Then there is the growing sophistication—and perhaps internationalization—of the pirates, gangs that are now far better armed and outfitted than Taar’s men. Puntland’s first effort to create a coast guard came in 2000, when the government hired a British firm, Hart Security, to train and equip a marine patrol force. The company brought in a 65-foot trawler, converted an old Bosasso hotel into barracks, and recruited 70 militiamen, carefully balancing out the clans. In those days, clamping down on illegal fishing and the dumping of toxic waste was a more pressing concern, says the company chairman, Lord Richard Westbury, a former Special Air Services officer. Hart’s only significant encounter with the pirates came in 2000 when a cargo vessel, the Mad Express, broke down off the town of Bargaal and was hijacked. Westbury dispatched two groups of men—one to rescue the crew being held on shore, and the other to liberate the vessel. They met little resistance. “Basically, the pirates jumped off the ship. One injured his ankle,” he recalls from his Cyprus headquarters. “There was nothing sophisticated about them at all. They certainly had no skills to operate in the way they are currently operating.”
Hart pulled out of Puntland during the 2001 civil war, when the fighting shut down operations, and its local crew began to choose sides. But the company, like many other private security firms, is now doing a booming business selling its expertise and protection services to ships transiting the region. For the last few months, Westbury’s men have been operating off the coast “on a daily basis,” he says. “You aren’t going to get a bigger problem. It can’t escalate further.” He cites a recent passage when Hart employees helped a vessel stave off 20 pirate boats over a four-hour period through a combination of evasive manoeuvres, and display—but not use—of arms.
As for what happened to his former employees—rigorously drilled in small boat interception and boarding techniques—his lordship has a compelling theory. “I think inevitably that there are people we trained who now are involved in piracy,” he says. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
It stands to reason that some of SomCan’s original employees have also found new and more lucrative careers. (Last fall, Fred Parle, an Irish sailor who was held hostage for 47 days, told Maclean’s that his captors boasted of their coast guard past.) But Abdiweli Ali Taar says any turncoats are “British-trained,” and definitely not his men. “They are for the security of the country,” he says. “They are willing to fight.” He points with pride to the fact that his enemy Hersi reached out to him this past summer, begging SomCan to again take over the job of patrolling Puntland’s shores. (The president cancelled al-Hababi’s contract in February 2008, after its forces refused a direct order to liberate the Svitzer Korsakov, the tugboat Parle was held upon.) The new contract is “unbreakable,” boasts Taar. “He needed a big-time job so he came to us.” And he echoes a recent promise by Hersi to take the fight to the ground, establishing military bases around Puntland to exert government order on pirate strongholds like the port of Eyl.
All that stands in the way of his coast guard cleaning up the pirate problem is lack of money—lots of money. Right now, SomCan is footing the bill for the entire operation, some US$210,000 a month. The reality in Puntland is that civil strife, hyper-inflation and an epidemic of counterfeiting have left authorities virtually bankrupt. Most police and soldiers haven’t been paid their paltry $30-a-month salaries for more than half a year. The backbone of the pirate crews are now the people who are supposed to be stopping them. And for all his belligerence about freeing the ships, Taar concedes that force alone isn’t likely to halt the hijackings. “These people are not criminals. They are only looking for money. If you create jobs for them, they will get out of the business. I guarantee it.”
At the recent meetings in Kenya, Taar was hoping to raise $30 million from international donors, but received only vague promises. “I told the UN, look, if you want to help Somalia, the pirates are peanuts compared to the problems we have,” says Taar. “Instead of spending millions to patrol our waters, use the money to help stabilize our institutions.” Still, he holds out hope that a change of president—perhaps him, perhaps one of the more heavily favoured candidates—will give the world confidence in Puntland, and provide the backing that would allow the government to actually start governing.
And then, when the pirates are all gone, maybe he can come back home. “I miss my Toronto,” he says. “I really miss it.”
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