Chapter 1
From the Cape Flats
to the basins of war
This is the story of Alvin Andrews and his illustrious media
career as a frontline journalist in the basins of war, disaster and the
emergence of history.
Alvin Andrews may just be one of the most unheralded of
South African journalists but 40 years at the frontline of wars, disasters and
international turbulence working for the major international news agencies
Associated Press, Reuter Thompson and American Broadcasting, this brilliant and
almost shy TV cameraman has impeccable credentials as one of the best in the
murky business of reporting on conflicts and disasters.
From an award-winning print media photographer plying his
craft on the mean streets of the Cape Flats in the townships of South Africa,
he transformed into one of the best TV cameramen in the world with a stunning
record of breaking major exclusive stories from the conflict in Somalia to the
war on terror in Afghanistan.
Frontline journalism to the uninitiated seems glamorous and
exciting but it is only for the brave, the fearless or those with reckless enthusiasm
who imagine that covering war, famine and disaster is in any way entertaining.
It is a dangerous working environment. It is a ruthless and competitive arena
in a complex world of lies, favours, tip offs and spies.
Danger lurks around every corner.
For more than two decades, Cape Town journalist and
frontline TV cameraman Alvin Andrews thrived and survived in this hot bed of
factional warfare and international crisis where many capable and crafty
journalists met their untimely deaths. From the ravages of famine and war in
Mozambique and Zimbabwe, clashes on the streets of Mogadishu, disasters and
uprisings in the Congo to the war on terror in Afghanistan and the chaos of
paramilitary control and civil unrest on the streets of Abidjan, the main port
of the Ivory Coast, Alvin Andrews has just about seen it all.
In a career that started way back in the 1970s when the boy
from Durban became a man in Walmer Estate, a cosy “coloured” suburb nestled in
the shadows of Table Mountain where the highway snakes past on its way to the
Cape Flats, he joined The Cape Herald as a news photographer. This was at the
height of the apartheid era when the four main media groups developed their
metropolitan newspapers in a way that excluded “non-white” journalists.
For example, it was considered unnecessary for the Sunday
Times to focus on news that affected “coloured” people in the Cape because the
Sunday Times Extra did this. It was unnecessary for the Afrikaans newspaper
Rapport to employ “coloured” or black journalists because the Rapport Extra did
this.
At the Argus Group,
The Cape Herald was pitched solely to “coloured” readers on the Cape Flats and
Port Elizabeth.
Admonishing and censuring the racist policies of the
apartheid government on the front pages while relegating more than 90 per of
the nation to an appendage was a juggling act of huge magnitude, particularly
for the English Press. It was not easy to reconcile with the public interest
role of the Press in a democratic society. It was also around this time that
the bizarre concept of Total Onslaught-Total Strategy was peddled by the
government of P.W. Botha. It was a sinister policy that originated in the South
African Defence Force and refined by the clandestine Broederbond, a secret
brotherhood of the Afrikaner.
Openings for black and “coloured” journalists were few and
far between on any newspaper in apartheid South Africa. Very limited job opportunities, lack of
proper training and reluctance on the part of newspaper editors to employ
people of colour meant only a chosen few could pursue that dream.
“I was pretty lucky when Tony Richmond, editor at The Cape Herald, gave me an interview
and a chance to prove myself. Get a portfolio and come back to me when you are
ready,” Richmond said to me. “That was way back in 1974 after a brief stint as
a graphic artist,” Alvin recalls his early days on the beat.
“For some strange reason, I always wanted to be a news
photographer, but I did not know much about news photography, nor for that
matter, did I know much about journalism or how the media worked. But at least
I could give it a bash as I had in my possession at the time an old Pentax
camera with a standard lens that my dear mum Ruby (bless her soul) had bought
as a gift for my birthday.
“Armed with this baby, I hit the streets photographing
anything I could lay my hands on to build a decent portfolio of news
photographs worthy of publication.
“Not so easy, I
almost lost my camera when I tried to photograph some sleazy hoodlums lurking
on a corner in District 6. These were the local thugs. They were the notorious
Stalag 17s who ruled District 6 with fear and terror. They were a particularly
loathsome group better known for stabbings, muggings and Friday night pay
packet robberies.
“Here was an early lesson well learned for me. Never point a
camera at someone who does not want to be photographed as it will get you into
all sorts of trouble. But I would carry on regardless and venture into other
places of interest around Cape Town trying my best not to provoke anyone and
quietly going about my business of news gathering.
“It wasn’t long before I fronted up to Tony Richmond again,
portfolio in hand and optimistic about a successful career in journalism as a
press photographer. Richmond was a tall,
wiry Englishman. A former Anglican priest, he told me. He was soft-spoken and
courteous almost to a fault but not being too familiar with the English, I
somehow found him untrustworthy. This was a mistake. He was a kind man working
in a disorganized place in a strange country and he was out of his depth. This
I only found out much later.
“I didn’t like Richmond at first glance but needed him so
badly to take me on board that I could overlook any flaws, real or otherwise.
And then he punctured my dreams like some nasty kid poking the birthday boy’s
balloon at a party. He was unimpressed by my efforts, found fault with most of
the photographs and suggested I go back and have a good think about my
prospects and options and to have another go at my portfolio.
“Come back when you
are ready,” Richmond told me off with a firm handshake. My career objectives
were in peril. My mind was racing and confused and I was having some serious
doubts that I would ever make it as a press photographer. But six months later
I was back in The Cape Herald offices
in St George’s Street, Cape Town, and sitting in front of Richmond in his
small, cluttered office.
I can clearly remember he was still wearing that same
tomato-red cardigan and shiny grey-black pants. Back copies of the Herald and a variety of other newspapers
were scattered all over his office. Some old posters adorned the walls. Stuck
on with sticky tape, some had scribbles on them but all had a similar theme:
blood and guts and gore. It all looked much the same as when I first stepped
into his office.
But, this time things were a bit different. I heard there was a vacancy for a news
photographer coming up at the Herald
and I reckoned my name was on it if I played my cards right.
So, there he was and as I sat across from his old wooden
desk I could detect he had a slight smile on his face, friendly but not
familiar and genuinely surprised by my perseverance and tenacity. I was chasing
a humble opening on what I learned later was probably one of the worst
newspapers in South Africa.
He leaned across and in his gentle pastoral voice, he said:
“Alvin, the job is yours if you want it.” I was overwhelmed and surprised by
the suddenness of it all and could hardly respond but blurted out “Yes, yes,
yes”. We didn’t even talk pay or conditions and I was out of there before he
could change his mind.
This was the gateway to a career in journalism that would
take me around the globe with major international news agencies including
American Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), Reuter Thompson, Associated Press and
a few more international television networks along the way. It has been a
hectic experience that started with humble beginnings and continued for the
best part of nearly half a century.
Chapter 2
Early Days and The Cape Herald
This was indeed a strange breed of newspaper animal at a
time when political correctness was not yet invented and severe apartheid
restrictions on the liberties of Press freedom were increasingly inflicted by
the Nationalist government. Not that it
bothered The Cape Herald too much.
