Hotels My first stay at the Aruba Hotel was also my last. Soon after arriving I learned that USAID maintained housing for consultants and although space was not always available, it was clearly more comfortable and desirable than staying in a hotel. But because I knew that I could not count on such accommodations, the need for options for future visits became apparent. The Croce du Sud ( The Cross of the South), located just across the street from the cathedral, was a favorite of consultants (USAID and other donors), and Italian visitors and expats. It also was one of the favorite places to eat, less perhaps for its food and more for its atmosphere, but then again, Mogadishu had few places where one went to eat because it offered a “dining experience”.
The Croce, as it was known, was owned and run by an Italian family who had been there more than 20 years, from before Somalia gained its independence. The hotel had a barely visible sign and entrance from the street, but one only needed to be taken there once and the sign became unnecessary. It was well known in Mogadishu and everyone could direct you there. The rooms located on the second floor, overlooked a U shaped street level interior courtyard, and were reached by an open stairway adjacent to a small office. The rooms were nicely maintained and furnished; they were clean and bright and decorated with African drawings, and they all opened up to a view of the patio.
The Croce also had none of the features characterizing Somali owned and run hotels, in particular the Aruba. Namely, all the tile in the bathroom matched, it was well laid and there were no gaping holes around the faucets and showerheads. The linens and towels were soft and most impressively they were white, without the grayish hue I had come to expect. The hotel also had its own generator and so rarely suffered from the blackouts that affected the rest of the city and establishments that totally depended on the power generated by the government.
The interior patio, which had a fountain in the middle, was completely cut off from the street noises, and offered a tranquil place to sit. Both lunch and dinner were served in the patio, amidst the soothing sounds of the water gurgling in the fountain and under the shade of the large fig tree.
The hotel was efficiently run by the family who owned it and took great pride in their business. Their children who were grown and studying abroad, including one son attending George Washington University in Washington , D.C, helped out on the rare occasions they were at home. The restaurant employed an elderly Somali who served as maître de, waiter, and all around hotel assistant. Most of the hotel’s employees had also been with the family a long time, and generally one felt like a guest visiting a large extended family, rather than a paying customer.
The Croce was well located, directly across from the city’s only cathedral that held regular Sunday services and services on Christmas and Easter. The hotel stood in the heart of Mogadishu’s commercial and business center, such as it was, and just a short walk from what once was the heart of the Italian settlement.
The Italian community I sometimes walked that area which though badly neglected still evoked what once must have been a thriving neighborhood of Italian merchants, academics and civic and military personnel. I had to walk carefully with my eyes focused downward as the pavement was uneven, badly broken up and in some places gone and replaced by sand. The paint on the stucco houses had faded and peeled and the gardens surrounding the houses were neglected and covered in weeds and stubble. The frames for the climbing vines stood bare and one could only imagine the lively family scenes that once took place in the shade of the grape growing vines.
During the course of my many visits to Somalia I met Italians who had lived in Somalia, were temporarily working in Somalia (e.g. embassy and diplomatic corps) and a handful of those who had businesses in the country (e.g. the owner and importer of one of our food stores). The cultural and business ties remained strong long after Somalia achieved its independence. Probably in the north, the ties with England were strong, since the northern part of the country had been an English colony. The earlier generation of Somalis spoke Italian and some of the elite had been educated in Italy. More recently, they tended to be educated in the Soviet bloc countries as Russia was trying to make inroads in the Horn of Africa.
One cultural exchange that remained strong was the annual exodus of Italian university professors who came to teach during their summer breaks. Many also spent their sabbaticals in Somalia, heavily subsidized, so I was led to believe, by the Italian government.
The Italian Embassy and cultural center also was a source of entertainment for the diplomatic and expat community. Bi-weekly they showed Italian movies outdoors at their cultural center in downtown Mogadishu. They also presented occasional concerts of visiting cultural groups at their outdoor theatre near the embassy. These would be special events when the foreign community dressed up and turned out en masse.
The cathedral I attended services at the cathedral only once at Christmas, though I did on another occasion visit the gardens surrounding the cathedral which were enclosed by a wall. Present at the services were embassy personnel, donor agency staff and dozens of Italians, living, working and visiting. The church décor, inside and out, was European with a white Jesus on the cross.
Services were held weekly, and the cathedral did attempt to serve the Christian community, not only the Catholic one. The Christmas service I attended, for example, had a Christian ecumenical feeling. A Catholic mass would be held later that evening. The church also offered social and volunteer activities, including assisting at a local orphanage, where several Americans working at the USAID mission volunteered.
Occasionally I would see religious personnel in habits on the streets, but I have no idea about the size of the religious community. I knew of only one Somali Christian family, and I doubt that the church conducted outreach activities for Somalis. As Somalia was a Moslem country, that would not be allowed.
Downtown Mogadishu There was always a lot of action on the streets, and I enjoyed my evening strolls. There were not a lot of things to buy and the stores and stalls carried very limited merchandise. Regardless of what they sold, however, you could count on the merchandise to be covered with a thin film of sand dust. The stationery stores, which I tended to frequent the most, sold month old Time and Newsweek magazines, magazines in Italian and French, small exercise notebooks, paper, pencils, cigarettes (mostly sold individually), nuts and what we in New York during my childhood, called penny candy.
Later I learned about a store selling Italian ice cream, and it was even later when I finally tried it. There was much debate about whether eating Somali ice cream was a risky thing to do for one’s health, which explained my reluctance. But when I saw the numbers of people who enjoyed their ice cream and didn’t get sick, I decided to join the ranks. Besides, by that time my intestines had gotten use to Somali bacteria.
Parking the car When one drove downtown and parked, another scene played out which was a horde of young boys jockeying to take care of your car for a tip. Usually we were spotted as soon as we approached a parking space; sometimes they waved to us indicating that a spot was available. I either drove or drove with someone driving a white vehicle with a USAID logo prominently displayed on the doors. We stood out and the local boys took advantage of our visibility.
The boys ranged in age from 8 to 15 and seemed to come out of nowhere as soon as we were seen cruising for a spot. They would boldly step out into the street and start waving us in. But the one boy quickly became a group and then a horde and often it was impossible to identify the original boy. Sometimes quarrels broke out among the boys over their customer and sometimes an older man had to step in to mediate so that the tip went to the right boy. The boys were supposed to guard your car against break-ins and other non-existent threats, but if a more lucrative opportunity came along, guarding your car was turned over to a younger boy, sometimes as young as 8 or 9. Since the car did not need guarding in the first place, and the tip was very small, maybe 20-30 cents we were all quite indulgent with the system. However, I did notice that over time, the boys who were initially polite to foreigners and elders, became more aggressive and occasionally nasty. As a result I tried to avoid situations where I knew parking represented a free-for-all.