Djibouti is out of this world. It’s
a claim no travel writer should ever
make, but it really is as if a great
chunk of Mars has been carved out
and jigsawed on to the Horn of
Africa. Seated on the Afar Triple
Junction – the meeting point for
three of the Earth’s tectonic
plates, which are pulling slowly
away from one another – Djibouti is
a jostle of black volcanic rock,
flat plains haunted by dust devils
and a brilliant-blue coastline
bulging out into the Gulf of Aden.
These are the raw lands that
20-year-old Wilfred Thesiger
travelled through in the 1930s and
later featured in his Danakil
Diaries travelogue.
Until recently, travellers have been
slow to follow in his footsteps.
Images of the civil war that broke
out in the region during the 1990s
linger – as do concerns about
pirates in the Gulf. But these
impressions are outdated. Aside from
the occasional pickpocket, Djibouti
is safe and unassociated with the
problems that persist in
neighbouring Somalia and Eritrea,
its coastal towns insulated from
marauders by the Gulf of Tadjoura.
20 destinations for 2015: Djibouti
It offers intrepid
travellers a new frontier.
Outside the colonial-style
capital, Djibouti city,
development is in its
infancy: accommodation and
services are relatively
frill-free, there’s no
public transport and it’s
expensive. But the real draw
is the wealth of adventure
activities on offer, from
trekking up the dormant
Ardoukoba volcano and
snorkelling with whale
sharks in the Bay of
Ghoubbet, to floating in the
briny waters of Lac Assal –
the lowest point in Africa.
One of its most impressive
landmarks is Lac Abbé – a
salt lake on the border with
Ethiopia. It’s the terminus
of the 750-mile-long Awash
River, which starts life
west of Addis Ababa.
Droughts and extraction for
irrigation upstream have
caused the water level to
drop 20ft, leaving behind
copper-coloured flats
studded with jagged
limestone chimneys that bite
the skyline. It’s so
otherworldly they were used
as a filming location for
the first Planet of the
Apes.
As we drive towards the
plains, heat warps the air
and the chimneys appear on
the horizon like a long
caravan of humped camels
marching through the desert.
In the distance, Afar women
draped in cloths of purple,
orange, red or blue flash
bright as birds against the
sandy sky.
I lean out the window of the
4x4 as we navigate the scabs
of sparkling salt that
encrust the dirt and pop
like bubble wrap beneath the
tyres. A boy, leading his
two camels, walks past us;
arms dangling over the
herding stick slung across
his shoulders. We wave, and
he nods his head in reply.
Off to the left, a jackal
nips at the ground. He’s
cornered a rodent of some
kind and darts back and
forth, unsure of us but
unwilling to abandon his
hard-won lunch. We stop the
car. He races back and
plunges his snout into the
earth, emerging with a furry
gerbil between his teeth and
darts behind a rock to eat
in peace as we crackle
onwards. Further on we see a
pair of pug-nosed warthogs
with tusks white and curved
like smiles, but they
quickly trot away into the
haze.
Ethiopia tipped for tourism surge
Hussein, our quiet Afar
guide who sits in the
passenger seat, holds up
his hand and signals for
our driver to stop. He
speaks French – the
national language
alongside Arabic – and I
translate for the
others. “Follow my
footsteps; be careful
where you walk: there’s
areas of quicksand.“ So
we pace after him,
eyeing up the contorted
formations. One is over
200ft high and is
nicknamed – rather
unimaginatively – La
Grande Cheminee (The Big
Chimney). It’s utterly
silent save for the
warm, whispering wind.
At the base of another,
Hussein points to a
fumerole – a pool of
boiling water that
bubbles and steams
invitingly like a
Jacuzzi. “See. This
place really is heaven
and hell,” he smiles.
“It comes from so deep
that it reaches halfway
up the vents,” he says,
pointing to nooks
further up where I
notice pigeons roosting.
“They have to be careful
not to cook themselves”
Hussein says, grinning
and rubbing his tummy
hungrily.