This was a coloured biweekly newspaper, staffed by
predominantly “coloured” journalists and delivering a diet of news fodder that
thrived on gang violence, grisly murders, sex assaults, major crime and a
diverse range of community sports. The Cape Herald thrived briefly under
strange and difficult circumstances in a readership market segmented by race.
At its peak, it reached just under 100,000 copies a week. It
was always a complex juggling act of attracting reluctant advertisers,
providing a scorecard of the weekend’s gangland activities and the latest in
local gossip and sports results. And against this background, the Herald also had to contend with township
vilification. Love it or hate it, among the readership the credo was the same: Die Herald Lieg Net (roughly translated
the Herald always tells lies). It was
a debatable argument.
But one thing for sure, the prettiest “coloured” girls who
walked the streets of the Cape Flats graced the pages of every Monday and every
Wednesday’s edition. And to be honoured in the briefest of swimwear and the
brightest of smiles, never mind the weather nor the season, were good
credentials for the plethora of beauty pageants that were such an essential
part of the Cape Flats culture of the time.
Against this background, Tony Richmond’s job as captain of
the ship was a particularly odious task. As a British migrant and former
Anglican vicar who dabbled in parish pump, he was out of touch not only with
staff but the reality of catering to a diverse, poor and mostly unsophisticated
semi-literate community.
There was no honeymoon period when I got to the Herald. I
hit the decks running. It was sink or swim and while this was not the world’s
busiest newsroom, there was ample for a new recruit to get accustomed to. In
between photographing dahlia show winners, used cars for sale and advertising
merchandise, there were also criminals to be chased at the courts and grieving
relatives of bludgeoned gangsters to be photographed as well as sports and
entertainment.
But the biggest chore of all was the social beat. Line up
four punters to photograph and by the time you’ve fitted a flashlight, there
are seven in the frame. And then the films had to be processed and printed.
In the early days, it was a challenge but I was assisted by
a helpful group of fellow journalists. Some were new on the job like me; others
were old hands who first cut their news teeth on Golden City Post, a forerunner
to the Herald.
Some of the old heads around the news room at the time
included Herman Arendse as news editor. Sadly, he did not make it much past 50.
He was a talented journalist and a kind man who always had time to help his
junior staff. It was a sad day for The Cape Herald because he was a friendly
and lively bloke who enjoyed his work and he was always ready for a party.
His colleague from their days at Post, Colin Dedricks, took it very badly. Colin was a seasoned
journalist. A former school teacher, he turned his hand to journalism and
editing with great success. Dedricks left for Canada where he settled with his
wife and family and for many years was involved with community programs that
helped and guided South African expats as they settled into a new life away
from home.
This was the breeding ground that would spur Alvin Andrews
on to greater success as a news photographer and his foray into the hotspots of
the world where he achieved great acclaim as a photojournalist on various South
African newspapers and international television news networks. Over a period of
40 years in the field, Alvin saw trials and tribulations across the globe on
assignments to South America, North America, Asia, the Middle East, Europe and
Africa.
From humble beginnings on a shabby newspaper that focused on
race-segmented news, limited facilities, no training and a diet of crime, sex
and sport, this was a huge leap of faith into the unknown and hectic world of
international journalism.
Chapter 3
Anti-apartheid
protests: Riots and blood on the streets
The political unrest that swept across South Africa in the
mid-1970s started with student protests in Soweto and surrounding areas and
quickly spread down south to Cape Town and nationally. It was a time of great
upheaval, civil unrest and increased police brutality and security services
surveillance.
The apartheid government was under attack, the national
Press was stifled by a myriad of oppressive laws, censorship and restrictions,
and journalists were in the forefront of the nationwide crackdown. Many were
silenced by restrictive banning orders and many more were jailed. Others
suffered painful beatings while reporting the sporadic unrest as it flared from
township to suburb until it reached the centre of the major cities.
This was about the time that my career and fondness for risky
news coverage ignited with a bang. It started with the 1976 student uprisings
in the townships of Gugulethu, Langa and Nyanga on the outskirts of Cape Town
and soon spread to what was then the surrounding coloured townships. Areas that
erupted with violence and swiftly met with armed response by police and defence
included Modderdam, right next to that hotbed of black politics the University
of the Western Cape, Elsie’s River and Bonteheuwel.
I was there when the first shots were fired in Bonteheuwel where
students were gathered in protest. Christopher Truter, a 15-year-old schoolboy
was shot dead by Police Captain Albert Voskuil on 25 August 1976. This
signalled the start of an intense campaign of protests, riots and mayhem on the
streets of the Cape Flats.
Streets were on fire with burning tyres and rubble, the
heavily armoured riot police were out in force travelling in military vehicles
that also carried select groups of white photographers from the mainstream
Press.
At the Truth and Reconciliation meetings in August 1996,
Christopher’s mother recalled him as a happy child who was always very curious
to know what was happening, but he was also quite timid. He loved his school
and he was very successful in his studies. He never failed a class. He was not involved in political activities
at the school because even though there were lots of riots and unrest at the
time he was quite afraid, he was a quiet, reserved child.
On October 15, 1985, I was again present covering riots and
protests in Thornton Road, Athlone, where I witnessed one of the most savage
killings during my media career covering South African student uprisings and
protest marches. It was commonly known as the Trojan Horse massacre. The
horrors of the day are clinically recorded in South African History Online and
were the focus of much attention at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission
(TRC) hearings.
In Athlone, the area bordered by Klipfontein Road, Belgravia
Road, Thornton Road and Alexander Sinton High School became a gathering place
for anti-apartheid protests, particularly by students. On 15 October 1985,
members of the security forces shot and killed three young people who were part
of anti-government demonstrations. On the day of the incident, Security and
Railway police worked together to crush a gathering of youths who were
protesting against the apartheid government.
A South African Railways truck was loaded with crates packed
close to the edges all around the back of the vehicle with the middle unloaded
to create space for the police to hide. The truck drove down Thornton Road to
the centre of the protest. Armed police were hidden behind the crates. Then the
armed police, hiding behind the crates jumped up and opened fire. Jonathan
Claasen, 21, Shaun Magmoed, 15, and Michael Miranda, 11, died and several
others were seriously injured.
An inquest was launched in March 1988 to investigate the
actions of the police. The magistrate ruled that the police had acted in an
unreasonable way. Thirteen men were charged in connection with the incident and
the case was referred to the Attorney-General of the Cape. The Attorney-General
refused to prosecute those who were to blame. Families of the victims launched
a private prosecution which ended in the acquittal of the accused men in December
1989.
It was a fascinating experience to be at the heart of what
was ultimately the vehicle for change in the new South Africa. It was also an
interesting time because police were arresting scores of journalists across the
country for writing and reporting what was considered either politically
inflammatory, insensitive or anti-government news reports that offered hope or
comfort to the oppressed protesters.
