The whine heightened to a mosquito-like buzz and we left the ground behind, setting an eastward course for Somalia, roughly shadowing the Gulf of Aden coastline.Īs I approached my thirty-fifth weary hour of travel, my desire to socialize with fellow passengers had diminished, but on purely self-serving grounds I forced myself to chat eagerly with anyone throwing a curious glance in my direction.

Over the comm system, the Somali steward offered a prayer in triplicate: Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, as the plane gained speed. This fl ight was like a forgotten relic of the Cold War, a physical testament to long-defunct Somali-Soviet geopolitical ties that had disintegrated with the countries themselves its Ukrainian crew, indentured servants condemned forever to ferry passengers along this neglected route. Later, in Bossaso, I saw the grounded craft, abandoned where it had crashed, a few lackadaisical guards posted nearby to prevent people from stripping the valuable metal. The stories I had heard of these planes did nothing to put me at ease: a vodka-soaked technician banging on exposed engine parts with a wrench a few months prior, a plant-nosed landing at Bossaso airstrip after a front landing strut had refused to extend. The high whine of the Antonov’s propellers changed pitch as it accelerated along the Djibouti runway, building towards a droning cres cendo that I had not heard outside of decades-old movies. Male passengers fanned themselves with the Russian-language aircraft safety cards the women fanned their children. Sweat poured freely off my skin and soaked into the torn cloth of my seat cover. The cabin absorbed the heat of the midday African sun like a Dutch oven, thickening the air until it was unbearable to breathe. Modern Puntland, a self-governing region in northeastern Somalia, may or may not be the successor to the Punt of ancient times, but I was soon to discover that it contained none of the gold and ebony that dazzled the Egyptians-save perhaps for the colours of the sand and the skin of the nomadic goat and camel herders who had inhabited it for centuries. To the ancient Egyptians, Punt had been a land of munifi cent treasures and bountiful wealth in present times, it was a land of people who robbed wealth from the rest of the world. The 737s of Dubai, with their meal services and functioning seatbelts, were a distant memory the plane I was in was not even allowed to land in Dubai, and the same probably went for the unkempt, ill-tempered Ukrainian pilot. I arrived in Somalia in the frayed seat of a 1970s Soviet Antonov propeller plane, heading into the internationally unrecognized region of Puntland on a solo quest to meet some present-day pirates.

The pirates of somalia jay bahadur