Lac Assal

Hello All,

Well, no complaints of nothing to do this week. It was evident early on in the week that change was in the air as, against all expectation, it rained. I don't mean a little rain either. I mean a loud-hammering-on-the-metal-roof, dirty brown water cascading down the main street, soaking your bathroom rug because you forgot the little window was open kind of rain. A cloudburst which has since repeated itself twice. The season of the Fifty Days is emphatically over, and remarkably close to the 50 days of the folk wisdom. The weather may be a trifle cooler now (say in the high nineties), but the humidity is truly astounding. The air has the feel you might get in resort steam room, minus the eucalyptus scent. At night, as temperatures drop into the 80's, the air has a palpable, almost silky feel on the skin - a sensation I remember from summer nights down near the riverfront in St. Louis. It's not unpleasant until the sun comes up and you get to feeling again like you're a turkey in one of those self-basting bags. Phew!

One definite improvement though is the clarity of the air. The air for the

past two months or so has constantly had a perceptibly dusty quality.

Sometimes it has been just at the edge of perception - a taste in the wind,

or the dun cast of the sun as it nears the horizon - and sometimes it has

been the dominant fact of negotiating the world outside of the CLU - a

gritty, stinging miasma swirling and eddying in every corner and creeping

into every imaginable spot. No more! The air is clear, the distant hills

of Somalia and the truncated volcanic cones standing guard over the

Djiboutian plains stand out in sharp detail. At night the Southern Cross

can now be seen pointing the way down the Great Rift Valley to Africa's

ancient heart. It's as if nature has polished its spectacles and only now do

we realize how used to the haze we had become.

This all could not have come at a better time, as I had a chance last week

to join the CJTF-HOA geologist and some companions on a trip to Lac Assal,

and to enjoy some spectacular vistas on the way. The lake is the saltiest

in the world, outside of a couple of hyper saline ponds in Antarctica, and

is the lowest point in Africa, at about 153 meters below sea-level. It sits

in the Afar depression- one of the most interesting geological spots in the

world where the East African plate is tearing itself away from the rest of

the continent and from the Arabian peninsula to its north. This is

technically an mid oceanic ridge spreading zone, and the only other one

above water is in Iceland. The landscape is some of the starkest and most

interesting I've seen. And that was only part of the fun!

So, we set out in two separate vehicles at about 0900 on a Sunday morning.

Clouds from the last rain storm still darkened the western horizon, but at

our backs the African sun set to work to boil away the overcast, and by noon

it would be almost cloudless. We headed west out of the city, angling

toward the tip of the gulf of Tadjoura, just inland of the Bay of Goudouk.

Driving out of the city on the N9, one quickly climbs into an arid plateau.

We passed Arta, the town that overlooks the bay where I had done such

rewarding diving a month or two ago. The road, except for a 10 mile stretch

a few miles part Arta, was pretty good. Most of the traffic was made up of

heavily laden trucks in various degrees of disrepair, many pulling trailers

of equal or greater decrepitude. They were laden with all manner of

produce, machine parts, construction materials and other goods too various

to name, all bound for land-locked Ethiopia. The country on either side of

the road was rocky and arid, with mostly drab brown and muted green scrub,

and the occasional flashes of vivid green where water rose close enough to

the surface to sustain some vegetation. There were scattered small

settlements as we left the port well behind us. Some were ramshackle

affairs of crumbling cement and dilapidated stone buildings. Some were

collections of corrugated metal and whatever scraps of wood and cement the

occupants seemed able to collect. The larger villages had mosques, whose

minarets were the tallest structures for miles around.

Some score or more miles past Arta we turned north. We were now high on the

plateau that descends as if in giant steps down to the basin in which Lac

Assal sits. Our first stop was " The Japanese Monument", which Len - the

geologist - said had been erected to commemorate the deaths of some Japanese

citizens in a traffic accident on that lonely highway. The monument was

surrounded by a low cement wall, enclosing a space in which two weathered

pyramidal markers sat, with the explanatory plaques on the front long since

pried off and presumably sold off as scrap metal. The melancholy scene was

completed by the soughing of the dry breeze off the Ethiopian highlands, and

the bleaching bones of a long deceased camel. We paused, reflected, drank some water and headed back on the road.

