Jubba Airways, the Happy Way to Fly

Mogadishu is one of those places sure to strike a chord of absolute terror in anyone's heart. While booking my ticket from Djibouti to Nairobi, I am told that the plane will stop briefly there, but not to worry, that it's perfectly safe; al-Shaabab will not storm the plane and carry off western women travelers who are kicking and screaming. I ponder this information for some days.

On my return from Hargeisa, Somaliland, to Djibouti, I fly with Jubba on yet another former Soviet piece of dereliction, but at least on this plane the seats match, although the seat belt has not been used since a few planes before. A family of five pile in the three seats across the aisle. Through the scarcely contained chaos at the airport, the flight proves a triumph thanks to the charming company of a retired French military commando/paratrooper now doing security assessments of the world's hot spots for a private corporation. The stories are fantastic and in exchange I give a small lesson in written Arabic grammar. The flight finally arrives in Djibouti, but the plane port hole windows are so fogged up, we can't tell if the plane is still in the air or taxiing on the runway.

Anyway, I don't have much hope for the Jubba flight on the next day to Nairobi, and I spend a restive night staring up at the black cloud of doom hanging over my bed at the hotel. I should point out that the pirates operate out of Puntland (another part of Somalia) and are a different crowd of riffraff than the hard-line al-Shaabab Islamist nutcases who hang around Mogadishu.

At the airport there are only five Somalis and me checking on. Some airport guy with a badge comes up and asks for my passport number with no explanation. We are screened and re-screened, and now our plane escort comes. The plane is exactly on time. I walk out on the tarmac to face a shiny Boeing 737-200. Huh? The smartly dressed cabin crew welcome me. The plane is filled with Somalis, also nicely dressed. The seat belt works. We are served a hot meal.

Looking toward the terminal

The plane is positioned to get the hell out of there.

Something wrecked on the runway.

Two hours later we approach the Mogadishu airport from over the water. I can see parts of a spread out, low-lying town, but not much else. We land, and the crew thank everyone for flying Jubba, and for those passengers disembarking, it's: "Enjoy your stay in Mogadishu or wherever your final destination may be. Hope to see you again soon." This is beyond surreal. It's Mogadishu, for god's sake. I ask the crew if photos are permitted, and they say of course, I could come off the plane for clearer shots. Well, why not? I do notice on the entire perimeter of the airport are white SUVs keeping watch. Our plane does not pull up in front of the terminal and positions itself to head straight out to the runway. In barely half an hour, we discharge passengers and pick up a new batch (who look decidedly happy), including a few westerners (who look like they have been living hard), and off we go. We are served another meal, and the crew address me as Miss Pamela.

The next stop is Wajir, just over the Kenyan border, where everyone piles off for immigration and screening. Back up in the plane, we finally arrive in Nairobi, to yet another check and screening. The perimeter of this airport, in contrast, is full of armed soldiers. I am met by a driver who takes me to the backpackers hostel. By the second night, people know I just came through Somaliland and Somalia, and everyone goes quiet. "No big deal," I tell them, "the Somalis are great."