These trucks are about to cross a country
that you cannot find on any map. Yet, it has a real border, with real uniformed customs agents. The customs demand a tax for everything
and check everyone that enters, just like in a real country. There's even a Visa office,
open for just three hours a day. It's best not to waste any time
if you want a Visa. Hey, hey, wait, it's my turn. Without the Visa, the border police
won't let you into their country. A country not recognized
by any other state in the world. Somaliland is a spit of land
that's as large as England. Between Djibouti, Ethiopia and Somalia,
from which it succeeded 20 years ago. The UN has never
acknowledged it as a new state. It's a no man's land
that truckers cross at their own peril. Unpaved roads and straying off track
is worse than Russian roulette. Thousands of mines from the region's
civil war dot the desert terrain. Last month, a truck blew up. This is all that's left of it. They were all killed. Given the danger, it's impossible to buy insurance
for the vehicles, cargo and drivers. Any arguments out here
are resolved with Kalashnikovs. Look, they shot at me,
the windscreen blew in. Despite the risks, there are many
who brave the 350 kilometers to reach Hargeisa,
Somaliland's principal city, with merchandise
that is shipped into The Port of Djibouti. Over the border from Djibouti,
the first town is Zeila. A mass of ruins with 10,000 inhabitants. It's a key staging post
for the truck drivers. It's 6:00 a.m. and
the desert adventurers are waking up. Rashid, who is 42, makes the trip to the capital
twice a week. My truck is my house. It's my bed, my work, my life, really. Before setting off,
Rashid needs to pay the transport taxes. His company's representative
brings the cash, which is inside this canvas bag. It seems a lot, but in fact, it's not. Somaliland's currency is almost worthless. It takes ten kilos of money
to pay the road tax, which is the equivalent
of about 1,300 dollars. Inside, the customs officer doesn't
know where to put the morning's take. That's 500,000 Somaliland shillings,
500,000. It is worth just over $65. To save time, the officials
no longer count the number of notes, but judge them by their width. It's best to have the exact amount, as the change itself
could also weigh several kilos. Okay, this should do it, thanks very much. Most of the cargo that Rashid
and the other truckers transport is not destined for Somaliland. Carpets, foodstuff, the latest TVs just cross the territory
and are headed for Ethiopia, Somaliland's powerful neighbor. No foreign driver
wants to risk making the crossing. We're the kings of transport. Rashid's truck is 35 years old. All of it seems to have been patched up. Well, the tires look okay. That one, yes, that one's good. It's nothing short of a miracle
that it still runs. Listen, pump up
the spare tire for me, would you? Parts are only replaced when they break. This one's fine. Yes, that one, too. Apart from the tires,
which are changed every month, even if they're still roadworthy. A puncture or a burst tire in the middle
of the desert could be fatal. Rashid travels with a mechanic
and two passengers. By 8:00 in the morning,
the temperature begins to rise. The sun has caused the thermometer
to show a constant 50 degrees Celsius. The heat means you don't even sweat. Everything just evaporates. How long will it take? How long? That depends. If all goes well, we can cover the 350 kilometers
in two or three days. Three hundred and fifty kilometers
in 72 hours if all goes to plan. Look over there. That truck shouldn't be there. I know the driver. So what's wrong? The clutch is broken. How did that happen? We need to get your truck out of the way. It's blocking the track. Other vehicles could hit you. That doesn't seem possible. How could he cause an accident? His truck can be spotted
a long distance off, and there's so much space here,
it should be easy to go around him. However, in the desert,
appearances are deceptive. Under the thin crust of fine earth
lies quicksand. Leave one of the beaten tracks,
and you'll get stuck in the sand. The drivers don't take any chances
and move at top speed. Rashid, his mechanic and the driver
try to fix the problem quickly. Go on, push. But it's too heavy,
even for the three of them. It's heavy. The ropes are cutting my hands. Go on, push with your feet. We would never leave a friend
in the lurch in the desert. If we don't help each other, we're dead. We're all brothers on the road. A few hours later,
and Rashid's friend can start up again. With such a monotonous terrain, you might think the desert
is a boring place to drive through. Yet, anything can happen here. These two trucks
crashed into each other head-on. With so much visibility, what went wrong? Hey, what happened? Are you hurt? Oh, it's just the radiator
that's damaged, is it? Yes, it's had it. The radiator has got a hole. Oh, this job's hell, we're like slaves. I know, it's my fault. My brakes didn't work. It was night,
and I was coming up from that direction. I saw the other truck on the track. The driver had gone to relieve himself
and had left the headlights on. However, I didn't dare
leave the trail to avoid it. If he had, he'd not just
