Djibouti - Chronicle of a train journey
Dust, salt and an old longing. Text and pictures; April 2008, Pit Buehler
Djibouti - an inconspicuous spot on the world map, but of strategic importance. Significance. Once French Somaliland, today an independent state on the Horn of Africa, sandwiched between Somalia and Ethiopia. Here, where France has its Foreign Legion and pirates made the Gulf of Aden unsafe, lies A city that looks like a forgotten chapter: crumbling walls, wrecked cars, Mountains of garbage, all covered in a film of dust that spreads like a gray veil. over the streets.
Between poverty and rust, colors burst forth like an uprising against the Tristesse. Women in indigo and papaya orange glide through the alleyways, moving Brushstrokes on a dusty canvas. Fruit and spice stands glow in Green, red, ochre and curry brown, as if they wanted to outdo the sun. About all is a mixture of odors: salty sea air, coriander, diesel and the sweet aroma of coffee simmering on glowing coals. It is a place that seems lost and yet lives defiantly - neglected, yes, but not without a soul. A city that defends its dignity, between dust and salt, colors and noise.
It is the beginning of April 2008 and the Academy of Art in Leipzig has invited me as a guest to their photography master class. Between seminars, I find time to travel. The Horn of Africa beckons. On the off chance, I book a flight to Ethiopia and from the capital Addis Ababa on to Djibouti. I've been told that there are sporadic rail trains that run through the barren desert back to Ethiopia. With a bit of luck, I hope I could get a seat. I have no ideas - it sounds like an adventure. It comes as it comes.
On the spot, I learn that passenger services have been suspended for months and the security situation is too fragile. But freight trains are supposed to run sporadically - that sounds like an exciting option. There may be more to find out at the old goods station. The old railroad line to Ethiopia - once a colonial stroke of genius, built at the end of the 19th century under the French protectorate - still runs through the desert. At the time, it was a prestigious project that connected the port of Djibouti with the Ethiopian highlands and created a central trade route.
I have no trouble finding the goods station - and there is indeed an old freight train, a relic of a bygone era. I spot a man in blue overalls bending over the wheels of the locomotive to inspect them. I find out later that his name is Kiffe (Bekele) and he is the train driver. He calmly explains that official passenger trains have not been running for months. Only freight trains still run, sporadically, tonight. He remains silent about the freight. When I ask if I can accompany him, he laughs in surprise. I don't get an answer. As he leaves, he turns around and calls out: „Hey my Muzungu friend... be here before midnight.“
I reach the goods station around midnight - and to my delight, Kiffe is already waiting for me with a big smile.
Shortly after midnight, the locomotive starts moving. Next to me: a few armed soldiers, a mechanic, a second train driver and my new friend Kiffe, the engine driver. It's cramped in the driver's cab, hardly any room to stand. The journey into the unknown begins. The last lights of the city disappear, the desert takes over like a hard movie cut. Camels, corrugated iron huts, then just darkness.
Everything changes with the first light. The sun casts a reddish glow over the stony desert - beautiful and threatening at the same time. Then a jolt, the train stops. A checkpoint in the middle of nowhere. I have to get off, accompanied by two uniformed men. The air is cool, the silence almost palpable. They look at me, surprised to see a white man here. But the tension quickly dissipates: a brief smile, a few curious glances. My papers are checked, a stamp, a nod. Everything remains relaxed.
I use the minutes to take photos: rusty tracks, camels, donkeys, lots of garbage and plastic and a few gaunt figures on the wagons, warming themselves in the morning sun. For a moment, the scene seems peaceful, almost casual. Then back on the locomotive. On we go.
Kiffe says that his predecessor stepped on a mine here during a pee break. Since then, he has only left the cabin in extreme emergencies. If I had known this beforehand, I would probably have canceled my exploration tour - and Hemingway would probably have lit a cigarette with relish at this anecdote. I lean back and enjoy the morning atmosphere while the locomotive starts rolling again.
I'm now sitting right at the front, on the nose of the locomotive as it rattles through the barren desert at 60 km/h. The hot wind hits my face, the tracks stretch like an endless line through the landscape. For a moment, the ride feels like an adventure movie. But the reality is harsher: we pass small, sometimes abandoned settlements, animals dying of thirst along the tracks, scraps of plastic on bushes and then again hardly any civilization for miles. „Water is the scarcest commodity here - there has been a severe drought for months,“ says Kiffe quietly, without taking his eyes off the tracks. People and animals are dying while they often wait in vain for help.
After about 16 hours of traveling, the first settlements of Dire Dawa, the second largest city in Ethiopia, appear. Refugee camps, mission walls, western nuns caring for the weakest and looking after dozens of young men, hollowed out by khat - the plant that promises euphoria and leaves emptiness in its wake. Security forces use truncheons to prevent despair and withdrawal symptoms from turning into violence.
I stay for a few days with a doctor friend from Médecins Sans Frontières and accompany him on his rounds every morning, visiting the surrounding refugee camps, hospitals and missions with him: Open tuberculosis, amputated limbs, inflamed infections, open flesh wounds whose smell burns itself into the memory. His work is reminiscent of the stories of extinct do-gooders - those whose idealism is now gathering dust in second-hand bookshops.
The few expats meet in a bar in the evening. UN employees, engineers, development workers - a global conglomeration of polite strangers. A Frenchman, whose CV probably contains more redactions than embellishments, sits down. When asked about his job, he is evasive - and I am surprised to learn that he knew about my trip, knew my name and was well informed about me.
Big Brother is watching you - even here, under the endless canopy of stars at the end of the world.
Many photos from this trip no longer exist. A notebook, overwhelmed by heat and power fluctuations, has deleted them. Perhaps that's the point: that the essence of a journey often lies in what you can't capture.
What remains is the memory of a train that does not officially exist. Of a desert where even the sun seems exhausted. And of a city that survives in the shadow of global attention. Djibouti - a place that proves that the most exciting stories are created where no one is looking for them.