The next stop was considerably less sombre. We arrived after another 15 minutes at a site called (by Americans) The Djiboutian Grand canyon. I haven't found a formal name on a map, so I can't give any more details, except to say that the comparison is not altogether unwarranted - it certainly could be taken for a small section of that great American monument. The photo in the top right doesn't quite do it justice. It was formed by water erosion of the alternating layers of basaltic lava and paleosol, as the water ran off the plateaus to the west down to the Gulf. We spent a few minutes clambering about, snapping photos and "hallooing" into the maw of the canyon, which gave back quite a satisfying echo. Then off to the next stop...

We paused at a scenic vista, looking from the lofty shoulders of the high country down to the Gulf of Tadjoura at our right, the Gulf's all but sealed off western end - the Ghoubet al Kharab, a bay with a slender channel into the greater gulf, and beyond a lava bridge, plummeting to the lowest point of the continent, Lac Assal. I don't have a photo that does the scene justice, but suffice to say that, geology-wise, this is a happening place. We stayed long enough to buy some carved pumice, geodes and obsidian flakes from the vendor who seemed to have an informal franchise at the lookout - a dilapidated box roped to the side of the guard rail. Then back to the cars to begin our own descent to the nadir of the Rift.

The road deteriorated a bit and finally gave way to rutted dirt - not the worst such in Djibouti by far. Next stop was a valley toward the Western shore of the lake. Here a five minute walk led us to a spring at the end of a box canyon. The stream that bubbled up from beneath the rocks was scalding to touch - we measured 170 degrees Fahrenheit at the source. It is heated by the volcanic processes churning away beneath the thin crust of this spreading zone. More than moment spent in that clear running water would parboil the flesh on your bones, but literally the width of a decent long jump away, in a small pond with a slightly cooler water source, swam prolific schools of tiny fishes - smaller than minnows but in great number. What a marvelous thing is nature, how ingenious and how profligate with her genius! The failure of the barrier wall, the slipping of a well placed boulder and the little colony would be so many bite sized sole meuniere. Ain't that all of us in miniature though..?

Finally the lake itself. We arrived at the great salt pan - a vast precipitation of halide and gypsum crystals on the marge of 21 square miles of the saltiest water north of Antarctica. The water was shallow and warm. The lake is normally fed mostly by sea water which seeps through the fissured basalt that forms the bedrock as well as the bridge which keeps the lake separate from the larger bodies of water away east. It's an impressive sight. The water level was high that day, the recent rains having added their substance to the lake's total. For that reason we avoided a swim - the camel and goat dung bobbing high atop the hypersaline surface were indication enough of what might have been rinsed from the surrounding hills. Embarrassing to contract diarrheal diseases when you're the most senior medical guy. We clambered, snapped, picked up and bought samples, and loaded the enterprising teen-age boys selling souvenirs with some of our extra water before calling it a day and heading back east.

The trip was interrupted for a quick descent to the the western shore of the Bab al Ghoubet, where we parked the sturdy little SUV's and splashed into the water. Another group of Camp Lemonnier based travelers were already there, refreshing themselves after the torrid trip to Lac Assal. We splished, splashed, and there may have been some cavorting although I wouldn't testify to it. We dried off quickly in the late afternoon Djiboutian sun, and then into the cars for the final leg...home.

There was much more to the trip than I have mentioned here - geologic sights, wildlife, and the people of this end of the Afar Depression eking out their lives, but I have tarried too long in getting this out already. Indeed as I write this, I am seated in a hotel room in Garmisch, nestled among the Bavarian Alps - so there is much to tell. I did want to mention one animal sighting though. En route home our lead car pulled over to let a troop of baboons cross the highway. This they did, deliberate of foot and stately of mien. The alpha male crossed first, and watched us dispassionately as the ladies, children and subordinates proceeded across. Wow. This really is Africa. What an amazing place.

We made it back weary, salty, sunburnt, and entirely enchanted. For all its heat, inconvenience and grinding poverty Djibouti is one of Earth's special places. I'm not ready to start my own eco-tourism business here you understand, but with amazing diving, geologic wonders, exotic animal species, and French food...well such a thing could be imagined. As long as your air-conditioner held out, I guess.

Anyway. Next entry more from the alps...

Photos are of the Salt Pan, the "Grand Canyon" and the Alpa male baboon.

Auf Wiedersehen!

PS: Sorry about the weird spacing in some of the paragraphs. It's not an attempt at blank verse. It's an artifact of cobbling together bits written on different computers and different programs. I'll spare you blank verse...

