Restaurants, Cafes, Bars, and Grocery Stores
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. Welcome to Djibouti . Welcome to Djibouti Arrive, Survive, and Thrive in the Hottest Country on Earth Rachel Pieh Jones . for the expatriates who have called Djibouti home and for the Djiboutians who warmly welcome us By Rachel Pieh Jones www.djiboutijones.com Copyright 2020 . Table of Contents Introduction All Will Be Well in Djibouti Level 1 Arrive Chapter 1: Hotels and Homes Essay: But What’s Different about an Expat Family? Chapter 2: Restaurants, Cafes, Bars, and Grocery Stores Essay: Bread Baked in the Heat of Hell Level 2 Survive Chapter 3: Get Online, Find a Doctor, Dentist, Pharmacy, or Vet Essay: Land of the Red River Hogs Chapter 4: Care for the Body and Mind: salons, schools, sports Essay: Death by Heartbreak Level 3 Thrive Chapter 5: Worship, Rest, and Play Essay: A Mosque, a Books, and a Banister Chapter 6: Touring and Exploring Essay: White Gold Level 4 More Tips Transportation The Bawadi Mall Etiquette and Health Essay: To Kiss or Not to Kiss Money and Djibouti Resources and Miscellaneous Running, Biking, Sports Essay: Samia, Somalia, and Running for Last Place Suggested Tourist Itineraries Essay: Letter from Bankoulé Final Suggestions Maps Bonus Content (2020): What to wear, what to read, and more FAQ Suggested Packing List for moving to Djibouti and for visiting More essays and articles about Djibouti . Welcome to Djibouti Arrive, Survive, and Thrive in the Hottest Country on Earth . Introduction Welcome to Djibouti. First thing to do: join the Expats of Djibouti FaceBook group. You can ask all the questions I fail to answer here and connect with people. https://www.facebook.com/groups/362100957281135/?multi_permalinks=138857029796 7524%2C1388220934669127%2C1388107278013826%2C1387896901368197%2C1387 136261444261¬if_id=1568093197915413¬if_t=group_activity&ref=notif Did you ever feel so hot and sweaty in your life? If you haven’t come up with your own yet, here are two useful nicknames for Djibouti: The Hellhole of Creation The Devil’s Lair But don’t let the heat be the only thing you notice about Djibouti. This is a nation of stark beauty, underwater brilliance, and welcoming people. I am not Djiboutian. I just live here. I’ve lived here since 2004. I have not explored every nook and cranny, but I’ve found places I love and appreciate. I can’t guarantee that locations will remain open – my favorite café only lasted a year. I’m not promising perfection in services or experiences, I’m simply sharing from what my family has discovered. Everything in here must be taken with a grain of salt. This is based on my personal experiences and my concerted effort to see the best in what is, to me as a foreigner, a challenging place to live. And, one of the best decisions I ever made about living in Djibouti, one that most definitely taints the lenses through which I see this nation, was making the choice to not complain. It’s hot. It can be smelly. Customer service isn’t really a ‘thing.’ I’m lonely. I want to eat peanut butter by the spoonful and can’t always find it in stores. Yada-yada-yada. Stop complaining. Because you know what? You can find peanut butter in stores. It just might not be your favorite brand. But you know what else? I’ve come to prefer the brands I find here. Go figure. Adapt. Don’t try to recreate the country or culture you left. Buy local. You’ll be just fine. Sure, there is a garbage dump taller than your house. Look at that, and you’ll get discouraged. But look beyond it, at the mountains and the wide expanse of desert and you’ll find beauty, adventure, and hopefully even community. In this book I address the questions I most commonly receive via email from tourists or from people moving to Djibouti. They’ve found my blog, they struggle to find other useful sources of information, and they contact me. This means most of the places I mention, and the perspective I offer, are geared toward expatriates and foreigners. Examples of emails I get: I just moved here, and googled “Djibouti” and your blog came up, along with little else. Where can I get a good cup of coffee? I will be moving to Djibouti in a month, with a five-year old who only speaks English. What are my education options? Help! I’m about to board a plane back to Canada with three little kids and I can’t get internet in my hotel room. Before we leave Djibouti, where I can I go to download books and games for them? I’m coming for a week and can’t afford the Kempinski Hotel. Are there any other hotels? How can I get in touch? I hope that this book