A day in Djibouti City

Djibouti is a country where mornings show all the compromise of a royal decree: the sun arrives each day like a mildly self-important monarch, politely but firmly determined to toast anything foolish enough to move. At dawn, the capital—still sporting the face of someone who’s just woken up on the wrong side of reality—rouses itself to the muezzin’s chant, which is, quite frankly, more dependable than any shiny new smartphone alarm. People head to the mosques with the resigned grace of those who know their main daily battle isn’t with the traffic, but rather with the sun’s decidedly persistent charm.  

Before long, the colourful but cheerfully dusty streets of Djibouti City begin to bustle, displaying the efficiency and clamor of a flea market on espresso. Merchants roll out fabrics so bright they could rival the most exuberant campaign promises, while spices from Ethiopia and Yemen launch surprise attacks on unsuspecting nostrils. Fruits—bearing origins as cryptic as a magic trick—lie stacked in crates, so temptingly fresh one could believe they flew in first-class.  

Nearby, the port resembles a grand waiting room for industrial behemoths: cargo ships come and go each day, their containers feeding Djiboutian dreams of economic glory. Port officials hope it will make the country the “Singapore of Africa”. It’s all somewhat precarious—much like investing your life savings in lottery tickets—yet there’s a tangible sense of hope, the unshakable conviction that “this time, we might just get lucky.”  

Over in Balbala market, you’ll find negotiations that could put any televised debate to shame: everyone talks at once, in Afar, Somali, French, Arabic, or the occasional creative fusion of all four. The stalls, overflowing with as many products as there are languages, prove Djibouti’s location at the crossroads of Africa, Arabia, the Red Sea, and the Indian Ocean—basically, the most intriguing meeting point on Earth. Both the Chinese and the Americans have bases here making it a military equivalent of cold war Vienna.  

Under the city’s midday sun, so persistent it deserves a medal for tenacity, Djibouti succumbs to a forced siesta, turning into a silent set from a desert western. Only a few intrepid souls gather under acacia trees, chewing khat with all the solemnity of an executive board meeting, enthusiastically dissecting local politics, global economics, and perhaps the secret ratio for the perfect cardamom tea.  

Meanwhile, women—morning heroines—prepare succulent dishes from the first hours of the day: lahoh, a pancake obviously created for the noble mission of soaking up every possible sauce, and skoudehkaris, guarded by families with the secrecy of a national treasure. Some women also run small ventures—traders of aromatic doughnuts or neon-hued drinks—once again proving that entrepreneurship can indeed bloom in even the most blazing heat.  

After school lets out, children flood the streets, transforming random corners into makeshift Olympic arenas, appearing blissfully unconcerned by heat, dust, or maternal concerns about ruined uniforms. By evening, those once-pristine shirts have become dusty diaries of their owners’ many adventures, sporting a day’s worth of scuffs and smudges like badges of honour.  

Beyond the capital’s hustle, Mother Nature has apparently taken up theatrical set design. Lake Assal, sitting lower than a student’s confidence before exam results, boasts salt flats so white you’d suspect they’ve had a run-in with an overzealous brightening filter. Local families scrape out a living here, braving the scalding sun and winds redolent of salt, enduring it all with the calm stoicism of people who look challenges in the eye daily and shrug, “Well, that’s life.”  

Further afield, Afar and Somali nomads defiantly keep centuries-old traditions alive, standing firm against the discreet—though increasingly chatty—knock of modernity. Djibouti also hosts improbable encounters: foreign military personnel, international aid workers, and passing migrants whose dreams stretch all the way to the horizon. Over cups of very strong coffee or improbably fresh mango juice, these contrasting worlds exchange polite pleasantries, occasional heated opinions, and everything in between.  

As the sun grows weary of its day-long performance and retires in a canvas of fiery colours over the Gulf of Tadjourah, Djibouti City emerges from its lull. Families picnic on beaches, nibbling on grilled fish or sambusa with delightful abandon, while children frolic in water that remains inexplicably warm. Nightfall sets the stage for music, a joyful fusion of traditional tunes and modern beats that keeps the youth dancing on into the early hours, apparently undeterred by the next day’s likely demands.  

Yes, life in Djibouti entails a few hiccups—surprise water cuts, power outages that arrive unannounced, and a cost of living ambitious enough to compare itself with major world capitals (though not always offering the perks that go with them). Yet Djibouti’s resilience, tempered by a climate that would make a sun-lamp blush, finds contentment in life’s modest pleasures: an exchanged smile, a hearty laugh over a steaming cup of tea, or a helping hand offered without hesitation.  

This, then, is Djibouti: modest in physical dimensions, extravagant in hospitality, abundant in humour, and gifted with a flair for facing each day’s trials as though it were the most natural thing in the world—performed, of course, with that calm, unhurried poise reminiscent of a perfect English afternoon tea in the midst of a desert.