have gotten stuck in the sand, he'd have been risking his life. If you leave the trail on this stretch,
you're likely to hit a mine, one of the thousands
that litter the desert here. The legacy of the conflict
when Somaliland broke away from Somalia. A British NGO is dealing with the mines,
and publishes new maps on a regular basis. They allow the drivers
to know which areas have been cleared. Look, that zone has been cleared. That's safe,
but over there it's dangerous. You should never leave the track. Last month, a truck blew up. That's all that's left of the truck. Nothing else. They were all killed. God help me stay on the track. The two truckers are alive, but their bosses will make them
pay dearly for the accident. In Somaliland, the drivers themselves have to meet the costs
of repairs to the vehicles. Look, I've lost everything. I'll wait until
they bring a new radiator. There are no tow trucks
or mobile phone signals in the desert. Rashid will let their boss know
that the two men have broken down. The spare parts will take
two days, a week, or even several months to get to them. While they wait, they'll be towed to a place known as
the Village of the Damned. This former small farming community has learned to profit
from the truckers' misfortunes. It's transformed itself
into a huge garage. Give me that key, the one underneath. The victims of the desert
have proven a blessing to the villagers, who have become mechanics
and traders in vehicle parts. Look at the state of this tyre. The sand's worn it away. This driver's been stuck here
for over a month. He was transporting kerosene
for Hargeisa Airport. The sand got the better
of his 40-year-old tanker. I broke down last month. I never got any new parts. I was in the middle of the desert
when the engine gave up. I knew it was risky
to drive over the sand. For drivers with nowhere to go, the village now boasts
some basic accommodation. For a few cents, the truckers
can spend the night in this wooden hut. There are about a dozen of us living here. All of us are waiting for parts. It's too cold to sleep at night,
and there are a lot of snakes too. So we have to remain standing
for hours and hours. The bush taxi driver
has been trying to leave the Village of the Damned for two months. Look, it's this one. But he's broke, as his wealth
disappeared in just a few minutes. I stopped just to get a drink, and then a house caught fire
right next door. Then it spread quickly
and destroyed my car. There's no firemen or water here. There's nothing to put a fire out with. In Somaliland,
there's no insurance either. I won't get reimbursed. I'm on my own now. Rashid checks his truck often. It's a precaution that
so far has always paid off. Any delays are taken out of his pay. His family depends
on the state of his vehicle. His wife doesn't have a job,
and he has two children to feed. It's good, let's go. Rashid drives at night to make up for the time
he spent helping his friend in the desert. In the dark,
the hardest thing is to stay on the trail. Never take your eyes off the road, or you'll get bogged down in the sand. Look, look, he's stuck. He behaved like a complete novice. He drove off the track. I can't tow him, or I'll get stuck too. It's too risky. We'll just keep going. The drivers have been trying
for six hours to free their truck. We're screwed. The drivers are exhausted. Nobody will come and help us. They seem resigned to their fate. It's our own fault. We never even noticed
we were heading off the route. Help will come at daylight, when the passing drivers
will help tow them out. Rashid is brave, but has his limits
in the darkness of the night. Getting stuck in the sand
isn't his only concern. I don't get out of my truck at night. I'm too scared. It's crawling with snakes
and other poisonous reptiles. They come out at night when it's cooler. During the day, the sun
dries up every drop of moisture. At night, however, the water resurfaces
and softens up the ground, and creates hazardous, muddy sand traps. The best way to get vehicles unstuck
is to put wood under the tires. But the problem is that, in the desert,
trees are as rare as water. So sticks will have to do. You'll never get anywhere like that. You have to go straight ahead. Rashid takes charge to speed things along. That's good, go now. Sometimes, the only thing to do
is to wait for daybreak. I'm not too worried. I'll make it across, no problem. They'll fill in the holes,
and I'll go straight ahead this way. Just like that. Go on, put the shovel away, please. In the early morning,
the desert seems a different place. A little more green. There is life despite the unbearable heat. Water lies just under the sand, enough to enable small,
stunted plants to survive. Rashid's been behind the wheel
for 24 hours and has had enough. Rashid reaches a small oasis. The village is the halfway point
on the journey. I'm dead. Shattered. I have to rest and get some sleep. Do you have any clean water? No, I've got no drinking water. What? Nothing? All she has is some water
that's been boiled, and to fight off fatigue,
there's khat, which all the drivers chew. The small, green leaves
act as a stimulant, keeping them awake. It's a powerful drug
that kicks in almost immediately. In just a few minutes, Rashid becomes very irritable,
