![]() ![]() The high whine of the Antonov’s propellers changed pitch as it accelerated along the Djibouti runway, building towards a droning cres cendo that I had not heard outside of decades-old movies. Male passengers fanned themselves with the Russian-language aircraft safety cards the women fanned their children. Sweat poured freely off my skin and soaked into the torn cloth of my seat cover. ![]() The cabin absorbed the heat of the midday African sun like a Dutch oven, thickening the air until it was unbearable to breathe. Modern Puntland, a self-governing region in northeastern Somalia, may or may not be the successor to the Punt of ancient times, but I was soon to discover that it contained none of the gold and ebony that dazzled the Egyptians-save perhaps for the colours of the sand and the skin of the nomadic goat and camel herders who had inhabited it for centuries. ![]() To the ancient Egyptians, Punt had been a land of munifi cent treasures and bountiful wealth in present times, it was a land of people who robbed wealth from the rest of the world. The 737s of Dubai, with their meal services and functioning seatbelts, were a distant memory the plane I was in was not even allowed to land in Dubai, and the same probably went for the unkempt, ill-tempered Ukrainian pilot. I arrived in Somalia in the frayed seat of a 1970s Soviet Antonov propeller plane, heading into the internationally unrecognized region of Puntland on a solo quest to meet some present-day pirates. ![]()
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