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Djibouti 🇩🇯

Six months ago, if you’d asked me where Djibouti was, I probably couldn’t have pointed to it on a map with any confidence. Now, after sailing there myself, chatting with locals, and digging into some reading, I’ve come to see it in a new light. What now strikes me as odd is how little-known this place remains, despite its vision as “Singapore of the Horn of Africa.” leveraging its unbeatable location at the entrance to the Red Sea and Bab el-Mandeb Strait. Just like Singapore, it seems to turn geography into a economic and geopolitical asset. A global trade chokepoint, host to foreign military bases, and a growing hub for ports, logistics, and special economic zones. Djibouti rarely makes headlines in the wider world, perhaps overshadowed by its larger, more turbulent neighbors.

Despite its tiny geographic footprint and modest population of roughly 1.1 million, in boxing parlance, Djibouti punches well above its weight. Dwarfed by its larger neighbors, Ethiopia, Somalia, and Eritrea, this small Horn of Africa nation with its Fremch colonial past means that both French and Arabic serve as its official languages, while Somali and Afar dominate everyday speech.

Blessed with its deep, naturally sheltered harbor, Djibouti serves as Ethiopia’s indispensable trade gateway while commanding the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, the strategically critical artery between the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. This prime location has attracted military bases from the United States, China, France, Japan, and Italy to name a few, generating substantial lease income alongside port revenues that together underpin the nation’s economy.

As has been the experience in every country we’ve visited so far, the people of Djibouti are universally friendly. The thumbs up gesture here seems to be an expression for hello, goodbye and anything in between. In a part of the world where rainfall is scarce leaving the conditions dusty and arid, it’s inspiring to see such happiness from a people living in an environment that might otherwise be met with abject scorn from more affluent, yet seemingly unhappy, westerners!

And so after a long run across the Gulf of Aden, our arrival at the anchorage in Djibouto was a welcome relief and a timely one as sleep was deprived.

Ahssad, our agent, arrived to greet us not long after we had anchored and got ourselves cleaned up. It was a Friday in this Muslim dense region, and the middle of Ramadan, but that didnt stop the affable Ahssad from asking if he might enjoy a beer with me. An invitation I gleefully accepted. We all sat together in the boat while he gave us a little background to the city, and the country, both of the same name. Then he prescribed what he had arranged for us for the rest of the day. Immigration, an invitation to lunch, a drive around the town of Djibouti to familiarise ourselves with things and then he would return us to the boat. Our energy levels were low, but Ahssad’s boundless enthusiasm was contagious, so we redied ourselves for an adventure.

He ferried us to the Immigration office, buried deep within the port precinct, which without his help finding, I’m not sure we wouldnt have been able to find the place in a month of Sundays! It was a small office, and we were the only ones there. Some small talk with the Immigration officer as he fiddled around with the dated computer, trying to encourage it to life. As an Immigration officer, this chap made a very poor IT professional. Some connecting of cables, others disconnected and then after a good thirty minutes, power had been restored to the box and we were ready for processing. Two sheets of paper were then handed to us to complete. I wondered why this couldn’t have been done while we waitied for the computer to be made good, but I kept those thoughts to myself and we dutifully filled in the forms. USD30 per person was handed over and then thoroughly inspected for any flaws in the crisp notes we had given him. Passports stamped, biometrics recorded, and we were on our way. But not before I managed to throw in some of my form 3 level French, which I’m certain was scoffed at!

We were then taxied to a restaurant deeper into town. The streets of Djibouti are paved, but barely. Its dusty and in the light of day appears to the eye as down trodden, probably because it is! At night time, where darkness hides the flaws and led lights excite the eyes, it looks entirely different, but it really Djibouti is probably what most people might think of when asked to describe a North African city. We ate some local cuisine out out on a giant tray sat in the middle of our table. A mixture of meats, chicken, beef, lamb and something else, camel perhaps, together with a local pancake type of bread (lohoh). It was very good, though would ha e been a little easier if utensils were provided. Eating with one’s hands is the ways things are in these parts, and we both immersed culturally.

Battery levels were critically low now but our day wasnt done, we were then driven around town and showed places we.kight want to visit to re provision. Street side fruit and veg stands, hardware stores and a small nondescript chandlery. But the highlight was the shopping mall he took is too. An unassuming low level but sprawling building, in the same brown color that every other building is painted, we entered through a security gate that hinted at something special ahead. Entered a carpark and were shortly after walking through sliding doors through a thorough security screening and onwards into a delightfully air conditional shopping mall that would rival any western mall. High end fashion, chemists, sporting good stores, fast food stores (closed for Ramadan), it had the lot. But the highlight was the hypermarket. A giant supermarket that would rival any French Carrefour or Intermarché.

We politely baulked at Ahssad’s invitation to do some provisioning now. We would return, multiple times, to do our provisioning, but no we had to get some rest.

We spent 4 days in Djibouti. We were resupplied with diesel, provisioning runs made to the hypermarket. We even found a medical clinic and had yellow fever injections administered as we were likely to be calling Sudan next and countries after Sudan dont take kindly to visitors entering after having called Sudan, without a yellow fever injection.

Cafe de la Gare

Le Cafe de la Gare was a particular highlight. A recommended restaurant. We went for dinner one evening and enjoyed a nice bottle of french wine and some excellent French cuisine. A high end splash in an otherwise lower end country.