On the other hand, it was also a time when some journalists
collaborated with the secret police and relayed information, photographs and
reports about fellow journalists. They were from both the English and Afrikaans
Press.
It was a period of little trust all round. As police were
firing tear gas and rubber bullets then later switching to live ammunition in
the streets, it was a hectic time to be a news photographer or a reporter
covering these extraordinary events. But the story beckoned and had to be
covered. For some it was also a watershed in the careers of many journalists.
It was a wakeup call for journalists, especially those who worked on the
so-called coloured newspapers to transform from social and community-based
parish pump papers to something a bit more challenging as the evolving
political landscape changed.
It was not a task that was always well handled but there can
be little doubt that reporters tried as best they would with limited resources
and against a background of threats and Draconian banning orders to add a voice
to the protests. There was also opposition from many of the media owners who
supported the Nationalist agenda of apartheid or what they described as
separate development.
My formative years at The
Cape Herald taught me much about the journalism and the print media
business. There I worked alongside news editor Herman Arendse, sub-editor Colin
Dedricks, and chief sub-editor Chris Walton who was one of only a few whites on
our staff.
By 1979, I quit The Cape Herald to pursue a career across
the road at The Cape Times, courtesy of my friend and master photographer the
late John Rubython. He was a seasoned
press photographer, highly regarded and very experienced. As a war zone
photographer with an impeccable portfolio few could match Rubython. He was also
a trusted friend, mentor and a wonderfully friendly man. Sadly, his life ended
tragically years later when he was murdered in his Woodstock home, stabbed to
death by a burglar.
Rubython had just been appointed Chief Photographer at The
Cape Times and was looking to build his team of staffers and recruited me into
his team of experienced photojournalists. It was an opportunity for which I was
eternally grateful. It gave me a chance to perform in a different arena with
greater opportunities and a lot more flexibility. Now I could focus on more
intense and more interesting assignments of national prominence. It was a major
stepping stone in my journalism career.
With Tony Heard at the helm, The Cape Times was looking to
establish itself as one of the premier investigative newspapers in the country.
Constantly under scrutiny by the Security Police and often staffed by
clandestine police spies who operated undercover to infiltrate the newsroom,
this was a challenging time under difficult working conditions.
I suspect that was how my friend and colleague at the Times,
Zubeida Jaffer, got arrested the first time for which she served time in
prison. Jaffer was an activist; in fact, her whole family were anti-apartheid
activists. She was a strong minded young woman who was never afraid to share
her views even in the face of adversity or threats.
And more often than not it got her into hot water with the
police. Later she went on to become a successful author and academic. My stay
at the Times included the 1981 uprising which again saw students take to the
streets to protest. I also covered the tragic Laingsburg flood disaster and the
sinking of the oil tanker the Castillo de Bellver off the West Coast of Cape
Town. I was on a plane tracking the sunken oil tanker and took the last
photograph of it as it went down.
By 1983, I was looking for new journalism career challenges
and was considering a switch to
television news. It sounded like a good idea at the time but again, job
opportunities were almost non-existent for so-called “coloured” journalists. It
did not matter how skilful or how good you were, job reservations ensured that
you would not get an opportunity. These jobs were exclusively the domain of
white people in apartheid South Africa.
An added problem was that even at that critical period in
South Africa’s history the state broadcaster South African Broadcasting
Corporation (SABC) had a very poor reputation both in terms of news coverage,
agenda setting, and job opportunities. It was also the only employer of
television journalists in the country.
But I was determined to make the transition and learned some
basic skills in television news gathering. Then I managed to secure a spot in
their news room as a roving cameraman and learned some of the finer techniques
of television journalism.
My big break came in 1989 when the American Broadcasting
Corporation News (ABC News) came knocking for a freelance cameraman in Cape
Town. I got a surprise call from producer Terry Page. She had heard about my
work and was interested. I can remember it like it was yesterday.
Her call to me went something like this: “Hi, I’m Terry Page
and I am a news producer for ABC News based in the Johannesburg bureau. I heard
that you could be interested in working with us.”
Stunned into silence, I could only mumble something like
“yes, I could be”. But my heart was thumping faster than the six o’clock
express from Mitchells Plain station. Then I managed to compose myself and
explain that I was still attached to the SABC and would need at least one
month’s notice.
But Page would have none of that. Then she blurted out “No, No, No. We need
somebody now, in fact we need somebody to start tomorrow.” Then she mentioned
the day rate in US dollars and I knew I was on my way. Never mind the SABC and
notice period. That we can sort out
later.
A few home truths quickly flashed through my mind. There’s a
house in Mitchells Plain that was one month in arrears with rent, my car was in
disrepair and in need of registration and the decks were falling all around
me. So after a moment’s silence to catch
my breath, I managed to utter quite calmly: “Yes, OK send the air tickets I’ll
be on my way in the morning.”
I knew from that very minute that my career had just taken
on a whole new dimension of its own. Although I didn’t have a clue where it was
heading, I was ready for wherever it would take me. The shambles that was
surrounding me at the time was about to come to an end.
Well, as it turned out, the SABC quickly discovered the
following day that I was not too ill to come to work as I had told them and in
fact was working out in the townships filming the 1989 uprisings across the
Cape Flats for American Broadcasting Corporation.
The inevitable happened. I was fired.
But the ABC stepped in and offered me a year’s freelance
contract and that was the start of a whole new world. They supplied me with a
hired BMW, got the finest and latest equipment for me to operate with and I was
now a fully accredited TV cameraman for one of the global giants of TV news.
This was a fantastic experience for anyone aiming to improve
as a TV cameraman. The scope of the assignments, the opportunities to expand,
learn and develop with the finest hands in the business was a great opportunity
for me and I grabbed it with both hands.
I covered the release from prison of Nelson Mandela, the
factional infighting fighting between the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) and the
African National Congress (ANC), numerous confrontations with the police in the
townships of South Africa and I was seconded to travel all over the country
with Nelson Mandela to the point that the apartheid icon would be on first name
familiar terms with me.
Occasionally he would even stop by and offer a greeting or a
few words of encouragement. The ABC was a professional outfit and as an
employer they would always take care of their staff, always taking care of you
and making sure that you were safe and comfortable in the work environment.
After Mandela was released from prison, casual assignments
at ABC News started drying up and my contract ended. I was happy for the experience and for the
privilege of working with some of the finest television journalists in the
world. I recognised that all good things always come to an end. I was without a
new contract with few signs on the horizon.
However, a short time later M-Net came knocking and asked
whether I would be keen to produce a few documentaries for a show called Camera
7.
This contract came with a busy travelling schedule from
Namibia to Frankfurt, to London, Washington and New York. I was working on
assignments such as Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Namibia, a profile on Virgin
Atlantic boss Richard Branson, finding and filming the wreckage of the sunken
ocean liner, the Oceanos, as well as a profile on the emerging right-wing force
in South Africa.
My brief at M-Net was to join the dive team that would go
out looking for the Greek ocean liner, the Oceanos that sunk off the east coast
of South Africa on 4 August 1991.