Peltier moments

Hello all,

This will be a brief entry for the fairly good reason that little has happened, and the less satisfactory reason that I've been sitting and typing at a computer pretty steadily for the last few days and I'm afraid it has lost its considerable power to charm. This is especially so as I am, alas, a wretched two fingered typist. Doubtless that's why I selected medicine as a career instead of, say, law. Lots of typing in law I reckon. Yuck.

What have I been typing? I'm trying to knock together a plan for managing the flu (you know, the flu) should it have the temerity to show its infectious little head here in Djibouti. You'd think any self-respecting microbe would find a more congenial climate, and abandon this dusty corner of the world to the vipers and sand flies. We'll see, I guess. The fact that my last formal infectious disease training was a bit more than 20 years ago has compounded the problem for my less than dexterous digits. Ah well.

I did have a chance to visit with our colleagues at Peltier, the Djiboutian hospital, this past week. Herman, Bill and I assisted with a prostatectomy, a hydrocele and a neck mass removal. It wasn't exactly the most challenging anesthesia in the world but it was a pleasure to spend a little time in the OR. The prostatectomy was illustrative (I should mention that the next bit may be a bit, um, medical. If you can make it through "Nip and Tuck" you should be okay. Although there's no sex). As there is really no such thing as a recovery room in the sense we use it - an area staffed by highly trained nurses, carefully monitoring each patient to be sure that they emerge unscathed from the arms of Morpheus - general anesthesia is generally avoided where possible. This means that we do a lot of spinal anesthetics, and because there are very few sedative medications available this means that we do a lot of spinals, and operations, on wide awake people. They are comfortable, of course, being unable to feel pain, but sleep they do not.

Now, this might be an awkward thing in the best of circumstances - say where you and your patient shared a common language. As most of our patients speak either Afar or Issa (seldom both) it is trebly so. Although much can be conveyed, one hopes, by means of gesture and glance, we are of course in masks, hair covers and scrubs and this type of communication is limited at best. For all that though, the patients are incredibly stoic. We start IV's, we sit them up and place spinals - an uncomfortable procedure that is made worse by knowing that there is someone behind you with a needle and he's going to stick it in your back. But our patients are almost unflinching, uncomplaining, mute. They do not protest, they don't pull away and they don't seem to be anxious as a rule in that most alien of environments - the OR.

Sometimes I think that perhaps the lives of the people here are so hard, and pain and discomfort such a commonplace fact that the transient discomfort of the anesthetic procedures is meaningless. As to their forced immobility (for with a spinal one loses not just feeling but movement below the level of our block), this seems to be accepted unquestioningly. Is this the embracing of Imshallah - the unquestioning acceptance of God's infinite power and wisdom? Is this a cultural stoicism? Or having commended oneself into the mysterious realm of the medical men, does one just resign oneself to their unintelligible jabberings, their annoying piercings and the odd effects of their medicines, serene in the knowledge that what can be done for you is being done? Something of all three I expect.

Anyway, there we were at the end of a prostatectomy. Bill and Dr. Elias had skillfully worked together to remove this organ whose overgrowth had caused almost complete obstruction of urinary outflow for our patient, a dignified older Djiboutian man whose beard was dyed red with henna in keeping with the local custom. The operation over, the gentleman lifted his head up and asked Elias a question. Replying in his language, Elias reaches over to the stand at the foot of the table, picks up a set of forceps, and grabs the now ex-vivo prostate with them, producing the offending organ for the patient's intent examination. The patient studied it silently for a moment and then asked another question in the Issa dialect. Elias responded thoughtfully and at length - all the time with the excised prostate on the end of the forceps waving about in his gloved hand, occasionally being gestured with to make a point. It was a singular sight. After a bit the patient nodded, laid his head back down and we wheeled him to the recovery area.

Later Elias explained that is was important to almost all of his patients to see the thing that had been taken out of them. In fact he showed us a small collection of gall stones he keeps in jars in his spartan surgical supply office. In many cases of gall bladder surgery for stones, the stone will not be extracted intact but will be found as sludge or sand in the gall bladder once it's out. The inability to see the stones is such a source of concern for patients and their families post-operatively that Djiboutian surgeons have found it best to keep some stones around to show as evidence of a successful surgery. The patient is cured, the family is happy and much worry is thereby avoided.

