Kenya: Twenty Days in Somalia Jungles Hunting Down Al-Shabaab

Kenya: Twenty Days in Somalia Jungles Hunting Down Al-Shabaab

John Ngirachu

It all started on the morning of Wednesday, November 2, with a call from the Daily Nation managing editor. I was in Parliament Buildings - my beat - and I was required back at the Nation Centre.

After a nervous 20-minute walk to the Nation Centre, I was invited to a meeting with the editors. We discussed going to Somalia, under the care and protection of the Kenya Defence Forces, to write about Operation Linda Nchi.

Operation Linda Nchi had been announced to the world at a small crowded board room on the fifth floor of Harambee House on the morning of Saturday, October 15.

Internal Security minister Prof George Saitoti and Defence minister Yusuf Haji had not been very yielding to the questions journalists asked after their short statement and declaration that Kenya's Defence Forces would be in "hot pursuit" of Al-Shabaab right into Somalia.

I remembered tweeting from the press conference that the two were "talking tough" and thinking that perhaps their intention was to merely send a message to the leaders of the militant group.

Became obvious

As the story developed over the next few days, it became obvious troops were being sent to the border and into Somalia. There had been some concerns among journalists.

Kenyans needed to see for themselves what the military was doing and it was not enough that the Kenya Defence Forces spokesman would issue a statement or tweet about the operation.

We had wondered how it could be done, given that few Kenyan journalists had experience on the war front and the perils of going into the famously lawless neighbouring country with the attendant risk of walking into the arms of Al-Shabaab.

So, as I sat with the editors discussing our journalistic "incursion" into Somalia, there was not much thought about it and we were soon talking about what needed to be done to get the stories from Somalia for publishing in Nairobi, the stuff we would need for this special assignment and the mandatory briefing by the military.

Thursday and Friday were spent rushing about town looking for suitable boots, torches, batteries, sleeping bags, getting the laptop ready, getting some money, satellite phones and, in the process, cautiously informing relatives and loved ones of the assignment. My mother was to be informed after I had left.

I argued that I would be unhappy with myself for turning down the offer to go on an adventure. Call it the recklessness of youth.

Colleagues Jared Nyataya, Dan Otieno and Laban Walloga came in from Eldoret, Kisumu and Mombasa offices respectively and we worked together with the editorial administration manager to get everything in order.

Almost everything, anyway, because we had to get bulletproof vests, otherwise called flak jackets, and these you cannot get off the street.

Those who sell them can only do so on the written authority of the police commissioner; they have to be stored by the police and the purpose has to be more than clearly stated.

Although our colleagues at the Monitor, Uganda, have them (for covering the now frequent street protests in Kampala) it would require high-level authorisation to get them into Kenya. That headache was eventually taken over by the security manager.

Going into a battle zone required one to carry a dog tag, on which your name, nationality, blood group and allergies are stamped.

Soldiers wear it in case they get injured or sick in battle, in which case it would make it possible to have a blood transfusion or treatment with the right drugs. It is also made out of a fireproof material so that identity of the wearer can be known if he gets disfigured or dies in a fire.

Although the officers at the Department of Defence had assured us it is fairly easy to buy a dog tag from pharmacies in town, only one woman at Kam Pharmacy recognised what we wanted, and assured us she knew nowhere we could get them.

I was quietly resigned to going to Somalia without a dog tag when the resourceful photo editor sent me a phone number of the dog tag vendor on Saturday afternoon. He had them ready in 24 hours.

To top the psychological troubles of the preparation phase, the officers at DoD were caught up trying to get the logistics of getting us to the front line and we knew not the day of departure.

The flight to southern Somalia was confirmed on the Sunday and after a final briefing session with the editors, we left for home. The following morning, Monday, November 7, we arrived at the Moi Airbase in Eastleigh set for Somalia.

The Nation Media Group crew comprised two reporters and two photographers from the Daily Nation, two reporters and two cameramen from NTV, and two technical staff to arrange NTV's live broadcasts.

We were going into the Southern Sector of Operation Linda Nchi and were divided into those that would be in the company of the Kenya Navy at sea and those with the Kenya Army, going into Somalia through the Ishakani border point.

We arrived at the camp at Ishakani at about 2 p.m. in a convoy of Humvees, Land-Rovers and the large, powerful Steyr army trucks, and quickly settled down in the two tents set up for us near the commander's tent and the officers' mess, a clean-swept shack with makuti walls and the roof.

It was among the most comfortable spots in the camp, with plastic chairs, a ceiling made out of a black plastic sheet that made it cool in the hot and humid weather and kept the water in the plastic bottle sufficiently cool.

We were soon integrated into life on the camp - receiving the password at nightfall every day, getting to know the officers and to recognise their ranks and gathering stories.

Hot nights

We were fortunate in the first few days that there were no mosquitoes, meaning the hot nights were a bit comfortable, with the wind blowing in from the sea on the moonlit nights through the open tent flaps.

Having been brought up and gone to school in the cold highlands of Kiambu near Limuru, and only going to the coast for the first time earlier in the year, I was sweating buckets in the heat. It did not help that I followed some bad advice and failed to carry a pair of shorts and sandals.

Laban bought me a pair at Kiunga a week later and, although it was a tight fit, the relief of putting away the constricting trousers was immense.

When the water bowser managed to bring some water the colour of thin soup to the camp, we got the opportunities to take a bath. The sweating began as soon as one stepped out of the bathroom.