I had two encounters with this story: the first while I was still working for ABC
News when producer Terry Page called me early one Sunday morning and suggested
that I hurry along and get on board a flight to East London because a cruise
ship was sinking off the coast.
Professional Mariner
magazine (December/January 2012) reported that the Oceanos had sailed from East
London to Durban with 571 passengers and crew members on board.
The 7,554-ton vessel was commanded by Captain Yiannis
Avranas, a Greek licensed master with 30 years seagoing experience. On August
3, 1991, while engulfed in a gale, the ship began taking on water after a main
engine explosion damaged the hull. Powerless, the ship drifted in 80 knot winds
and 10 metre seas, with flooding waters rising deck by deck within.
By the time soundman Gary Meder and I were operational and
ready to go, we missed the first flight to East London and had to wait for the
next. By the time we arrived in East London, the Oceanos was already at the
bottom of the ocean and the passengers were heading towards the shore in
lifeboats.
There were no casualties but lots of scandal afterwards as
Captain Avranas was accused of abandoning his ship.
ABC News managed to get dramatic by chartering a helicopter
from Johannesburg and getting there in the nick of time for cameraman James
Mitchell to record the disaster.
It was also a sad time for us as we learned the shocking
news that our colleague who worked as a soundman for Reuters, Aziz Tassiem, was
killed after the car he was in rolled on a dirt road as they rushed towards the
Transkei coastline to cover the sinking just off the shore.
Cameraman, Jimi Mathews, was devastated as he made his way
back to the hotel in East London. It turned out to be a dramatic and really sad
day for us.
My second encounter with the Oceanos was when I was assigned
by M-Net’s Camera 7 show to join the dive team searching for the sunken wreck. Again,
it was Meder and I who made our way first to East London then by car to Mthatha
before turning off the N2 motorway to drive another 100 km on a remote dirt
road, ironically the same road that claimed the life of Tassiem, to get to the
“Hole in the Wall” on the rugged Wild Coast.
We were joined there by veteran reporter Mike Hanna who
would anchor the piece and dive master Peter Lamberti and his team of divers
from Johannesburg. The plan was for Peter and his team to locate the area where
the liner went down and drag a camera along the seabed to record the images for
the story.
This was easier said than done. It proved to be a major
challenge for the team. In between daily doses of nausea out at sea in a boat
with camera equipment we spent about three weeks trying to find the wreck. We
would go out in the morning before the
rough seas came into play but that did not stop Gary and I from getting
seasick.
Lamberti spent the hours watching a monitor and dragging a
camera on the seabed for signs of the wreck. It was only after about three
weeks of constant searching that we struck luck.
We had gone out as we always did every day and we were out
for about two hours when Lamberti suddenly yelled out: “Turn the boat around. I
think I may have sighted something.” And, yes, there she was. It appeared as if
she was waiting for us to find her.
The name Oceanos
appeared on top of the hull. I rolled the cameras in excitement to capture the
moment. There were screams of excitement, and the divers were all smiling. It
was as though we had found sunken treasure.
After making several sweeps of the area, we finally returned
to land and an even more excited Hanna. The job was done and we could all finally
all return to base in Johannesburg.
When the M-Net contract ended, I once again returned to
television news when I was hired to work alongside Jimi Matthews in the Cape
Town bureau of Reuters news agency. Once again, I was covering conflict.
Some major assignments included the historic 1994 elections
in South Africa and an excited Archbishop Desmond Tutu voting for the first
time which I captured in detail for Reuters before travelling to Somalia for
duty there with the US forces still stationed in that troubled nation.
Towards the end of 1994, the Associated Press news agency
started their first video service then called APTV which would later become
APTN after they bought out news agency Worldwide Television News (WTN). At the
time, I was based in Cape Town and little did I know my career in my home town
was soon coming to an end.
I took on the role of senior producer at APTV and moved to
the Johannesburg studios where I handled the Africa region for Associated
Press. My stint here would last 16 years, 16 memorable years mostly on the
frontline of some major breaking news stories and a stint “on the run” after
capturing the gruesome assassination of township drug baron and notorious gang
boss Rashaad Staggie.
Associated Press Television News was a challenging exercise
that would take a chunk out of my life emotionally and physically. By this
time, I had lost several media colleagues working the frontline and it was a
growing burden that started to take an emotional toll on me. I was drained from
continuously having to travel to some of the most dangerous and remote places
on earth – much of it on the troubled continent of Africa.
There is only so much that one person can stand of death and
destruction, of blood and guts and a world at war. It is far removed from a
normal life in suburbia. The horrors of war and the dangers of filming some of
Africa’s most dangerous militia leaders and gruesome killers is not a task to
be taken lightly. It leaves a deadly stain on the psyche.
So, when I finally packed it in at APTN, I wanted to take a
badly needed break away from news. That was when the Cape Town Jazz Festival
offered me an opportunity to produce their 10th anniversary video of the
festival. I jumped at the idea as it was not the usual blood and guts fodder
that I was used to covering for decades.
This was more mellow and serene. But later I discovered even
in these soft assignments there’s just as much stress meeting deadlines and
dealing with the demands and hang ups of fragile entertainers.
Finally, I would once again end up at Reuters Television
when the Johannesburg bureau asked me to work on the logistics for the eventual
passing of Nelson Mandela.
So, I made my way to Johannesburg for a year while I worked
in their Sandton office. These days it’s not that stressful and my
contributions are mainly for Africa Focus Africa Daily with short feature
inserts. It is so much less stressful but with that big breaking news story
never far away from my mind anything can happen.
Chapter 4
So, you want to work
in war zones?
There is a strange and almost morbid desire by young and
inexperienced journalists who aspire to be foreign correspondents jet-setting
around the world from one international crisis to the next as if life is a
never-ending live show of death, destruction and mayhem.
Whatever your perceptions about a career as a roving
international foreign correspondent, it is not half as glamorous as it is made
out to be.
It is a hectic and often dangerous life where simple
mistakes and miscalculations can end in tragedy or disaster.
It is neither for the
feint hearted nor for the foolishly brave. And it is most definitely not some
sort of macabre game to satisfy youthful enthusiasm. It is definitely not
remotely anything like chasing police cars in gang-infested townships of Cape
Town or riots in Soweto. This is war zone reporting and the stakes are high.
All the international news agencies recognise this aspect of
journalism as a particularly dangerous exercise reserved only for experienced
hands with a commitment to safety and security as well as a complete grip on
the subject at hand.
As part of its commitment to safeguarding production staff
and journalists who work in dangerous regions around the globe, Associated
Press Television Network (APTN) along with other major international news
agencies and news networks are obliged to train their staff on how best to
protect themselves if they ever came under attack, were kidnapped, hi-jacked or
wounded while on duty on the frontline.
So off I went to the Centurion Hostile Environments Safety
Course in Heckfield just outside London for a week of intensive training on how
to keep my sanity while everyone else was losing theirs as bullets fly and
bombs explode. It was not a good feeling, I can tell you.