So that was one thing. The other was this. As the day wore on, I sat, paced the room, stretched, peeked over the drapes, fiddled with the stuff on the back table - stuff that anesthesiologists do while surgeons struggle on. Herman was watching the patient as well, so I felt no compunction about walking over to the far corner of the room and squatting down on my haunches - much as a cowboy might do out on the range by a campfire (providing he was careful about his spurs). It is a way I have of working the kinks out of my back. It seems to stretch out some nameless bits of ligament and muscle that start to protest after a morning plying my trade. As I sunk down, eyes half-closed, waiting to feel the tension in my lower back ease, I felt a hand in mine.

I looked up, and Ali (whose name as far as I can tell is Ali Hajji), the surgical "tech" whose job it is to assist with setups and breakdowns, to bring the surgeons anything needed during the operation and in general to function as dogsbody for the OR suite, Ali had taken my hand. You must understand that all day the halls of the OR's at Peltier reverberate with the call "Ali!" or "Hajji!" as this slender, quiet man runs from room to room fetching and doing for the surgeons and anesthetists. Ali had been slumped on a stool in a corner of the operating room, but when he saw me squat at my end of the room, he figured that it was because I had no seat. Squatting is a common posture of - especially poorer - Djiboutians relaxing in shade or around a fire. The rocky ground is unkind I'm sure to those who would sit or lay down. Anyway, Ali smiled, took me by the hand - Djiboutian men will often walk hand in hand - and led me to his stool. It was done with such gentleness and such thoughtless generosity despite my protests that the moment has stuck with me all week. There is a solemn courtesy that many Djiboutians carry with them through their hot dusty days, a generosity with the little that they have which may serve to ease a bit the harshness of their lot.

And that's it for the week. Nothing terribly profound, I guess, but I hope you get some of the flavor of the people we live among and sometimes work beside.

I have great hopes for next week's entry, as a trip to Lac Assal, an ascent of the cliff trail near Khor Ambado, and even a possible trip to Garmisch, Germany may all have taken place ere I put digits to keyboard again. Not sure if all or any of these will come to pass - but they'd be good blog fodder if they do. Check back next week then, gentle reader and we'll see.

Picture today is of the surgical ward at Peltier in the noonday sun.

Comedy...it's hard work

Well, this is dangerous. I’m starting the entry without a single specific topic in mind, but as nothing keeps threatening to happen, if I just wait for actual events to report I’ll never set fingers to keyboard again. So…it’s been a quiet week at Camp Lemonnier, out here on the edge of Africa...

The big event so far was the visit, this past Tuesday, of a troupe of comedians. As it turned out, these folks hopped on a plane in LA and flew straight (or as straight as one can fly) to Djibouti. I guess we were the first stop on their tour of the military bases in the region. I hope they have a bit better luck at their next stops, for while they made it here a few hours before they were due to go on, their bags never did. Thus they found themselves, deep in the insidious grip of jet lag, clad in what they could find off the rack in our tiny exchange, and on a large, bare stage in an echo-prone barn of a building, trying to make people laugh. The performances were a bit uneven - predictably I guess.

It made me think a little bit about the phenomenon of stand-up comedy. Anyone who has ever told a joke and made people laugh must have a little taste of what it would be like to, by the mere force of your words and gestures, make an entire roomful of people laugh. It must be a tremendous high: you establish a connection in real time with people who, helplessly as it seems, reward you again and again with the audible evidence of their approbation – unforced laughter. Anyone - say a diminutive, bookish, socially maladroit future anesthesiologist - who ever coped in school by occasionally playing the clown must at least speculate about living that life. Much as other folk ponder how their life might have turned out if they’d just stuck with those guitar lessons and gone on to be a member of U-2.

On the other hand, have you ever had the excruciating experience of being at a stand up comedy performance wherein the performer and the audience just don’t connect? Where bit after bit is followed by silence, the shuffling of chairs and not so furtive glances at watches? It is for me one of the most exquisitely painful forms of social collapse to watch – indeed I’ll often literally avert my gaze like some might from a gory accident. It is so absolutely naked – a plea for acknowledgement and its stony-faced denial. Well, without being critical, and without ascribing blame to either performers or audience for their poor relationship, let me just say that I spent a lot of time with gaze averted Tuesday night.

I had the chance to see the performers – two women and one guy – as they toured the EMF the next morning. We were on our way to Peltier for what would prove a challenging day of anesthesia, so I just had moment to dash over, shake hands and thank them all for coming. Off stage they were sweet young people, who were doing what it was that they could to make this little part of this long, long struggle a little better for the folks involved. We’re all brave in our own way I guess, as providence grants us the scope to be brave. I was proud of them.

