Pirates of Somalia by Jay Bahadur Page B

a national shame. President Farole’s virulent hatred of khat is well known, and he has been heard to vow that one day Somali men will feel shame at ever having chewed the plant.
    Medically speaking, khat may be less physically harmful than many other legal drugs—such as alcohol and tobacco—but its social impact is another matter. Because of the many hours required to feel its full effects, chewing khat is a time-consuming activity, necessitating a large portion of the day. While a six-pack after a hard day or an occasional smoke break can fit into the restrictions of a nine-to-five schedule, a society-wide khat addiction seems unsustainable in a modern economy. So long as the majority of Puntlanders remain un- or underemployed, khat will remain a second-tier scourge. But if and when Puntland—and Somalia in general—rejoin the rest of the world, the increasing trend of khat consumption will present a serious public policy problem for the future government.
    One need only look across the Gulf of Aden for a preview of Somalia’s potential fate. In Yemen, 40 per cent of the country’s precious groundwater is devoted to growing khat, Yemeni men routinely take their families on “khat picnics,” and it is not unusual for government ministers to chew the plant continuously in their offices. Commentators often speak of the “oil curse” that stunts the political growth of many Middle Eastern and African nations; perhaps Puntland is lucky to have avoided the “water curse” that would have permitted widespread domestic cultivation of the crop. 11
    Jamal, my plane companion, described how he once saw a billy goat munching on a bundle of fallen khat leaves. When he had finished, the goat went trotting after the nearest female, attempting to mount her several times before giving up; the khat had evidently rendered him temporarily impotent. Jamal laughed: “It’s the same with humans.” If the problem is not addressed, Puntlanders might find that the khat epidemic poses a similarly vexing impediment to their nation-building goals.
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    For all of khat’s sundry evils, it is the way to a pirate’s heart. One June day during my second visit to Puntland, Boyah and some of his former gang agreed to spend the afternoon with me, for a small price: an all-you-can-chew khat buffet. As soon as the midday transport trucks had coming rolling into Garowe, Colonel Omar Abdullahi Farole—my host Mohamad’s cousin—headed to the khat market with my eighty dollars in his pocket, enough to buy roughly four kilograms of the plant, which was to last us the day.
    My translator on this trip, Omar, who was another of President Farole’s sons, and I picked up Boyah just outside his house, on a rundown street littered with old tires and scrap metal. I had not seen him since our meeting four months before, but he remembered me, acknowledging my presence with a brief nod and a half-smile before turning and climbing into the Land Cruiser’s passenger seat. The Colonel, meanwhile, busied himself across town rounding up a few of Boyah’s former colleagues into an old station wagon; with his arms overflowing with khat, it was not a difficult assignment.
    Soon we were tearing along the main road out of Garowe, breaking off after ten minutes to join the dirt trail leading to the cooperative farm where I had first met Boyah. A short time later the station wagon pulled up and parked alongside the Land Cruiser; inside were Colonel Omar and two of Boyah’s former running mates: Momman (a nickname) and a man I will call Ali Ghedi. The gathering soon assumed the atmosphere of a picnic, with eager hands offloading the day’s supplies: dirins (woven mats), thermoses of sweet tea, bottles of water, packs of cigarettes, and the half-dozen black plastic shopping bags containing the khat. We unfurled the dirins in the shade of a broad-limbed acacia tree and settled down, tossing our sandals into the dirt. A short distance away, a dishevelled young