Djibouti is bigger than you think.

Although most people can’t place the country on a map, the small, oyster-shaped nation hiding behind Africa’s horn remains a friend of convenience for Western militaries looking for strategic real estate.

French colonialism essentially still exists in Djibouti—at 2800 soldiers, it is France’s largest foreign base in Africa. The Foreign Legion maintains law and order while French foreign aid keeps the country afloat. When I visited the country this past June, a few German naval vessels where in port to provide surface support to the German patrol aircraft stationed in Djibouti. Their mission was to keep terrorists fleeing Afghanistan from entering Somalia and to keep more arms for Palestinians from heading up the Red Sea.

More recent foreign involvement was highlighted on Nov. 4 when the CIA assassinated a suspected high-level al-Qaeda cabal with a Hellfire missile fired from a Predator drone. The drone had likely flown from Djibouti, where now at least 800 U.S. Special Forces are based. Their mission is unclear, although speculation has focused on an expected invasion of Iraq and a possible strike against al-Qaeda members in rural northern Yemen.

In addition to this foreign military interest, Djibouti plays an essential role for Ethiopia, funneling the coffee exports and petroleum imports of the larger, richer, more powerful land-locked country (with the 1998 breakout of war between Ethiopia and Eritrea in 1998 Djibouti town’s port activity increased 300%). In short, for a country few people can locate, Djibouti’s greatest asset is its location.

So what exactly would be the tourist appeal of this end-of-the earth locale, with its extreme summer temperatures, wasteland landscape and foreign military presence? Why waste the time, especially when you have to swallow paying a high price for staying in the cheapest roach motel?

For one thing, the diving opportunities are extremely good. If you can afford the $1000 price tag, a week exploring the idyllic underwater world around Les Sept Freres Islands off of Djibouti’s northeast coast is widely held to be among the best scuba experiences in the world.

But being a subscriber of a more alternative adventure philosophy, this past June I decided to try to add a different Djibouti excursion to my African travels.

Dust and qat

I have never been so hot or so dirty in Djibouti. The temperature was a punishing 50 degree Celsius on my first day there. The less-than-crystalline water in my “hotel” wasn’t running as fast as the critters on my bathroom floor, so showering had to wait. (Eventually this led to my shaving my head for the first time and being mistaken for a French solider by other French soldiers.)

Depending on your sense of charm, downtown Djibouti either looks like a dusty, run-down ghost town or a romantic colonial outpost in need of a paint job. Aid money could be seen driving around town everywhere, mostly with a white paint job and four-wheel drive. Aside from the baskets woven by women sitting near the stores selling Western products, the markets sell Djibouti souvenirs made somewhere else. Most restaurants serve mediocre imitations of Italian or American dishes, but delectable quasi-French seafood fare. I would vouch for the poisson Yemenite as worth the money.

Women in Djibouti’s streets sell a product hidden under gunnysack. It seems they more than anyone else do not want you to take their photo. They poor water from plastic bottles onto their hands, spreading the drops over the canvass to keep it moist. When I finally saw a woman lift the damp canvas for a customer, I saw what they had been protecting: qat.

Qat is the name of the plant whose leaves, if chewed, provide a mild narcotic effect. People in this part of the world have used and been fond of the plant’s powers for centuries. While in Djibouti, I often heard the figure quoted: 8 tons of leaves are imported daily from Kenya and Ethiopia.

Although qat chewing is considered a traditional pass time, its effects are impinging on the economic livelihood of the country. A large majority of Djiboutian men chew the plant and get high on daily basis. To complement their high, which induces an alert, yet calm euphoria on its users, they will often sit and drink tea or alcoholic beverages.

One French study showed that at least 84% of Djiboutian soldiers chew the leaves daily. Other studies have reported drastic economic effects of qat on productivity and use of household resources to purchase the drug.  Djiboutians (like the vodka-drinking Russians I knew in the Peace Corps) attempt to justify the habit by explaining that people are simply inoculating themselves against the sufferings of economic hardship. They point out that there would be less qat usage if there were actually work to be done.

In fact, the qat trade was one of the few visibly functioning businesses in the country. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to take the daily qat boat run north across the Gulf of Tadjoura to see the town of the same name, nor to visit the northern half of the country.

Dittilou

Crossing that gulf was one of those random necessities that make you feel like you’re really traveling. The boat was laden down with qat gunnysacks, and was powered by only a 25 hp motor. In a place like Djibouti, only the absolutely most adventurous Afar or Somali speaking adventurers are not slaves to their Lonely Planet guidebooks. Thus I chose to make a mad dash to the mountain “oasis” named Dittilou, without really knowing how I would make it the 24 extra km uphill.

Thankfully I ran into a young man who grew up in Dittlilou who was willing to guide me. He saved me from a group of men who had surrounded me near a Tadjouran store and were set to rip me off. After an hour of tedious waiting by a nearly empty highway, we jumped on top of some furniture piled in the back of an old pick-up, paid the equivalent of 25 cents and were off for our junction.

I witnessed the effect of qat on my guide on our trek uphill from where the pickup let us off. This guy headed up the hill tirelessly, at full speed in worn-out flip-flops. Chew, chew, chew—he left me in the dust, literally. We passed skinny wandering camels, dead snakes and small tiny deer called dik-diks. On and on we hiked, up through the unstable footing of a dry riverbed.

Finally, well after dark, when I was ready to collapse and could have slept with a cactus as a pillow, we reached a camp of nomadic goat herders. Luckily, some of his relatives were amongst them. This meant welcoming hospitality.

After the long hike, I longed for something sweet. When a herdswoman offered some sweetened goat’s milk tea, I shamelessly gulped down 4-5 cups. Several hours later, staring wide awake at the stars, I wondered why I had neglected to consider whether the stuff was caffeinated.

When I awoke the next morning, I had forgotten where I was. I could hear my guide nearby somewhere; he was out of qat, exhausted and urging an early descent. As I looked around, trying to get my bearings, a French Puma helicopter flew by us. We were remote, but still on prime real estate.

Troy Etulain is a first year MALD student studying international development. If cornered, he can pack and throw a decent snowball, for an Alaskan anyway.

The opinions expressed in this article are the author's own, and do not necessarily represent those of The Fletcher Ledger.

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