and his eyes, bloodshot. No one cares about Somaliland. We're fed up. The whole world has abandoned us. I take khat when I'm really tired. That's how much I'd need
for the rest of the journey. So it's a drug? Of course, it's a drug. All the drivers use it. Khat is 100 times worse than whiskey. In the end, even the drug
can't ward off fatigue forever. One hour later, Rashid starts up again. He has little choice,
any delays will cost him part of his pay. The track becomes more uneven,
and it's impossible to go any faster. I'm going to drive all day and not stop. We'll be getting to a mountainous area
and I can't drive fast. Beyond the mountain range lies the capital
and an end to his journey. But it's not an end to his problems. This truck's tires were new, yet no match
for the sharp stones and the heat. The driver curses the Chinese-made tires. They're useless for this trail. The tires rip up
as if they were made of cardboard. Behind him, a traffic jam is forming. There'll be many along soon. That's how it is, got no choice. Rashid has found somewhere in the shade and told his mechanic
to lend a helping hand. I've told my mechanic to go and help them. Why're you helping him? Oh, it's so we can
quickly get going again. You see? An hour later, the incident is over,
and the track is finally cleared. From here on, every minute counts, as it's no longer possible
to drive at night. The route here is constantly changing. Huge holes can appear
without warning on bends in the trail. These holes don't create themselves. They're manmade
by these poverty-stricken people willing to do anything
to make a few dollars. They're looking for columbite,
a mineral ore worth its weight in gold. It's a rare substance, but needed for the electronics
in mobile phones and satellites. The head of this group is Mawlid. He's the only one who knows
how to find the precious ore. Here's the columbite. Chinese companies
buy these small stones from them for virtually nothing. It's hard to make a living from this. There are ten of them, poorly-equipped, yet they manage to extract
up to 800 kilos a month. The backbreaking work earns them
barely 130 dollars, which they share. It's a tough business, but we have hope. Sometimes, we also manage
to find semi-precious stones, such as this aquamarine. If it's well-cut, it's worth
as much as 80,000 dollars a kilo. Dreams of riches that
pushes them to dig with bare hands and also attracts the young. Of course not, we don't go to school. We prefer to come here to the mines. We're not interested in school. Here, we might get rich. My dream is
to buy a very expensive sports car. This time, the diggers have only found
30 kilos of the ore. The next step is to check its quality,
which will decide how much it's worth. Mawlid has a wife,
whom he didn't want us to meet, and three kids. He's proud that
the money he makes from the ore allows him to send his kids to school. I want to be like my father. But he takes it upon himself
to teach them to recognize the minerals. Go on, help me look
for bits of aquamarine and columbite. That's aquamarine. That's columbite. Mawlid quickly seems disappointed
as the stones are of poor quality. How much will that make? It's enough for a week, maybe. Mawlid believes that, if his country
was recognized internationally, he could quit working at the mine, because the desert,
in which his remote village is situated, hides a treasure that's unique,
and that could one day make them all rich. The guardian of this
exceptional treasure is called Musa. For now, he and a few shepherds
are the only people to benefit from the discovery unearthed
by French archaeologists a decade ago. Dozens of prehistoric drawings
scattered over the mountainside, reminiscent of the Palaeolithic art
found in caves across Europe. Locals hope that,
once their country becomes safe, tourists from all over the world
will flock here in their thousands. The old man has already got
his tourist speech ready. So you can clearly see the paintings
on the wall up there. Giants must have painted them. They lived here 6,000 years ago. They slept in the forest,
and they came here to paint, in this cave. However, the treasure,
subject to the elements, is slowly disappearing. No one is protecting them
from the bad weather. The wind and the sand
are destroying everything. Look at this drawing. It's fading away. If nothing is done soon,
it'll all disappear. Rashid has come through the mountains
without any problems. In flatlands, he floors the gas pedal. If he arrives ahead of schedule,
he might even double his salary. If you're not too late,
you have time to unload and load up again. That way, you can turn right round
and head off once more. Rashid makes about 135 dollars
for each return journey. It's about three times
the average salary in Somaliland. It's a comfortable wage for the drivers,
but one for which they risk their lives. The capital, Hargeisa,
is the country's largest town and the pride of all Somaliland. One million live here. It was totally destroyed
during the civil war 20 years ago, and has gradually been rebuilt,
but without a penny of foreign aid, and in a somewhat haphazard way
as evident by its electrical system. Rashid has taken two days
to cover fewer than 350 kilometers. He tries to find more freight