Not much else of note. We’ll have another pizza night and screen Godfather II this weekend, and with some luck I might get back to the beach although there are no concrete plans. Skype has been spotty these past weeks, which some are attributing to conflicts with Djibouti Telecom. Never heard that confirmed, but it is making the role of “away” parent a bit more of a challenge. Sigh. When I went away I told Jack that what we were both doing, he and I, was making a sacrifice that lots of fathers and boys had to make so that the right stuff could happen for America and the world. I believe that with my whole heart - all civilization needs to begin its slide into barbarism is the inaction of the well intentioned. That said, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder if I’ve done my son more good by trying to live the way I conceive that men (and women) should, than I might have done by being there while he made his way from 8 to 9 years old. I know there’s no military parent who doesn’t wrestle with this every day. In the end I guess we must live out our values in front of our children, and give them credit for the ability to learn the value of sacrifice and to glean what strength of character it may bring them. But I’d still be happier if Skype worked better.

Otherwise I am well. I’ll attempt my fake ½ marathon on Sunday. 13.1 miles on a treadmill…I’m not sure if I’m more worried about my knees or my sanity. Many sincere thanks to the folks who have left such kind comments on the blog. It is a small source of joy on many an arid day to feel that I’ve let anyone who is interested have some insight into our life out here. I’ll make a concerted effort to go out and have some actual experiences in the next week, and send you all the results.

Picture is of the sign outside the gate. Take good care all.

Ciao!

How far would you walk for a camel?

Apparently this has become a weekly blog. I reckon that’s alright, as it’s probably better to blog weekly than to blog weakly.

Ouch. Sorry you had to be there for that.

Anyway, this week found yours truly once again on my way to Khor Ambado beach. The aim of the trip was a bit more complex this time then mere enjoyment of sun, sand and swimming. There is a small group of folks here on Camp Lemonnier who will be undertaking a climb of Mount Kilimanjaro in the not too distant future. Because the ascent has to take place within the 96 hours of the liberty granted to all of us temporary sojourners here at the Camp, the climb will be a bit more rigorous than it might otherwise be. A method for achieving the optimal conditioning of both prospective climbers, (and their brand new hiking boots) was arrived at by the last group of Lemonnier stalwarts to attempt the heights of Kilimanjaro. What could be a better way of conditioning then hiking 5 kilometers of truly inhospitable country under the baleful glare of the Djiboutian August sun? And what better incentive than a refreshing plunge into the welcoming waters of the Gulf of Tajoura at the end.

The plan of course involves two parties – the walkers and the drivers. Although in truth I was intrigued by the idea of the trek, I was selected – no doubt for my skill in the use of the vehicle climate controls – to be among the latter. This is why the small company of trekkers were growing smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror as the car bounced and jounced along the “road” to Khor Ambado (sounds like a Hope and Crosby movie) shortly before midday this past Sunday. All were of course amply laden with water, smeared with sun block, armed with GPS and cell phone – and some with new hiking boots. Still, I felt like one of the less savory characters in “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre”, as I scanned the skies overhead to see if any vultures were circling expectantly.

The plan was for the drivers party to secure a spot at the beach, while the hiker party negotiated the path on foot, with the expectation of a dip in the ocean, an icy coolerful of water, soda and Gatorade and a sandwich as recompense for the ordeal. The suggestion that one might instead just follow in the SUV having been roundly pooh-poohed, with a few misgivings I gingerly threaded the vehicle past the rocks and ditches which composed the majority of the trail, and glancing once more in the rear view mirror saw that the walking figures had dropped out of sight. The drive is sufficiently challenging that in truth I was unable to spare another thought for the perspiring perambulators until the car was parked in the shade of the trees lining the marge of the beach. This is the parking area not merely for the northern end of the beach but also for one of the restaurants that sit along the shore.

I should say that, were you to arrive with a more western idea of “restaurant” in mind, you might be mystified as to where among the collapsing cement walls, windowless cinder block constructions and apparently haphazard collections of wooden planks and plywood the path to the restaurant might be found. It is only with acclimatization you realize that this is the restaurant.

