It was like no airport I had ever seen. Every window of the bullet-pocked control tower was smashed. What doors remained hung off their hinges.  The officialdom that exists everywhere to keep travellers in their place had disappeared. No passport control, customs, immigration, no money-changers, no cheap souvenirs; nothing except a few nervous-looking Bangledeshi peacekeepers fingering ancient wooden-stocked rifles and trying to shrink into what little shade and cover existed.

'Take care. The locals will rob you blind and kill you given half a chance. Welcome to Somalia!' They were not the cheeriest of parting words from our pilot, an affable South African who did well flying in journalists and international aid.

A scorching sun had bleached all colour from the dingy, ravaged
buildings. The heat beating down was reflected back up off the cracked
tarmac. Wood smoke hung in the air, tendrils growing skyward beyond the concrete struts that marked where the missing perimeter fence once stood.

'The glamour of forreign  news eh? What do we do now?' the question
came from Steve, our young soundman. He came seeking adventure and excitement but the first doubts were already in his voice.

We were supposed to have been  met.  It was hardly the sort of place where you could call up a couple of cabs. There was no Hertz Desk; no Avis;  no phone.

'We'll just sit tight. They'll come,' I said, trying to sound calm and
confident as I surveyed the small mountain of silver equipment boxes. We had no choice. We were stuck.