as his truck is being unloaded. Now leave me alone, I have to hurry. I haven't even washed for 48 hours. Rashid will soon find another cargo,
as it's market day. Not that many years ago,
the route would have been covered on foot, and using a much-respected animal
known as the ship of the desert. But with the arrival of trucks,
their glory days are behind them. Now it's raised mainly for its meat. Somaliland is one of the world's
largest exporters of camels. They sell throughout the Middle East. Here, thousands of animals are sold
three times a week. No, no, you can't do that to me. I don't agree with your price, let go. Stop, stop, he's filming us! The camera isn't welcome,
the price has to remain a secret. To keep it so,
a sign language has developed, as both the buyer and seller
place one hand under a cloth to negotiate the price with their fingers. Camels go for as much
as 1,300 dollars each. To us, the camel is everything. Every Somalilander has a camel. Without it, he couldn't live. It's our favorite meat. It makes us strong. The hump, the legs,
those are what make us men. All of it is so good. According to the locals, eating camel meat
makes you virile and fearless. The animal might first appear placid,
but it has a distinctly strong character. Getting one on board a truck
takes a lot of guts. Its kick has crippled more than one human. But the men mean business as each camel brings in
the equivalent of 65 cents. For that kind of money,
they use any method to get them on, even at the cost of injuring themselves. These animals are all heading
to Saudi Arabia, the largest consumer of camel meat. What money the tough camel men like
Ismail make is often spent the same day. When my wife's not around,
and I have nothing else to do, this is where I come
to hang out with my friends. The small, green shack
is strictly men-only. This is where they can buy
a bundle of khat for seven bucks. Drivers aren't the only ones
to chew the drug, just about everyone does. This is what's killing us,
tobacco and khat. It's killing us,
but we can't do without it. The green-colored shops litter Hargeisa, but by early afternoon,
they're often sold out. There's nothing left. Yes, you'll have to wait. When the drugs run out,
the whole town seems to hold its breath. I buy 10 dollars worth every day. Why is it so important for you? We don't have any work, we have nothing. I'm a graduate of Hargeisa University
in business management, and I'm unemployed. That's why I chew khat. Vehicles, blasting their horns, announce
the arrival of fresh supplies of khat. No time to waste,
the shops have to be resupplied. The deliverymen will get paid later. This is our kind of cocaine. The customers
throw themselves onto the sacks, and everything gets sold
in just a few minutes. In Somaliland, khat is no joking matter. If the drug ever ran out,
it could spark a civil war. The last Somali dictator
learnt that to his cost. When he dared to ban khat, the people of Somaliland
took up arms and chased him out. Nowadays, two extremely wealthy families
control the drug traffic. Neither was willing to be interviewed, but one did allow
one of their deliverymen to be filmed. Mohammed has been able
to upgrade his engine, thanks to the drug money. I added a turbo to my truck
so it would go faster, and now, it can hit
150 kilometers an hour. We're the best drivers in the business,
even if we don't have a licence. Every evening, Mohammed, aged 32,
leaves HQ at top speed. In Somaliland,
there's not enough rain to grow khat, a plant that needs
humid conditions to thrive. It grows abundantly in Yemen, Kenya, and in particular,
the neighboring Ethiopian mountains. The Ethiopian border
is less than 50 kilometers away, but the drug is loaded
at a secret warehouse, during the night, to maintain maximum discretion. Is there much left to load? No, no, that's it. Mohammed loads up four tons of the drug. Okay, let's go now. The competition is fierce. The shops purchase
from whoever delivers first. Khat is consumed fresh,
as dried leaves are less powerful. I'm transporting over
a quarter million dollars worth of khat. It's a bit like fresh fruit. You need to distribute it quickly,
or it loses value. It all needs to be delivered
in less than an hour. To save time, the bags are thrown out
to the shopkeepers from the still-moving truck. Hey, you got two. As he reaches the suburbs of Hargeisa,
Mohammed gets a call from his boss. Yes, hello? Yes, we're coming, it's okay. We're late, we'll have to speed up. What, do you want some? Do you? Are you not scared of being in the back? I love this work. It's dangerous in the back,
but it's so exciting. Not everyone can do this. To Mohammed's relief, he's the first to reach the country's largest
seller of khat. The man buys three
of the four tons that he's carrying. There's pandemonium. The suppliers
attack the bundles in a frenzy, while Muhammad
keeps an eye on the transactions. It's not unknown for a bundle or two
to quietly disappear in the chaos. It's always a madhouse
when we deliver the khat. These people have been waiting for hours. It's 9:00 in the morning,
yet there are already crowds of customers. Surprisingly, maybe khat does have
one serious competitor. It's a drink that sells as widely as khat, and is also delivered