As I stepped onto the sand, a figure detached itself from a small family group of figures who had been splashing and playing in the water at the beach edge. Squinting in the intense light of the noonday sun, I saw it was a shirtless Djiboutian man of middle age who strode toward me, smiled and indicated in French the vacant beach cabana that our party should occupy. The proprietor, of course. I indicated that we’d be waiting for friends, and out of curiosity asked if they were serving food and drink today (remember – there is no external evidence that there is a restaurant anywhere around, except for the hand drawn sign averring it). “Mais bien sûr”, he replied, smiling broadly. Thus it was that when the intrepid walking party toiled up, a bit sweaty but otherwise no worse for wear, I was leafing through the menu and sipping ice cold water. In fact, driving had only beaten walking by about 30 minutes – a testament both to the dreadful road, and the good time made by those who elected to travel via “Shank’s mare”. Reunited, waters and Gatorades were drunk, swimming and bobbing were accomplished, and half of us ordered lunch (the other half choosing the sandwiches we had brought along).

Despite the unpromising surroundings, lunch was quite nice. Baguettes, of course, and I had a sort of Nicoise salad, some beef brochettes and banana beignets. The breeze was onshore, and while this made snorkeling unrewarding as visibility was reduced to neglible, it made the shaded area beneath the awning quite cool. Lunch, looking over the Gulf to the faintly visible highlands above Tadjoura and Obock, cooled by the sea breeze, was as pleasant a meal as I have eaten here on the Horn. After a couple hours of lounging we packed up and prepared to head out. That’s when we had our, um, encounter.

As we packed the last of the beach accoutrements in the SUV, I spotted a couple of camels about 50 feet away. “Hmmm,” thinks I, “I’ll try to get a picture”. In my experience, camels are pretty stand-offish, so I carefully aimed my little Fuji at the beast and…click. Then she wandered closer. “Oh good”, I murmur, “This’ll be even better”. Click. Then it occurs to me that the camel is still moving closer. Quickly. And soon after that it occurs to me that camels are big. Now, I defy you to look in those big brown eyes and not imagine that a gentle soul lies behind them, but camels do have a bit of a reputation for spitting and biting…so I was hesitating between wildlife encounter and hiding in the car, when with a final burst the camels made the decision for me. As the sequence of pictures above shows, we spent a brief amount of quality time together and, while I suspect my dromedary companions of designs on my hat, in the event we got on famously until one of the boys who’d been playing in the surf earlier shooed the beasts away as one might chase a pesky rabbit out of one’s vegetable patch.

Strapped once again in the car, we rattled our way back to the paved road and then home to the comfortable, but completely camel free confines of Camp Lemonnier. It occurs to me that the camels wanted nothing other than to be fed, or perhaps some water. They are remarkable beasts up close, and at least in this case were quite as gentle as their placid gaze and long lashes suggested. Maybe next time we'll bring along camel treats...or maybe not.

Not much else of note. We watched "The Godfather" on Saturday's Wardroom movie night, and my friend Jeff and I picked up some pizzas from a nearby pizza place to lend a bit of Sicilian atmosphere to the event. The movie, despite having become a cultural cliche, is still a great cinema experience. I must admit to feeling just the slightest catch in my throat at the scenes of village life in Sicily, where we lived for 3 very happy years when Jack was a toddler.

Doubt I'll choke up when I see Djibouti on the big screen in the future...but it's been an interesting time so far.

Khor Ambado

Greetings, Gentle Readers,

I was “leafing” through my older posts last night (another great book related activity that the rise of the web, the Kindle and the tablet computer is going to force us to rename), and realized with dismay that it has been a while since my last. My internal Editor seems to have forgotten to insist on a deadline this last week – sorry if this has left any of you desperate for news of life here on the Horn. There have indeed been a couple of “blog worthy” happenings in the last week, so settle back, turn the heat in your room up - way up, and have someone set fire to trash in the room next door as I take you away on wings of imagination to Djibouti.

So, I'm walking CLUwards on Saturday night after the Wardroom movie - "Bottlerocket", an early Wes Anderson film that I can only recommend to his most enthusiastic fans - when a couple of my compadres mention that they are headed to the beach on the morrow. I offhandedly opined that, were they to run into any problems, having a doctor along could prove the difference between life and death. And that I had a new dive mask and snorkel I was dying to try out. And that I'm really quite compact. And sweet natured. Anyway, they spontaneously asked me if I wanted to come along.