But we soon discovered that life at the camp at Ishakani was a luxury compared to that inside Somalia, where the temperatures suddenly soared and the sweating, aided in no small part by the heavy flak jacket and the helmets, increased tenfold.

At Bur Gabo, where Al-Shaabab are said to be across the deep creek, the soldiers are always on the lookout and there are no tents, so they spend the time under trees, bushes and in the camouflaged vehicles with the mounted guns. They have the brave and young soldiers of the Transitional Federal Government for company.

Village's outskirts

Squinting in the sun, the TFG soldiers looked at home on the Technicals and were happy to show us around the small fishing village, and took us to the mountains of charcoal at the village's outskirts.

One struggled to explain that the vast amounts of charcoal, enough to fill 30 dhows of 19,000 bags each, were nothing compared to that at rebel-held Quday 10 km north.

As we left, another noticed that I was curious at the rocket-propelled grenade he proudly carried around and offered to show how it works, pulling it out and mumbling "rocket, rocket." Afraid it could go off, I declined the lesson. Someone said the Technical's brakes were not working and it had to be stopped using the gears.

Being at Bur Gabo means little sleep for the soldiers, which they do in turns as others keep watch. They, however, get to eat some fresh cooked food in the form of rice and meat or beans.

There is no chance to bathe here given the circumstances but there is a supply of fresh water, which has the faint smell of clay and is a bit "cloudy" but safe to drink as it is from springs on the Kenyan side of the border 70km back.

We experienced real life in Somalia at the hill at Ras Kamboni, in a tent a few metres from the shell of a tank from the Siad Barre and Captain Morgan era, from which the NTV crew arranged the live transmission.

The soldiers were happy to have us, as the presence of the generator to power the live broadcast meant they could charge their phones and they could also watch TV - the engineer quickly set up a DStv connection.

"We have not watched TV in seven months," one of the soldiers said.

They told us they had similarly marvelled at the long stretches of cream clean beaches along the Somali coast and wondered at the opportunities for tourism that have gone with the perennial fighting and lawlessness.

The soldiers accompanied us on the trips to Ras Kamboni for interviews and it was unnerving not to have the freedom to walk around the village as we would do elsewhere and talk to the people, or even sit in a house and have tea with the people so they can talk more freely.

Given its infamy and the reticence of the villagers on discussing Al-Shaabab, there was also the fear that perhaps the sympathisers among them could take advantage and strike a blow or fire a hidden gun at us.

"You sweat freely because you are well fed by your government," one of the fishermen said as he took us to his house, where we had some cool water, and he later gave us six small eggs as a gift, which was somehow confusing given he looked angry earlier.

Staying at Ras Kamboni meant meals of ugali and beans or minced meat, all cooked with water from tanks that had traces of some indistinguishable fuel. There were no bathrooms and no bath. It also meant nights under the open sky for some of us, with Fredrick Codero, the NTV engineer, electing to place his mattress on one of the rusting tank, and from there to contentedly snore the nights away.

Among the more interesting aspects of Ras Kamboni was the latrine, dug on a sandy beach and with a few asbestos sheets forming a wall on one side. It had a perfect view of the sea for miles ahead and Jared Nyataya once claimed he saw sharks and dolphins in the water.

It rained on our fourth and final night at Ras Kamboni, sending those who spent the night outdoors rushing in, with NTV cameraman Robert Gichira sealing leaks in the tent with duct tape.

In the morning, the soldiers laughed at us. All they do when it rains is turn their sleeping bags over and stay in one position. They only move when it feels like the water levels have risen and they could be swept away.

We had imagined we would suffer more from the noise of shooting and shelling, which we never heard anyway, but NTV reporter Yassin Juma and I were swiftly thrown down by malaria as soon as we went back to Ishakani. We got some strong medicine from the army nurses on site, who were kind enough to warn that the medicine acts by disabling first before the patient gathers some strength.

Yassin was helped by the arrival of John-Allan Namu, who had left the Navy as there was not much in the way of stories in the high seas, and I soldiered on, writing a few stories, as I was a bit stronger.

I could not make it to Bur Gabo the following weekend, though, when Namu, Nyataya and Opiyo went there. The fatigue had begun to set in by the third week and, because there had been no movement forward since we arrived, story angles were beginning to elude me.

The mosquitoes had also settled in and they had no respect for repellant. Some of us spent the nights waiting for the day and the officers got three mosquito nets for us the following day. I covered my face with a raincoat and caught a few winks.

Nyataya contracted malaria and woke us up with his mumbling one of the nights. We thus looked forward to getting back home in earnest and finally confirmed on Friday evening that we would be leaving Ishakani the following morning aboard one of the trucks heading out for the military base at Manda Island, from where we would catch a flight to Nairobi.

The truck nearly left without us as we threw soiled clothes into bags and rolled up sleeping bags.




New Vision

Ugandan soldiers capture scenes with their cellphones after completing training for deployment to Somalia.

We got off the truck and took a matatu to the jetty at Mokowe, about seven hours, a tyre burst, punctured radiator and numerous battles with some sturdy tsetse flies later.

We arrived in Lamu to the din of the poorly-attended Lamu Cultural Festival, bought the last tickets on a flight to Nairobi and at about 5.30 p.m., landed to the welcoming smile of colleague James Gicho, who was fulfilling a promise to pick us up from the airport.

James had to face away from us on the short journey to the Nation Centre. There had been a water shortage at the camp and we had not bathed. I doubt we sensed the smell ourselves.

We were home. We were happy and we had learnt what to do when we go the next time.



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