It brought home to me, not exactly for the first time, how
dangerous this job was. At home I had a wife and child waiting for my safe
return and a bank manager waiting for the monthly mortgage repayments. And what
was I doing? Here I was enrolled for a hostile environment survival course to
help me get by playing with my life, filming troubles that I was not involved
in nor had anything to do with and quite often not particularly interested in.
It sounded kind of crazy.
Well, that was the feeling at least.
So, off I went to Heckfield in Hampshire for a week and
bubbling with enthusiasm all ready to learn from the professional bruisers and
to observe how best I was able to look after myself in hostile situations.
Luckily, I was not alone on this mission. A few scribes from other networks
were also on board for the training. Like me they were similarly nervous of
what was ahead.
We were quickly introduced to our instructors and I got the
distinct impression we were dealing with some experienced former military types
who knew the way around a trouble spot or battlefield. None of them said much. This was simply a
professional relationship.
They were strictly professional and shared nothing personal.
We went through the first few days of tutorials and then got down to serious
business with some physical training to test our nerves and prepare us for any
eventuality should it arise. I found the course quite stimulating, especially
the first-aid courses which would come in very handy if anyone was injured on
assignment.
The highlight of the training program was a staged
kidnapping scene where we would drive in a Land Rover on a deserted road and
suddenly there would be loud explosions camouflaged with frighteningly
realistic coloured smoke. Balaclava-clad instructors came swinging down with
ropes tied to trees after our vehicle was banged up by the blast and enveloped
in smoke. It was as realistic as you could imagine and sent the pulses racing
with fear.
To further enhance this frightening experience, hessian
sacks were pulled over our heads and all jewellery and eye glasses were
removed. After that you were pulled over to lie on the ground while stun
grenades exploded all around you. Not one word was said during this contrived
ordeal and certainly not a word from the instructors turned attackers. Then it
just all went quiet and the “kidnappers” disappeared from site leaving us
wondering just what the hell happened now.
The entire episode was filmed and later replayed so that the
instructors could observe the different reactions of those being “kidnapped”
and they offered advice and techniques that could help in such an emergency.
The great thing about the course was you got to meet up with
fellow APTN colleagues from all around the world and inevitably you would
become friends and really get to know each other over a pint of beer at night.
After the course we all headed back to London and as was the
custom for graduates of the hostile environment course, we were all treated to
a fine dinner at company expense before we all said farewell and left to our
respective postings. Not only was this a demanding and worthwhile experience,
it also put into perspective the perils of reporting from the frontline and the
need to be prepared for any eventuality.
This is definitely not a job for a starry-eyed aspiring
young journalist or a junior scribe filled with youthful enthusiasm.
Chapter 5
Mayhem in Kinshasa:
Laurent Kabila assassinated
For many African political observers, it came as no surprise
on January 16, 2001 when it was first reported that Laurent Kabila, president
of the Democratic Republic of Congo was shot dead by a bodyguard at his
presidential palace in Kinshasa.
Kabila was shot by his bodyguard, Rashidi Muzele, who was
killed as he attempted to flee the scene at Kabila's Palais de Marbre
residence.
It was rumoured his
assassination was the result of some sordid business links involving diamonds
and linked to a Lebanese businessman. Colonel Eddy Kapend (one of Kabila's
cousins), and 25 others were sentenced to death in January 2003, for the
killing but were never executed.
But Stuart Jeffries in The Guardian newspaper (11 February
2001) casts doubt on this version, saying Kabila’s child soldiers were in
revolt and plotted against him. The Guardian reported the incident:
Kabila's young killer entered the president's office at the
Marble Palace in Kinshasa on 16 January, as the increasingly paranoid and
isolated Kabila was discussing with an economics adviser a looming summit with
France he hoped would be his political salvation.
The assassin bent
over Kabila, and the president, assuming the teenager wanted to talk to him,
leaned towards him. The kadogo then produced a revolver and shot the president
four times, and then escaped with other conspirators while the palace resounded
with gunfire.
The plot to kill
Kabila started in early January when a dissident group of kadogos went to
Brazzaville and drew up a document setting out Operation Mbongo Zero. 'Mbongo'
is a Swahili word for buffalo, a reference to the ex-president's corpulence.
A copy of the
assassination plan has been kept by one of the plotters, identified by Le Monde
only as Abdoul.
Consisting of three unsigned hand-written pages, it explains
how the conspirators would infiltrate strategic positions in Kinshasa,
including the presidential palace, the national radio and television station
and the headquarters of the country's electricity company. It involved some 75
members of Kabila's bodyguards at the presidential palace, many of whom were
arrested after the killing.
The roots of the boy soldiers' dissension go deeper. Kabila
founded his Alliance of Forces for the Liberation of Congo-Zaire in 1996,
backed chiefly by Rwandan and Ugandan forces (with whom he later fell out), but
with support from the kadogos from the east of the country.
Kabila consolidated his power base by organising the
assassination of one of the co-founders of the Alliance, Andre Kisase Ngandu,
who had been chief of the National Council of Resistance for Democracy, a group
opposed to Mobutu to whom many of the kadogos belonged.
One of those kadogos was Abdoul, who supported Kabila during
the 1997 coup d’état, but never pardoned him for killing his former leader: “I
marched with Kabila, but I knew he was a traitor.”
Resentment against Kabila grew. According to Abdoul, he
treated his “children” with contempt: “We knew no one in Kinshasa. All the time
we were with Kabila. But he treated us badly. We didn't have salaries, all the
money came from him. We were like beggars.”
Increasingly paranoid, Kabila started to devour the children
of the revolution. Kabila later believed he had discovered a plot against him
and arrested tortured and killed soldiers loyal to Commandant Anselme Masasu
Nindaga who had earlier made a subversive speech at a reunion for 1,200 kadogos
in Kinshasa.
The day before his assassination, Kabila had witnessed the
execution of 47 kadogos, all believed to be plotting against him. His terror
had turned on those who had been his closest allies, the boy soldiers who had
marched with him from eastern Congo four years earlier.
So, when word got out that that Kabila was assassinated, the
Johannesburg-based foreign media scrambled to get into Kinshasa. I got a call
from APTN senior producer Sahm Venter to fly to Johannesburg immediately to get
on a charter flight to Kinshasa. My role was producer on the ground and my
cameraman was the late fearless Sipho Maseko, a close friend and confidant.
We boarded an ageing Boeing 707, which then first landed at
a disused airbase in Namibia before making its way to our destination. But
instead of landing in Kinshasa they landed in Congo, Brazzaville on the other
side of the Congo River explaining that they could not get clearance to fly
into Kinshasa.
Soon everybody was scrambling to get across the river using
light aircraft and whatever means they could. Sipho and I watched, after all we
had several cases of television equipment to carry across which would not be
easy. We ended up being the last to leave the airport to get across after
asking a young French pilot to fly us over the river to the airport.
