The dangerous life of a smuggler

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The dangerous life of a smuggler

The dangerous life of a smuggler

data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==Mohamed Gabobe

Alcohol smuggler Guled Diriye is exhausted.

He has just returned from his trip transporting contraband from the Ethiopian border.

The 29-year-old slumps in his chair inside a colonial-style villa battered by years of fighting in Somalia’s capital, Mogadishu – a city once known as the Pearl of the Indian Ocean.

His sandals are covered in a potent orange dust – the residue from the desert.

Mr Diriye’s dark eyes droop. The bags underneath speak of sleepless nights, the hours of tension traversing the dangerous roads and negotiating checkpoints with armed men.

There is also the haunting memory of a fellow smuggler who was shot dead.

“In this country, everyone is struggling and looking for a way out. And I found my way by making regular trips by road from the Ethiopian border to Mogadishu,” he says, explaining that smuggling was a means to support his family in a tough economic climate.

The use and distribution of alcohol is illegal. Somalia’s laws must comply with Sharia (Islamic law), which forbids alcohol, but it has not stopped a growing demand, particularly among young people in many parts of the country.

Mr Diriye’s neighbour Abshir, knowing he had fallen on hard times as a minibus-taxi driver, introduced him to the precarious world of alcohol smuggling.

Rickshaws began to take over the city, pushing minibus drivers out of business.

Both were childhood friends who had sheltered together in the same camp in 2009 during the height of the insurgency in Mogadishu – he was someone he could trust.

“I began picking up boxes of alcohol at designated drop points in Mogadishu on [his] behalf and manoeuvring through the city and offloading them at designated locations. I didn’t realise it at first but this was my introduction into smuggling.”

His involvement snowballed and Mr Diriye soon found himself navigating from the porous frontier with Ethiopia through Somalia’s rural hinterlands.

He understands that he is breaking the law, but says the poverty that he finds himself in overrides that.

data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==Somalia Police

The police sometimes display bottles of the smuggled alcohol they have seized

The smuggling journey begins in Somali border towns such as Abudwak, Balanbale, Feerfeer and Galdogob.

“Alcohol mostly originates in [Ethiopia’s capital] Addis Ababa and makes it to the city of Jigjiga, in the Ogaden region,” Mr Diriye says.

The Ogaden or, as it is officially known in Ethiopia, the Somali region, shares a 1,600km (990-mile) border with Somalia. People on both sides share ethnic, cultural, linguistic and religious ties.

Once the alcohol is loaded, it is moved across the plains of the Somali region, and then smuggled across the border into Somalia.

The border town of Galdogob is a major hub for trade and travel and has been hit hard by the flow of alcohol being smuggled from Ethiopia.

Tribal elders have raised concerns over alcohol-related violence.

“Alcohol causes so many evils [such as shootings],” says Sheikh Abdalla Mohamed Ali, the chairman of the local tribal council in the town.

“[It] has been seized and destroyed on multiple occasions but it’s like living next to a factory. It keeps putting out more and more, no matter what we do.”

“Our town will always be in the midst of danger.”

But for the smugglers the goal is to get the alcohol to the capital.

“I drive a truck that transports vegetables, potatoes and other food products. When the truck is loaded up it’s filled with whatever I’m transporting, but I make the most money from the alcohol on board,” Mr Diriye says.

Sometimes smugglers cross into Ethiopia to pick it up and at other times they receive it at the border. But whichever approach is taken, concealment is a crucial part of the profession as the risks from being caught are immense.

“The loader’s job is the most important. Even more important than driving. He’s tasked with concealing the alcohol in our truck, with whatever we have on board. Without him, I wouldn’t be able to move around so easily — at least not without getting caught.

“The average box of alcohol I move has 12 bottles. I usually transport anywhere from 50 to 70 boxes per trip. Usually half the load on my truck is filled with alcohol.”

Large swathes of south-central Somalia are run by armed groups, where the government has little to no control: militias, bandits and the al-Qaeda affiliate al-Shabab roam with impunity.

“You can never travel on your own. It’s too risky. Death is always on our minds,” Mr Diriye says. But that concern does not get in the way of business and there is a brutal pragmatism to thinking about the make-up of the team.

“If I get wounded in an attack on the road, there has to be a back-up who can continue the journey. Everyone knows how to drive and knows the roads well.”

Smugglers drive on dirt tracks and roads that have not been renovated in decades. Landmines and unexploded ordnances left behind from previous conflicts are also an issue.

“I travel through at least eight to 10 towns to reach Mogadishu. But we don’t count the towns, we count the checkpoints and who mans them,” Mr Diriye says.

They encounter various clan militias with different allegiances, either lingering in the distance or at roadblocks.