Leading away from the
pool is a thin, shallow
channel carved through
the salt and dirt.
“What’s this for?” I
ask. “Afar adults build
them to steer the hot
water – which cools
enroute – to small
fields where they grow
grass for their
animals,” he explains.
“Then the children bring
the goats and sheep
here.”
The Muslim Afar – or
Danakil – make up a
third of Djibouti’s
population of under a
million, and have a
fierce reputation. One
of their most beloved
proverbs reads: “It’s
better to die than live
without killing.” Today,
their attitudes are
softening, but smiles
are not easily won.
We return to the car and
drive up to a small
escarpment where a basic
campsite sits
overlooking the chimneys
and fumeroles.
Accommodation is in the
form of ari –
traditional Afar huts
built from a matrix of
branches bent into a
dome with a woven mat
slung over the top to
act as a roof. Beneath
this is an Army-style
camp bed.
Angola and Gabon 'to become holiday hotspots'
We wander into the cool,
dark interior of the
main tent. Its
dark-green canvas walls
flap in the wind. The
only decoration is a
dried leopard pelt –
head and ears intact –
splayed across a side
table; its regality all
the more poignant amid
the barrenness.
Inside are four
travellers – two men,
two women – sitting
around a simple table on
folding chairs; their
legs splayed out in
rest. The camp cook
offers us small,
scratched glasses of
piping-hot coffee, which
we pincer carefully
between fingers and
thumb. I sip at the
brown water and let out
a long, quiet whistle;
it’s so sweet my
fillings rattle.
“What brings you to
Djibouti?” I ask the
group of newly assembled
friends who had met in
Ethiopia. “Adventure!”
they cheer in unison. “I
can’t wait to sleep in
my hut tonight,” beams
an Irishman called Enda,
his sun-reddened cheeks
blending into his russet
beard.
The sun is starting to
set so we them bid
farewell and drive back
down to the plains. The
low light casts
silhouettes making the
chimneys appear as dark
mountains from a
distance; serrated like
the backbone of a
dinosaur.
As we wander towards one
of the grassy patches,
we notice two girls and
a younger boy grazing
their goats. They stare
at us unflinchingly. I
crouch down to run my
fingers through the turf
and, looking up, lock
eyes with the eldest.
She leans her head
against the shepherding
branch clasped in her
hands. I can just make
out the tribal markings
on her face; two
blackened stripes, as if
a bird had lightly
perched on either cheek.
I nod and smile, but she
doesn’t respond.
The light is fading fast
now. Hussein says it’s
time to go and starts
walking back to the 4x4.
I hang back to take in
the surroundings and
realise the children are
following me. I turn and
greet them in French,
but they stay silent; I
take pictures on my
smartphone and flip the
camera so they can see
themselves, but they
peer at the screen
wordlessly. And then I
have it. Fastened to the
fraying satchel slung
around my body is a gold
Omani badge pin
featuring two crossed
khanjars (daggers); a
small token I picked up
on my travels. I take it
off and attach it to the
dress of the eldest
girl, near her shoulder.
It glints in the sun and
she runs her fingers
over the small button.
Before she can stop
herself, her lips crack
and curve into a smile
revealing bright-white
teeth. Quickly, she
whips her hand up to her
mouth to cover it and
her eyes settle into a
tough stare again. We’re
nearly at the car. She
grabs my hand and gives
it a quick, firm squeeze
and runs back towards
the grass and goats.
Djibouti can be
disconcerting at first.
It’s unlike any other
African country: in
place of the cool
eucalyptus forests and
green terraced valleys
found in Ethiopia, are
unique gnarly landscapes
forged from rock, sand
and salt. It’s wild and
totally alien, but it
offers something rather
precious nowadays: the
chance for raw adventure
as yet untainted by
multitudinous tour
operators. Give it a few
days and it will – as
with the young girl –
elicit the sincerest of
smiles.