As we landed on the other side in Kinshasa, we were met by
the army who were all armed and pointed us in the direction of the waiting
rooms at the airport. As we entered and much to our relief all our media
colleagues who had left earlier were all holed up there. The instructions were
that we would have to sleep on the flea-infested floor of the airport and wait
until morning when government officials would come and escort us to the Memling
Hotel in the city.
The city was dangerous and tense, many people we upset by
the death of their president. Tensions were running high in the street, the
media were not welcome and treated with suspicion and it was difficult for most
journalists who were covering this story. Sipho was among the first of the
reporters who ventured out into the streets. Sipho was always calm and focused
but when he got back to the hotel, he reported that the atmosphere was like a
time bomb out there waiting to explode.
APTN flew in an extra producer based in Paris, Marsha
Macpherson and Egyptian cameraman based in Nairobi, Bishr El Touni. Both of
them were of course fluent in French and this proved a great help.
There would be many tense moments at the Memling Hotel
especially with my fixer on the ground, Romeo Luyindula, also known as Romeo,
who was initially my translator and later became one of my cameramen after a
crash course on camera technology. Romeo was a third-year medical student who
had to drop out of university because of a lack of funds. Later he would play a
big part in my life.
It started with a knock on my hotel room door.
When I opened there were two army officials who shoved a
picture of Romeo in my face and subsequently asked me if I knew who the person
in the photograph was. Of course, what else could I say except that I had never
seen this man in my life before? At the same time Romeo just happened to be on
the rooftop helping the BBC to transmit a story with French translations.
When Romeo entered the room I sat him down and told him
about the military visit. He broke down in tears and became extremely
emotional. I was wondering what the hell just happened. Paris-based senior
producer Marsha Macpherson entered the room and saw what was taking place. She
started a conversation with Romeo in French trying to establish out why the
army would be looking for him. Turns out it was his father who got into trouble
with the army and Romeo was somehow involved trying to protect his father.
So we needed to do something fast. This young man’s life was
clearly on the line and so was the life of his wife. The call to London went
something like this to the APTN Chief of Bureaux Worldwide Dave Modrowski: “Dave we have a problem here with one of our
fixers on the ground and it looks bad.”
As always Dave would say in his calm native Canadian accent:
“What would it cost to solve the problem?”
But it was a lot more complicated than that as it would
involve getting Romeo and his wife two passports to fly them from Kinshasa to
Abidjan and safety. It was done thanks to the organisational skills of
Macpherson as all the South African crews were unavailable and had to return to
Johannesburg.
The answer from Modrowski was as expected: “Just do it mate,
just let me know the costs afterwards.” Costs? This would entail chartering a
flight to Abidjan and the APTN office was very concerned for the safety of
Romeo and his wife especially in these circumstances.
The plan was for Romeo to get out with his wife and then
become the producer/cameraman for West Africa, based in Abidjan, for APTN. To this day, Romeo and I remain friends.
Besides sharing a birthday with his lovely wife, he would call me dad whenever
our paths crossed in West Africa.
I made several trips to war-torn Abidjan where I covered a
constant stream of riots and unrest in a city that feeds on violence. When the
French forces bombed the aircraft belonging to the Ivory Coast, the airport was
shut down immediately. Romeo was having a problem with his livewire equipment
used to transmit pictures into London and Europe. The Africa Desk then called
me, asking for help. It resulted with me and cameraman Sam Msibi flying to
London, picking up new equipment then returning on a British Airways flight to
Accra, in Ghana, which was the closest airport to Abidjan.
On arrival in Accra I immediately started making inquiries
about who was flying ex-pats out of Abidjan to Accra. It turned out that the Brits were making
several flights in and out of Abidjan. A few calls later to the British
Consulate in Accra and a very helpful media spokesperson was willing to help me
and Sam out.
Soon enough we were safely on our way in a noisy old
Hercules heading to Abidjan to deliver to Romeo the equipment he badly needed.
We landed; we handed over the equipment to a relieved Romeo, and sat around for
seven hours in the waiting area before the aircraft departed again with
hundreds of ex-pats loaded on to the plane back to Accra.
But APTN had instructed us that our job was not over, we
would have to make that journey back into Abidjan to help Romeo and his crew on
the ground. When the first flight took off from Accra we were on board. Landing
in Abidjan, we were met by French forces on the ground. There were many
roadblocks manned by the French leading out from the airport to the city.
We were stopped periodically for security reasons. We wanted
to make our way into the city to the Tiama Hotel that promised much comfort and
a great view from the hotel roof into the city. That was perfect. Whenever
there was trouble you could film from the roof. It also offered some of the
finest French cuisine in Abidjan, a luxury seldom experienced by the crews on
the ground.
Chapter 6
Political tensions
and blood on the streets of Abidjan
For the better part of a decade, the Ivory Coast, or Côte
d’Ivoire, was out of bounds for all but the most daring thrill seekers who
desired the coastal delights of Sassandra and Grand-Bassam. Ivory Coast also
has a fascinating cultural heritage.
It is a French-speaking jewel of Africa that has struggled
to overcome severe obstacles in pursuing a vibrant and lucrative tourist trade
after independence from France. A referendum in 1958 resulted in the Ivory
Coast becoming an autonomous republic. In June of 1960, the pro-French Félix
Houphouet-Boigny proclaimed the country's independence, but he maintained close
ties between Abidjan and Paris. The Ivory Coast became one of the most
prosperous West African nations.
In October 2000, I was on my way to report on escalating
political unrest in the region and conflict on the streets of the
administrative capital Abidjan – violence that later spread to Bouake and the
northern town of Korhogo and quickly engulfed the rest of the country.
Military strongman General Robert Guei was firmly in charge
and headed the ruling military junta. General Guei has the dubious distinction
of having mounted Ivory Coast's first and only successful coup d’état in the
history of the country. It was on Christmas Eve 1999. Until then Ivory Coast
had never experienced military rule.
Plans for upcoming elections were in place by 2002 but the
military ruler decided only one candidate was suitable to challenge. And that was Laurent Gbagbo, of the
opposition Ivorian Popular Front, who was not expected to win.
A historian by profession, as well as an amateur chemist and
physicist, Gbagbo was jailed in the early 1970s and again in the early 1990s,
and he lived in exile in France during much of the 1980s as a result of his
union activism. He founded the Ivorian Popular Front (FPI) in 1982 and ran
unsuccessfully for President against Félix Houphouet-Boigny at the start of
multi-party politics in 1990. He also won a seat in the National Assembly of
Côte d'Ivoire in 1990.
When the civil war broke out in 2002, Gbagbo's supporters
were accused of carrying out xenophobic attacks in areas they controlled --
against those from the mainly Muslim north, immigrants from neighboring African
countries and Westerners.
The BBC would just a few of years later describe Gbagbo as a
classically educated academic who cut his political teeth in the trade unions
and widely regarded as a leader who was willing to destroy his country by
refusing to accept defeat at the ballot box.
In April 2011, Gbagbo was himself forced from office --
captured in a bunker at the presidential palace by United Nations and
French-backed forces supporting his rival, Alassane Ouattara, internationally
regarded as the winner of elections five months earlier.
