Aidan Hartley

As we entered the old city, the heat shimmered off coral towers half reduced to rubble by cycles of war. We had just exited Mogadishu’s presidential palace after a morning’s filming. Gemaal was at the wheel and Duguf rode shotgun. Cameraman Jim and I were in the back chatting. Then came the bang. Except I recall no ‘bang’, only a shock wave. It sucked the air out of my lungs so hard that I tasted blood in my throat. Through our car’s rear window I saw black smoke and debris enveloping our escort vehicle 30 metres behind. ‘There’s wounded,’ said Jim. Gunfire erupted. Everybody abandoned the car. As Jim ran towards the blast site whatever he said was lost except for ‘...secondary attack!’ Total confusion.

Somalia I am in a refugee camp of 200,000 war victims on the outskirts of Mogadishu. The muezzin call to prayer drifts across a sea of plastic tents set among coconut palms and banana groves along the banks of the Shebelle River. Miles from here Ethiopian and Islamist insurgents are fighting in the streets and bombarding civilian districts with rockets and mortar fire. Yet it was almost a relief to fly into Somalia after Kenya, just to take a break from the horrific sight of my home country committing a kind of national suicide this last month. I found it hard to leave the family at home, but apart from that I felt a huge burden of depression lifting as we got away from Nairobi.

As I write this, the crackle of gunfire is audible from the veranda of our farmhouse. Warriors of the Pokot and Samburu are fighting a mile away. A bushfire engulfs the horizon. I hear the tally in blood so far is three Samburu warriors killed, and the Pokot have rustled 750 cattle. Today I hope our farm and the people who live here will be spared the violence. They were not on Boxing Day, the eve of Kenya’s elections, when Samburu rustlers armed with AK-47s hit our place and made off with 22 steers. That afternoon the police were unable to respond as they were busy guarding ballot boxes. Our neighbours rushed to help instead, and my friend Charles saved our cattle by bravely charging his car at the raiders in a hail of bullets. The raiders ran for it.

Nogales, Mexico After the purgatory of Arizona, I was so happy to cross the Mexico frontier I could have French-kissed the filthy streets. It was just like home in Africa. Meat tasted like meat and meals were eaten to a joyous soundtrack of buzzing bluebottles. Stray dogs basked in sunshine among wrecked cars as music cascaded down streets. Maidens had nice, healthy bottoms and men were encouraged to whistle their appreciation. We drank beers in Sonora’s desert air and Our Lady of Guadalupe stared down kindly on all her Catholic sinners. Oh happy, happy Mexico! Arizona, by contrast, was beyond dreadful. ‘We’re the skin-cancer capital of the world,’ they said to me proudly. I asked, can boredom or American TV give you cancer? Or hormone-injected chicken?

I had an epiphany at 5.30 a.m. the other day in a Shanghai club packed with gangsters, prostitutes and flat-bellied Thai transsexuals. I watched a little guy, in his forties like me, dancing with two women dressed as schoolgirls. Then he collapsed drunkenly to the floor. White-jacketed attendants appeared. Instead of ejecting the man, they gently restored him to his tarts and whisky at the bar. His needs were understood. ‘In Shanghai nobody that age had fun when they were young, before China reformed,’ said a friend showing me the city. ‘Now they have money, everybody’s trying to have a good time before they’re too old.’ I walked out of there deciding my mid-life crisis had begun.

Kenya I have hated flying since 1989, when I was in a Boeing 737 that crashed into an Ethiopian mountain, lost its wings and burst into flames. Surviving that one was followed by years of pre-check-in heavy drinking. As if that were not enough, I now suffer this wrenching guilt about all the carbon I emit on my frequent long-haul flights. And my recent journey home from Mongolia to Africa was a 48-hour nightmare. I felt like an astronaut. I departed Ulan Bator loaded with souvenirs: a horn and sinew bow with a 40-lb pull and six arrows, cashmere and camel hair, pebbles from the Gobi desert and a very large quantity of Genghis Khan vodka. The Mongolians, I discovered, consume 60 million bottles of vodka per month. Given that there are just 2.

