helped me find a place to stay once we arrived.

Entering Liberia was a frightening experience. The road was blocked by sandbagged check points, APC’s and heavy machine gun posts, all emblazoned with the white and black UN colours. The first people I met were not Liberian, but in fact Nigerian peace keepers. At the customs post, Liberia’s US heritage was very clear. Everyone was dressed in American style state-trooper uniforms, and spoke with a slightly inauthentic American accent, right down to the “have a nice day” that would always end a conversation.

Although I got stopped roughly every 5km, Liberia was not as bad as other countries in terms of officials demanding bribes. This is probably lucky, as I could hardly claim I did not understand English. The police, customs and army officers (whether they were Nigerian, Namibian, Pakistani or Liberian) were all very welcoming, and eager that I tell the world how Liberia was working towards peace and reconciliation.

My hotel in Monrovia cost an eye watering $60 a night. The only people there were aid workers and western traders, who seemed to have pushed up the price of everything from bread to Coca Cola. I offered to buy Senesei dinner as thanks for his assistance, but he took one look at the prices on the menu and declined. When I reassured him that I would be paying, he said “No, it is not this. It is that this lifestyle is above my means. Once you are gone, I will never be able to come here again, so I should not get used to it now.”

Once in Monrovia I realised that I could go no further. Travel into the diamond fields would have been too dangerous, as would crossing into the Ivory Coast. I decided to sell my vehicle and fly home. Unfortunately, this was far more easily said than done.

Senesei was employed as a mechanic by a man know affectionately as “American”. I was suspicious that he was a local crime figure. These suspicions were confirmed on my final day in Liberia, when he was imprisoned for beating two debtors with a baseball bat. However, he was extremely kind to me, and being the local mechanic, was in an excellent position to help me find a buyer for my vehicle.

The next six days was a frantic tour of Monrovia’s underworld, except out there, it really is the wild-west, and people make very little effort to conceal their sources of income. Despite the UN ban on diamond trading, I met numerous South African and Arab diamond merchants, who said they could use my vehicle out in the bush. I met 27 year old American who had fled the US for some unexplained reason to set up shop in Africa. He imported from South America then exported to Europe. He would not say what goods he traded, but laughed wholeheartedly at my question. Then there was the Arab, who owned a logistics firm based in Angola. Many of these men drove Mercedes, wore Rolexes, had the latest mobile phone and lived in palatial compounds, islands in this sea of poverty. They were all very keen to meet me, however, after a few days of time wasting, I realised they were more eager to hear my story than purchase my vehicle.

There is no doubt that Monrovia was a dangerous place. I would often wander out of The Metropolitan Hotel, past the club on the ground floor, and find dried blood on the tiles. One night, there was a 15 man battle-royale in the street outside the hotel. The numbers of people missing an arm or a leg from the war were astounding, and everyone had their own story to tell, although their motives were often mixed. Despite this, there was a heavy military presence throughout the city, and I never felt unsafe. The people were some of the warmest and most welcoming I had met on my entire journey.

Despite the corruption, the chronic fuel shortages, the weather, the insects, the appalling roads, and the difficulty in finding a postcard, West Africa was a worthwhile destination and an incredible experience. Travelling overland was tiring, and difficult at times, but it meant interacting with far more local people. I helped load a mango truck in the jungles of Guinea Bissau, shared breakfast with game wardens in Sierra Leone and haggled over the price of a spare tyre in Liberia. You can’t pick those sorts of experiences out of a holiday brochure!

Author – Oscar Scafidi.

A full account of Oscar’s journey from London to Monrovia can be read in January’s (2008) edition of Land Rover World in the UK.