Gbagbo was transferred to the International Criminal Court
at The Hague, where he became the first head of state to be tried there. The
conflict killed more than 3,000 people.
Margaret Busby, in an obituary in The Guardian (September
20, 2002,) recalled that for decades the former French colony was a beacon of
prosperity and stability in West Africa. Under the leadership of President
Houphouet-Boigny - affectionately known as the Old Man -- and his Democratic
Party (PDCI), its 15 million inhabitants lived peacefully for over 30 years,
despite the diversity of 60 ethnic groups. The economy blossomed and the main
exports were coffee and cocoa that provided a decent standard of living.
In the late 1980s the country opened to multi-party
politics, and among the emergent opposition was Gbagbo's Ivorian Popular Front.
However, on the Old Man's death in 1993, Henri Konan Bédié, who had been
Speaker of the National Assembly, took over.
General Guei ousted Bédié in a military coup after clashing
with his leader. It was a short and sweet victory for the general. Within 10
months, he had fallen into the mould of many other African military leaders; he
transformed himself into a power-hungry civilian.
A candidate in the October 2000 presidential elections,
General Guei was so determined to win that, against all the evidence, he
proclaimed himself the victor, and tried to steal the vote from Gbagbo. However, the general badly misjudged his
popularity and was forced out of office. In the face of a popular uprising, he
was forced to flee to Gouessesso near the Liberian border.
Hundreds of protesters were shot and killed on the streets
as protests grew amid calls for new and fair election.
Guei had been out of office for nearly two years when his
bullet-riddled body was discovered on a roadside in the commercial capital,
Abidjan, during a second attempted coup in 2002. He was killed during action by
government forces to suppress an uprising by troops in Abidjan. The violent
struggle left at least 10 people dead.
Following Guei’s death, his body stayed in a morgue until a
funeral was held for him in Abidjan on August 18, 2006, nearly four years after
his death. General Guei was military ruler of Ivory Coast from December 1999 to
October 2000.
It was against this chequered background that I went to
cover an election in the Ivory Coast and ended up covering conflict between
supporters of Laurent Gbagbo and General Robert Guei.
Journalists travelling to Abidjan to cover the conflict
encountered the usual problems of a war zone. Every time there was some sort of
conflict or unrest in in the city then the, airport would immediately shut down
leaving you stranded in the country. And I made several trips to Abidjan where
I was left stranded for days on end with my team. It can be both scary and
exciting to see and record history in the making.
We were holed up just outside the plateau at the Gulf
International Hotel which was eerily deserted. In fact, we ended up being the
only guests during the conflict. Needless to say, room service was out of the
question because most of the staff had fled. Only two guards manned the
entrance to the sprawling hotel complex, and a clerk arrived daily to charge us
the hotel room rate.
My crew consisted of a “fixer” named Eya who came from
Benin, Jean Claude a tall strapping soundman who accompanied me on all my
assignments, and was a brave and trusted solider who never ever asked where we
were going when we headed towards the front lines.
Tensions were running
high by the time the election results were announced by government officials.
The assembled international media in the room soon packed up and headed out to
the city where trouble was anticipated. The assembled media included the three
French channels -- TF1, 2 and 3.
As supporters of Gbagbo marched from Cocody to the city
centre, gunshots were heard all around the city described as the Paris of
Africa. We made our way cautiously towards the centre of Abidjan and found a
city trashed by drunken soldiers manning roadblocks. They were all armed to the
teeth and ready to spread gunfire at anyone who dared to cross their path.
As we crossed the bridge, gunfire rang out and we were
forced to duck for cover as bullets zinged over our heads into the river. The
Associated Press “fixer” Eya was on the ground shouting at us to get back into the car. But
I could not resist. I first rolled the
camera to get some footage before we backtracked to the car that was waiting to
get us out of harm’s way.
Just then my cell phone rang. It was Associated Press West
Africa correspondent Alexandra Zavis trying to find out where we were and
warning us not to return to the city because she had just witnessed a shooting
from her 12th floor apartment which overlooked a roadblock. Drunken soldiers
were on the rampage but for us the warning came too late.
We headed straight into the morass. The soldiers quickly
stopped our car and demanded to see what was in the boot. They found two bullet
proof vests and questioned us about it.
They also demanded to know who we were and what we were
doing in Abidjan. Luckily our soundman fixer Jean Claude calmed them down in French,
explaining that we were journalists covering the elections for an international
audience. That seemed to calm matters down and we were again on our way.
They reluctantly let us through, much to my relief and Jean
Claude’s language skills. We delivered
the pictures to our London Bureau based in Camden using a TOKO machine which
first delivered the video and then the audio, which took up much of our time.
Later we decided to take a trip through Abidjan to see the
extent of the damage, but noticeably absent were the three French TV crews.
They had fled by road from Abidjan to Accra, a car journey which took about
eight hours. They were not the only journalists who fled the city. Everybody else who was there had suddenly
disappeared, leaving only us, the Associated Press Television News (APTN) crew
at the Gulf International Hotel.
Just when we thought the misery was all over, we received
this eerie cell phone call from someone who claimed to have footage of dumped
bodies of young boys on a pile near the city. At first we were suspicious, but
Eya soon established that the call was from one of the local camera operators
and the tip off came from the French News cameraman before they fled the city.
We asked him to bring the footage to us, and warned the APTN
office in London we could be dealing with a potentially dangerous story here.
The footage was horrendous, piles of dumped bodies of young boys which we
failed to understand why they were killed in the first place.
The cameraman explained that it was a way of recruiting
young soldiers and those who refused would be summarily shot on sight. This
information could not be verified but I managed to get two minutes of brutal
footage that was not too dramatic to feed into our office in London.
The story soon ran on our 24 news networks and we received a
message from Editor of the Day Phil O Keefe, an Australian who ran the newsroom
with a firm hand, saying big congrats to the crew in Abidjan for exclusive and
great coverage.
Our Africa Editor Claude Colart called to check on our
safety, and then soon realised that we were the only crew left in Abidjan. That
was when he decided it was time to get out. He contacted charter flight
operators and quickly found a cargo flight that would leave Abidjan bound for
Johannesburg. This time the airport was not shut for any reason.
His call to me was, “get the hell out of there to the
airport and get on that flight”. As I made my way saying goodbye to the local
staffers Eya and Jean Claude, it was a little emotional knowing that I was
leaving them in a city torn apart by conflict.
By the time I got to the airport, I bumped into the CNN crew
who were trying to get into the city but had to abandon their plans because of
security fears. The CNN team of Charlayne Hunter Gault, cameraperson Cynde
Strand and soundman Phil were so excited to see me safe and sound; after all,
we were all getting on the same flight back to Johannesburg and to safety
As luck would have it, that was my last foray into West
Africa and the Ivory Coast but there are memories and experiences in that
battle scarred city of Abidjan that will remain with me for many years. It was
a brutal and savage political battle between two stubborn leaders that left
blood and mayhem on the streets of Abidjan and wrecked the safe and happy world
of Ivoirians forever.