The Bab el-Manded Strait

A war had been simmering in the Persian Gulf, its timing, selfishly, unfortunate, given how close we sat to the powder keg. Though the distance from the main theater offered a semblance of safety, the eerie presence of naval warships was impossible to ignore. They called regularly into Djibouti’s port for re-fueling and supplies before slipping back out to resume patrols along the International Recommended Transit Corridor in the Gulf of Aden, then pressing northward into the southern Red Sea, especially the Bab el-Mandeb Strait, that mouthful of a name for the narrow, treacherous chokepoint between Yemen and Djibouti. The Bab el-Mandeb is the Red Sea’s own Strait of Hormuz, a highly strategic gateway whose Arabic name translates to the “Gate of Grief” or “Gate of Tears.” It eminates from the perils of navigating its fierce currents, unpredictable gales and hidden reefs, that have long made passage making through a sailor’s nightmare. Or, as Arab legend goes, from the countless souls lost when an ancient earthquake tore the Arabian Peninsula from the Horn of Africa in a “cataclysm of profound grief.”

If all of that wasn’t enough to chill a sailor’s bones, then the rise of Yemen’s homegrown religious zealots, the Houthis, hell bent on, amongst other things, eradicating anyone with the name “Benjamin” associated with them, surely is!

Until now there had been no indication that the war would extend into the Red Sea, but you could clearly sense within the anchorage at Djibouti that tensions and anxiety levels were on the rise. The prevailing opinion, particularly from our agent, was that we ought wait a little longer, indeed he had offered us an extra week at the anchorage for no extra charge, such was his concern. There was, however, a handful of boats that were eager to get going northward and that a weather window with a strong southerly breeze and current would help us race through the strait that we were all, in one way or another, concerned about.

The uncertainty took me back to that global cluster fuck that was Covid, where a dangerous cocktail of ignorance, misinformation and fear, saw governments take decisions that were at best cruel, and at worst demonic! Back then, abroad, I had adopted the strategy of waiting it out. Thinking it wouldn’t be long before I could get moving again. How wrong I was. I didnt want a repeat of that, so we determined that with a suitable weather window open, a band of other like minded boats at the ready, and before ports might be closed, it was time to get going.

Resignation

At 0700hrs Local Time on the 5th March, 2026 we lifted the anchor and crept out of Djibouti. The plan was to make the Bab el-Mandeb Strait by nightfall and then be passed the Hanish islands before sunrise the following day.

Progress started slowly on account of a nasty head wind that wasn’t on the menu and threatened to spoil our plans of passing through the hot spots under the cover of darkness. But as we turned left and made a heading for the strait, a tail wind picked up which along with a two knot current saw our boat speed increased markedly.

I recall vividly, being sat on a jet plane as it rested on the tarmac at Singapore’s Changi Airport, awaiting clearance to depart for Schipol Airport. The date was 11th September 2001. A few moments earlier I had been walking thought the terminal observing crowds gathered around television screens displaying footage of smoke billlowing from the Pentagon Building in The United States of America. I hadnt digested the enormity of what was happening at the time. Later, sat aboard the aeroplane, the pilot was keeping passengers updated on what was unfolding. We sat in the plane for a good two hours before final departure cleareance was given. Now aware of the situation in America and the type of persons perpetrating the carnage, I began to consider my own circumstances. Looking around the cabin to try to determine if there was anyone of a like nationality or religion that might be considering adding this particular aeroplane to the its arsenal. I remember the fear coursing through my veins as the plane began rumbling down the runway and eventually taking flight. For the first thirty minutes I was scared and felt helpless. But something strange happened. As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude and levelled out, a wave of relief took over me. If anything was going to happen, I thought, there was likely nothing I would be able to do about it. I had resigned to the fact that I was not in control and that being anxious about something I have no control over was futile. And so, I sat back in my seat, ordered a stiff drink, and a second shortly thereafter, and went on about enjoying the ride. For the record, the plane landed safely in Amsterdam a fistful of hours later.

The same strange calm settled over me as we slipped through the Straits. Anxiety had built relentlessly in the days and hours before. Every horizon scan, every distant wake was a threat. But once we were in the channel, the truth was indisputable. Aboard a slow, lumbering sailing boat with no stunning speed or agility, we were utterly defenseless. A Houthi missile, drone, or any piece of ordnance they might, however improbably, decide to throw at us would turn us into sitting ducks. And if it came, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, we could do to stop it. In all likelihood, and as grim as it sounds, the end would be instantaneous and painless. So why worry?

And so, after an uneventful night that produced favourable conditions for a quick passage through the Strait, it was by 8am the following morning that both the Bab el-Mandeb and Hanish Islands were well behind us and there’d been not a hint of ill intent from anyone. The relief onboard was palpable and a celebratory coffee was poured, and savoured!

Ahead of us now was a long climb north, up the Red Sea toward the southern entrance to the Suez Canal.

The Eritrean coastline, immediately to our port, we had been warned, was a no-go zone on account of political unrest. Sudan, further north, offered some ports and anchorages of refuge should the notorious Red Sea weather take hold. Further beyond lay Egypt, the last country before the Suez Canal and our entry into the Mediterranean Sea.

Doubtless much awaited us before we get to the canal, amd we weren’t for a minute tempting complacency, but we had achieved something extraudinary. The Indian Ocean now well behind us as was the Gulf of Aden and now the Bab al-Mandad Strait had been conquered. It felt like the worst was behind us now. The only uncertainty now was certain uncertainty in respect of weather up the Red Sea, a notorious challenge for sailors.

But for now, we were making for Suakin, Sudan.