first thing in the morning. It also makes you strong,
and is best consumed cold. It's so good. It's like honey. It's camel milk, and has the same reputation as camel meat. It makes you virile. It's strictly for those
with strong constitutions. Abdul is a veteran milkman. Each day, for 40 years, he's been heading out
to the desert nomads. There are no machines here,
everything is done by hand. The fresh milk is then transferred
into these old plastic oil containers. I'll take this milk to Berbera. It'll take me about two hours. Won't the milk curdle? Of course not, it'll still be good. The containers of milk are transported,
unprotected from the sun, and hanging off the back of the truck. In his old pickup, the journey
could take more than two hours. The road is really bad,
and my vehicle is a wreck. Sometimes, the conditions are so bad
that I can't even finish the trip. Look how worn out it is. Nothing really works anymore. The suspension's had it. Never mind the headlights,
none of them work. See this hole in my windscreen? That was made by a bullet. Someone opened fire. It went through here. Luckily, I wasn't injured. Abdul is hoping
his grandson will take over from him, and has taught him
to check the tires before each journey. I always take my shoes off to drive. I prefer being barefoot
so I can feel the pedals and not drive too quickly. To start, I don't have a key,
but look, it works. The road to Berbera is 50 kilometers
of dirt track across the desert that has already done so much damage
to his ancient four-wheel drive. When we looked at his car's undercarriage, we saw that the steering device
for the front-left wheel was tied together with leather straps, and that the sole of a shoe
was acting as a shock absorber. A patched-up vehicle, whose biggest
challenge is stopping once it starts. It's been ages since its brakes worked. So to stop it,
Abdul simply slows down gradually. There's no emergency brake either. There are mines all around this road. Just one week ago,
a young nomad was blown up. His stick hit a mine. I think he was killed. But I trust in God, and only 40 percent of our land
has been mined. It could be worse. Shepherds wait alongside the road
to sell him their milk. Go on, hurry up. This time, it's goat's milk. In the desert, the men are quite macho,
and it starts at an early age. Fill this up quickly. For those who maybe don't know better, Abdul also takes
paying passengers on board. The shepherds are off to market
to sell their goats. Mind his legs. I can squeeze in a dozen at the back. I charge about a 1.50 dollar each. For now, this woman is smiling. The men of the desert are more used
to the gentle rocking of their camels, than being rattled
in Abdul's coffin on wheels. At the back,
the young woman soon feels sick. Oh, women, they're always trouble, especially among the nomads. They're not used to it,
and they get carsick as soon as I set off. Come on, hurry up. We can't really stop there
because my brakes are broken. The old lady, exhausted
by her long trek through the desert, is too weak to climb on board. Oddly, no one offers to help her. The young woman in red has had enough. Are you not well? No. Do you want to throw up? Yes. The desert is a harsh place
where everyone struggles to survive. The weak do not belong here,
and it's clearly the case in Somaliland. Such callous human relationships extend
beyond the desert and into the towns. Abdul reaches Berbera
two hours behind schedule. He's immediately surrounded by
angry milk distributors. It's midday, and they'll be hard-pressed
to sell the milk this late. A substantial loss of income
to these impoverished people. Hey, come on, calm down, calm down. You'll each get what's yours. So which is my goat? Which one? I've had enough of waiting. The grandson doesn't appreciate criticism, and despite his age,
he spits on those who are complaining. As for the goats,
he simply kicks them out of the pickup. I'm fed up hearing about your milk. Take it and go. Go on, take this one, go away. See, we've already finished,
thanks to my grandson. It may not look like much, but Abdul's dilapidated vehicle
gives him considerable power. No customer dares complain
about his grandson's behavior. They don't want to upset the milkman. They depend on his goodwill
to sell them the milk that he alone collects in the desert. Berbera is the nation's only port. The wrecks of old tankers off the coast
are misleading. The port itself is modern
and capable of handling huge vessels, such as this one, heading to Saudi Arabia, with the camels
purchased in the market the same morning. One thousand camels
are squeezed onto the dock sides, and, like elephants, they never forget. They launch a few subtle
and well-aimed kicks against those who may have
mistreated them earlier. When one of the animals
is too tired to move, drastic action is needed. It doesn't want to get up, boss. The animals are, for the moment,
the country's only real wealth. But not for much longer. The ground below Somaliland
is rich with petrol, and international oil companies
are beginning to show interest. Oil, that might make Somaliland rich and finally recognized as a state
by the rest of the world.
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