Chapter 7
A hot Christmas in
Mogadishu
Somalia, situated on the horn of Africa, was hot as hell
when I first got there in 1992 over Christmas and New Year. The gauge in my car driving from the airport
to the Al Sahafi Hotel in Mogadishu showed it was 40 degrees Centigrade. Unused
to this intense dry heat, I could swear it was already reaching boiling point
and the skin on my forehead was bubbling.
For a man from Mitchells Plain and more accustomed to the
milder Mediterranean climate of the Cape Peninsula, it was a torrid
introduction that has been burnt into my brain.
This was not my first visit to Mogadishu as a Reuters
cameraman but it was the same old city, often described as the most dangerous
city in the world. I was reminded by one
of my colleagues who told me: “It’s like being in an oven with the door
closed. Even at night you still felt the
intense heat.”
But it’s not just the oppressive heat that is a concern. A
devastating civil war has destroyed this once beautiful city leaving little but
ruins. Since 1991, various Islamist and clan or warlord-affiliated militias
have taken control of different parts of the city in a savage civil war that
has raged for more than 20 years. Many journalists have been killed while
covering the ongoing strife in Somalia.
In 2006, the Union of Islamic Courts took full control of
Somalia, implementing their harsh version of Islamic law over the city.
Ethiopia sent in troops to liberate the country and with help from local resistance
fighters the Islamists were ousted and the Western-backed Transitional Federal
Government was reinstated.
In the resulting chaos and confusion, this was also an
opportune time for the hard-line Islamist group, al-Shabaab, to gradually take
control of Mogadishu while the government only controlled a few square blocks
of the city. A counter-offensive, supported by African Union troops, cleared
the city of militants in August 2011. Bombings and shootings are still
commonplace in Somalia, but thankfully open warfare has ceased for now.
So it was no surprise to learn that visiting Mogadishu was
discouraged and tourists were advised if you had no business to travel there,
it is wiser to stay away.
In 1992, on assignment for the Reuters news agency, I ended
up alone in the lounge of the al Sahafi Hotel and was joined later by a Reuters
photographer, a photographer from Associated Press, a reporter from a Canadian
daily and a reporter from the French news agency Agence France Presse (AFP).
It was a messy festive season with the Christmas-New Year
period spent practising my whiskey drinking skills while celebrating with
new-found friends.
The al Sahafi was one of the more popular hotels in
Mogadishu and the hotel of choice for journalists and United Nations workers
who were the main foreign visitors in the city. By local standards it was
probably the most luxurious in the city but it was an ordinary rundown joint, a
former motel turned into a low budget hotel for visiting journalists and other
workers.
But one thing for sure, the staff always gave guests a warm
welcome and you could choose any room from four floors of mostly empty rooms.
There was also air-conditioning throughout which was most impressive
considering fuel and electricity were considered luxury goods in Mogadishu.
In November 2015, Al-Shabab militants attacked the al Sahafi
Hotel, and killed 15 people when gunmen used two car bombs to blast their way
into the hotel compound before storming the building.
The al Sahafi did serve a good meal though, the chef was
trained in Italy and there was certainly a hint of that Mediterranean influence
in his cooking style. Visitors and guests alike rated his sweet goat curry very
highly. It was a grand meal, neither hot nor spicy, but more like a delicious stew
and very popular on Friday nights with the local version of biriyani.
As it turned out, we were more holed up in the contrived
luxury of the al Sahafi because of safety concerns from management back in
London and when we did manage to sneak out on to the streets, security was
heavy. The bodyguards were not of much use either as they were always spaced
out of their minds from chewing on Khat, a green leaf drug that kept them on a
high when they were not smoking large parcels of weed.
It was always our main fear that that if we ever came under
attack, and thankfully we did not, if these spaced-out bodyguards would be able
to defend us and lead us to safety. I had serious doubts after observing them
for a long time.
Driving around Mogadishu was not allowed as Reuters in
London had strict instructions for us not to leave the hotel without first
informing them for safety issues. And even when we did it was eerie. As the 4 x
4 Toyota drove down the road with our fixer at the wheel, we would be observed
by the local Somali community with suspicion.
We were warned about the so called “hell run”, the road from
the hotel to the airport. Local bandits would often shoot out the tyres of
passing vehicles and then rob the occupants of their belongings they thought
were valuable and could be resold.
Some months before I arrived in Somalia, several journalists
were shot and killed at the Bakara market in Mogadishu.
This was always an open market and the largest of its kind
in Somalia. Created in late 1972 during the reign of Siad Barre, its original
purpose was to allow vendors to sell daily essentials, but the civil war
subsequently created demand for arms and ammunition.
Everything from pistols to anti-aircraft weapons were sold
there. Falsified documents were also readily available, such as forged Somali,
Ethiopian and Kenyan passports.
The violence at Bakara Market and the deaths of several
journalists resulted in the media fleeing the city.
I was one of only six and we were protected by the US
troops. The television networks by this time considered it too dangerous for
their staff.
My assignment in Somalia started off with a meeting with the
late legendary African photojournalist Mohamed Amin. His energetic life was cut
tragically short when, in November 1996, hijackers took over an Ethiopian
airliner and forced it to ditch in the Indian Ocean killing 123 passengers and
crew.
Amin died still negotiating with the terrorists. His life
and contribution to frontline journalism was truly remarkable; action-packed,
full of pain and passion and inseparable from the troubled chronicle of
emergent Africa. He also ran Camerapix and Reuters Television in Nairobi.
His coverage of the 1984 Ethiopia famine proved so
compelling that it inspired a collective global conscience and became the
catalyst for the greatest ever act of giving. Unquestionably, it also saved the
lives of millions of men, women and children. The concerts of Band Aid and Live
Aid and songs We are the World and Do
they know it is Christmas were a direct result of Mo Amin’s moving television
images.
At the end of 1997, David Johnson, an American and Christel
de Wit, a South African, collaborated with Salim Amin, Mo’s only son, to launch
the Mohamed Amin Foundation’s Broadcast Television Training Centre, a
professional media training centre based in Nairobi.
Mo Amin was a friendly man with a wicked sense of humour.
After a bit of general small talk when we met, he politely told me that they
had several bullet-proof vests ready and available in a variety of colours and
sizes. And just to make me feel better he quickly ran through a safety check
list on security just in case anything should ever go wrong.
We were on the way inland on a small United Nations
aircraft. I was the producer on the ground with Reuters cameraman Willie
Quebeka tagging along. We boarded the flight from Nairobi to Mogadishu with
hard seats and a captain with a taste for the high life.
As the plane reached cruising altitude, he announced that
bar service was now open. This turned out to be a bottle of whiskey being
passed around with a single glass and when we were about to land at the airport
in Mogadishu he announced simply:
“Welcome to Mogadishu and have a great holiday “.
After three weeks in this hell hole of Africa it was time to
pack up and leave -- back to Nairobi with much cooler temperatures and then
back to South Africa, job done.