“In case we get jammed up by a clan militia, if one of us is from the same clan as that militia or even a similar sub-clan, it increases our chances of survival. This is why all three of us are from different clans.”

data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==Mohamed Gabobe

The smugglers know the work is dangerous but see the job as a way out of poverty

He painfully recalls: “I’ve encountered numerous attacks.

“One of the guys that works with me is relatively new. He replaced my last helper who was killed two years ago.”

Mr Diriye had been driving in suffocating heat for six hours, so decided to nap, passing the wheel to his helper.

“While I was sleeping in the back, I heard a large burst of gunfire that suddenly woke me up. We where surrounded by militiamen. My loader was screaming as he ducked in the passenger seat.” The substitute driver was killed.

Once the commotion ceased, the loader and Mr Diriye picked up their dead colleague from the front seat and put him in the back of the truck.

“I’ve never seen so much blood in my life. I had to wipe [it] away from the steering wheel and keep on driving. In all my years, nothing prepared me for what I saw that day.”

As the pair drove off and got a good distance away from the militiamen, they pulled over to the side of the road and laid his body there.

“We didn’t even have a sheet to cover his body, so I took off my long-sleeved buttoned-up shirt and made do with it.

“It was a difficult decision but I knew I couldn’t keep driving around smuggling alcohol with a dead body in the truck. We had a few government checkpoints up ahead and I couldn’t jeopardise my load or my freedom.”

Two years later he says the guilt of leaving the body by the road still haunts him.

He left behind a family, and Mr Diriye is unsure they even know the truth surrounding the circumstances of his disappearance and death.

The danger that Mr Diriye faces is a recurring reality that many smugglers endure while illicitly ferrying alcohol from Ethiopia to Mogadishu, in order to quench the growing demand.

Dahir Barre, 41 has a slim build with noticeable scars on his face that appear to tell a story on their own. He has a dark sense of humour and seems hardened by the near-decade of smuggling that enables him to bypass the possible consequences of what he does.

“We face a lot of problems and dangers but still continue to drive despite the risk due to the poor living conditions in Somalia,” he says.

Mr Barre has been smuggling alcohol from Ethiopia since 2015 and says lack of opportunity made worse by years of poverty pushed him into the dangerous trade.

“I used to do security for a hotel in the city centre. I was armed with an AK-47 and was tasked with patting people down at the entrance.”

Long nights in a dangerous job with meagre pay did not feel worth it.

“One hundred dollars a month to stand in the way of potential car bombs that might plough through the front entrance sounds crazy now that I think of it.”

One of the day-shift guards then put him in touch with friends from the border region and “I’ve been travelling these roads ever since”.

“Back in 2015 I was only getting $150 per trip, compared to $350 per trip now and those days it was far riskier because al-Shabab had control over more territory, so you risked more encounters with them.

“Even the bandits and militias were more dangerous back then.

“If you had red or brown stained teeth, the militias would assume you chewed khat and smoked cigarettes, meaning you had money so they would abduct you and hold you for ransom.

“As drivers we’ve been through a lot and the danger still exists,” Mr Barre says.

If they are caught by al-Shabab fighters then it can be most dangerous since the armed group has a zero-tolerance policy on contraband, especially alcohol. The Islamist insurgents set the vehicle on fire and then detain the smugglers before fining them.

data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==Mohamed Gabobe

The route to Mogadishu is littered with checkpoints

Other armed men can be more easily bribed with money or liquor.

It takes an average of seven to nine days to reach Mogadishu from the Ethiopian border. The smugglers then make their way to a pre-arranged drop-off point.

“When we arrive, a group of men will show up and unload the regular food products into a separate truck, then leave. Afterwards, once that’s done, another individual will arrive, sometimes accompanied by more than one vehicle and they’ll take the boxes of alcohol,” Mr Diriye says.

“But it doesn’t end there. Once it leaves my possession, it’ll pass through more hands, eventually ending up with local dealers in the city, who can be reached with a simple phone call.”

Mr Diriye often thinks about his entry into smuggling, and where his future may lie.

“My neighbour Abshir who initially got me into smuggling alcohol, stopped doing it himself three years ago.”

Abshir offered his nephew, an unemployed graduate at the time, a job in smuggling. But he was killed on his third trip in an ambush by bandits.

“Afterwards Abshir quit smuggling. He became religious and turned to God. I rarely see him any more.”

Despite the dangers, Mr Diriye says it will not deter him.

“Death is something that is predestined. I can’t let fear come in the way of making a living. Sure, sometimes I want to throw the keys on the table and start afresh but it’s not that easy. Temptation is everywhere and so is poverty.”

All names have been changed in this story.

More BBC stories on Somalia:data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAAAAAP///ywAAAAAAQABAAACAUwAOw==Getty Images/BBC


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