helps, and I hope you enjoy reading it. But even more, I hope your visit or stay in Djibouti is deeply satisfying and that as you are challenged by what you see and experience, you will leave (or stay) as a better, more open, more creative, and stronger person. I think that is what is happening to me and for that, I will be forever grateful. All Will Be Well in Djibouti (originally published in Outpost, cover story) I perch on the ledge of a Djiboutian fisherman’s boat. An orange life preserver provides a little padding, but my back still aches from the jarring ride. That morning, I ran twenty- nine kilometers along the beach and into the desert, training for a marathon across the border, in Somaliland. I had finished with barely enough time to jump into the boat before it launched from shore and my muscles are tight and cramping. I didn’t have time to stretch or grab anything to eat. But I do not want to miss this. Seawater swirls around my feet and I wrap a towel over my camera to protect it from waves and mist. My husband sits across from me and our youngest daughter, 12-year old Lucy, stretches out on the floor of the simple wooden boat, right where she dropped after we hauled in her over the side. Exhausted. Exhilarated. Her snorkel mask and flippers lay beside her, her hair is a tangled brown mass on top of her head and dangling down like seaweed over her face. She spent the last hour swimming with whale sharks, our yearly Christmas tradition in Djibouti. Her older brother and sister are still in the water. 17-year old twins, and seniors in high school. This is their last guaranteed Christmas vacation in Djibouti, their last chance to swim with these sharks while they can still call Djibouti ‘home.’ I don’t want to think about that, not here on the boat. I’ve thought enough about it already, cried enough about it already. Tears here will just look like ocean water on my cheeks but crying in the middle of the Gulf of Tadjourah, in front of fishermen wearing only damp, white boxer shorts, feels undignified and melodramatic. Henry and Maggie don’t want to get out of the water. Next Christmas, who knows where they will be? Whale sharks will migrate through Djibouti’s waters in this season but the twins might be shoveling snow in Minnesota, their birthplace but a state in which they have only spent three of their seventeen years. Maybe they will be hanging out on a college campus. Navigating through a North American Christmas season of consumerism and culture shock, far removed from their Christmases spent in a Muslim, desert, African nation. The only certainty is that they won’t be snorkeling with the largest shark in the ocean. * We moved to Djibouti by accident in 2004, but stayed on purpose. My family’s life in the Horn of Africa began next door, in Somaliland, in 2003. Somaliland is the northwestern part of Somalia and declared independence in 1991. While the south descended into ongoing conflict and anarchy, the north built a government, economy, and healthcare and educational sectors. The region seemed peaceful enough to bring our family there and we were warmly welcomed. Until we weren’t. Unanticipated violence targeting Westerners forced an emergency evacuation and we fled, with a backpack and a suitcase. Most of our clothing, toys, kitchen supplies, and all our furniture remained in Somaliland, including bananas on the counter, clothes on the line, and rusting cookie sheets in the sink. There was a harried rush to the airport, a flight to Nairobi, Kenya, and a discussion with our boss and a Somali coworker. My husband had been a professor at Amoud University, the only functioning university in all of Somalia at the time. Now, we had three options: stay in Kenya, return to Minnesota, or move to Djibouti and continue working as a professor, again of English and again in the only university in the country. Kenya had no clear job for us, Minnesota after less than a year abroad felt like quitting. Djibouti bordered Somaliland, had a work option, and our Somali friends urged us to stay in Africa. We chose Djibouti. Djibouti hasn’t historically been held in high regard by visitors. “A sewer and a garbage dump made a baby in hell,” an expatriate who lived in Djibouti said. “They named it Djibouti.” In the 1930s, Evelyn Waugh said Djibouti was intolerably desolate, a “country of dust and boulders, utterly devoid of any sign of life.” As long ago as 1331, Ibn Battuta wrote that Djibouti “is a large city with a great bazaar, but it is the dirtiest, most disagreeable and most stinking town in the world.” I rejected these pronouncements.