Laikipia Our farmhouse is at the finishing stage and Wachira, the electrician from Large Power and Control, is advising me on aesthetics. ‘A spotlight in the garden is a beauteous thing to behold,’ he urges. I reply, ‘Fine, but can we talk about house lighting first?’ ‘Yes, but we must illuminate the garden path in a way to be admired.’ ‘No spotlight,’ I say firmly. After three years in tents and having spent a fortune we still have not moved into the house. Our Kenyan farm is a white elephant leaning on my chest. The way we have spent money causes me to have ghastly visions of wrist slashing, serious illness without insurance, falling towers and a runaway crack-cocaine addiction.

Kibera Court No. 2 Normally, I would bribe a traffic policeman, but very occasionally it feels good to hit back against the system. ‘Go ahead. Book me,’ I said. The copper, a huge creature with rolls of fat around his neck and piggy eyes, sighed as if to say, ‘You poor dope.’ ‘OK, I’m taking you in.’ All because I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. At the station, the officer demanded a large sum in cash bail. His curious mates turned up to see what other crimes they could nail me for. ‘Your name is JOHN HOLAG.’ ‘No, it isn’t.’ They took a book down from shelves piled with dusty ledgers and slowly flipped through the pages. ‘Ah, yes. You have mutilated your driving licence.’ ‘No, I haven’t.

Nairobi Tom Cholmondeley has done it again. The scion of Kenya’s Delameres has shot dead another black African trespasser on his Rift Valley farm. This is his second in a year. Kenya’s authorities, which gave up trying to pronounce his name and settled for ‘Tom Chom’, let him go first time. That won’t matter on this occasion as I reckon Tom may be sharing his cell for a long time with a very large fellow convict who will insist on calling him Tinkerbell. That’s if he stays alive. I don’t know how or why Tom Chom has to shoot people. I have managed to get through life in Kenya without shooting a single person. I don’t believe Cholmondeley is a psychopath.

Democratic Republic of Congo This week I joined United Nations forces in the Congo for an offensive against rebel militias. ‘We’re the only ones who want to fight,’ said the South African colonel, cussing the other blue helmet contingents. ‘They’re too scared to go forwards and I’m tired of it.’ Pakistanis bombarding the opposite hillside with mortars wanted to leave the dirty work to the Congolese government forces. ‘Good shot!’ exclaimed the Pakistani major each time a mud hut got blown to bits a mile off. An Indian helicopter gunship circled at altitude, too high to fire its rockets. ‘Nobody wants to die for the Congolese,’ an Indian told me later.

Nairobi The finest view of what Kenya’s corrupt political leaders have done to this beautiful nation may be observed from the summit of Africa’s largest rubbish dump, Nairobi’s Dandora dumpsite. A horde of children and women are sifting through the stinking trash, recovering scrap metal to be sold at twopence a kilo. They each make 30p a day. A squealing fat pig with a plastic bag stuck on its head runs in circles among the destitute. Dandora’s garbage spontaneously combusts each day after sunrise, igniting a square-mile fire that throws a column of poisonous smoke across central Nairobi. Slum residents die young. The state hospital has a ward for respiratory illnesses nicknamed the ‘Dandora ward’.

Laikipia According to an imminent Home Office decree, I am on drugs, I cultivate drugs and I intend to push drugs. I thought Blair’s government was moving to decriminalise narcotics such as marijuana. Instead it wants to burden the police and customs further by banning the vegetable stimulant Catha edulis. Otherwise known as miraa, qat, or khat, this plant is grown in the Horn of Africa and Yemen, and millions chew it. Countless thousands of perfectly respectable immigrants in Britain consume miraa daily. I have always chewed the leaf. It’s my new little cash-crop project on our farm. The privet-like shrubs will grow into trees and they clearly thrive in our highland tropical conditions with plenty of sun and watering. I love my miraa plants.

On a recent drive in downtown Mogadishu with ten heavily armed bodyguards, I passed the site of the old US embassy, and observed a melancholy scene that Britain and the USA might ponder if they decide to bale out of Iraq early. The embassy has been totally demolished, either out of hatred or because Mogadishu’s benighted inhabitants need bricks with which to build their hovels. The site is now a forest of thorns browsed by camels. Washington has long regarded Somalia as nothing but a nasty backwater populated by ungrateful Africans, but the continuing violence there — much of it directed by Islamic extremists — suggests that the country may become the springboard for an Africa-wide Islamic jihad.