So it was the next morning, about 1000ish, I set out with 3 stalwart companions, and copious amounts of ice, water and gatorade to "French Beach". The beach's real name is Khor Ambado, and it sits about 15 km from Djibouti town, heading roughly west. The first part of the drive, which connects the port road to the fuel pier and storage facilities at Dorale, is the nicest road in Djibouti - smooth seamless black top with clear lane markings. This reflects of course Djibouti's dependence on the port and the pier, and on the good will of Dubai Ports World for such affluence as the country may claim. Once you pass the fuel pier however the paved road soon runs out and one finds oneself on deeply rutted dirt roads . Initially you wind your way on flat country between desiccated acacia trees, but after a few hundred yards the route leads uphill and your 4X4 climbs onto the plateau just inland from the Gulf of Tadjura. Here the trees vanish and, save for the occasional brambles, the scene could be on Mars - red iron-rich earth, covered by tumbled black volcanic boulders.

The road which has been bad before now becomes spectacularly so - choked with rocks, pocked with holes, and altogether absent in places where some hard to imagine rain storm must have washed through. And there you'll be bumping along a sun-baked boulder field that looks less hospitable than the moon, A/C at full blast, nervously looking out the window to see if vultures are following, when strolling along will come a goatherd and his hooved charges, looking quite as comfortable as if they were walking through the mall on a lazy Sunday. In a second they are gone and you are back to contemplating your extraterrestrial surroundings, wondering how....? It may be that this stretch of the Horn has produced no lasting work of art, nor a monument of architectural significance, but I think you could argue that mere human survival on this parched shore is its own Coliseum, Great Wall, or Sistine Chapel.

Anyway, after about half an hour of this, and just when you think the road couldn't get worse, off the right side the land drops away and between two headlands appears a tawny crescent of beach. The rub is the steep, twisting downhill that leads to the bottom. That haltingly negotiated, there is a short stretch of soft dirt, and and a few green trees to pass before you are there. Khor Ambado is about as idyllic a place as one can find in Djibouti. It is a fairly clean arc of sand between two projecting rocky arms. There must be fresh water close to the surface as the highlands tumble down to the gulf here as there are about a dozen lush green trees which provide shade, sited about 50 meters from the water's edge. Out on the sand are scattered palapas with table and chairs. The beach is sandy and this soft sand shelves very gently away as one swims out. The water is so close to body temperature as to make wading in an almost imperceptible change. At about 50 more meters offshore corals, marine plants, and reef fish are to be found. Not with the spectacular visibility and variety of some of my earlier excursions, but enough to make for an entirely satisfactory day of paddling, floating and peering.

There are a couple of restaurants on the beach, whose attendants will politely but firmly collect a 1000 franc fee for the use of their beach front and tables. The food by report is quite good, but on Sunday we met up with a large contingent from Camp who had braved the road with grill and grub in the back of their trucks and SUVs. Thus instead of poisson yemenite, we lunched on hot-dogs, hamburgers and beans. We were a party of probably 15 all told, and our only company on the beach were some of the folks from the German base, who joined us for food, drink and a couple of games of beach volley ball. It was a grand day out, and we bumped our way back home over the rough roads weary, salty, sandy and happy.

Next day was notable for a visit to Camp Lemonnier by the Secretary of the Navy, the honorable Ray Mabus. He is the former governor of Mississippi, and joked that he was glad to finally be someplace that the weather reminded him of home. The clinic was scrubbed from top to bottom in case of a visit, but in the event our only chance to see him was an all-hands address and question and answer session. He seemed like a very nice chap, and did a superb job of passing on how important he felt the Africa mission to be while acknowledging the many financial, organizational and geopolitical challenges we and the Navy face in the years ahead. Like all successful politicians of my experience, he had a gift for seeming both wise and approachable. Can't say as how I envy him his job (learning all the acronyms would do me in), but it was thoughtful of him to make us his first overseas facility visit.

Since then a pretty standard week. Mornings are relatively pleasant when the wind blows, but the heat is brutal by midday. My CLU faces west, and by late afternoon my brave little AC just gives up and blows warm air for a couple of hours until the sun drops low enough. But that way I don't feel cheated of the full Djibouti experience.

Reckon I'll stop there. Nothing big on the horizon, but I'll try to get another post up a bit sooner next time. Take care, all.

Oh, pictures are of Khor Ambado from the plateau inland, and of the landscape en route. Sorry they can't really convey the feel. Hence the thousand words...