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hargeisa hustle: a photographer's sleep-deprived ramble

@Topiclo Admin3/23/2026blog

i rolled into hargeisa with my camera bag half-open and a headache that felt like a snare drum stuck on repeat.
the streets greeted me with a chorus of honking tuk-tuks and the scent of spiced tea drifting from roadside stalls.
i just checked and it's...there right now, hope you like that kind of thing.
the air clung to my skin like a wet towel after a gig, warm enough to make you wonder if the sun had forgotten to set.

i spent the first morning wandering the *market, where stalls piled high with colorful fabrics and baskets of frankincense.
a vendor yelled something about "best price for lenses" and i laughed, thinking he meant the glass kind, not the camera gear.
i heard that if you ask nicely, the old man near the spice stall will let you peek at his hidden stash of vintage film canisters.
tip: always keep a spare battery in your pocket, you never know when the light decides to play hide-and-seek.

later i ducked into a tiny cafe that smelled like burnt sugar and cardamom.
over a steaming cup, a local whispered, "someone told me that the rooftop of the old colonial hotel still holds a projector from the sixties, and if you're lucky you can catch a flicker of black-and-white footage at dusk."
i glanced up at the cracked tiles and imagined the ghosts of silent movies laughing in the wind.

i decided to chase that rumor.
after a short drive past the bustling central square, i found the hotel's side entrance ajar.
the stairwell echoed with my footsteps, each one sounding like a kick drum in an empty room.
on the roof, the wind teased the antenna, and there, half-covered by a tarp, lay a rusted film reel.
i could almost hear the faint whirr of a projector trying to start.

if you need a break from the city's hum, the berbera coast or the somali highlands are just a few hours' drive away.
i heard that the fishermen near berbera sing old sea shanties while they mend their nets, a sound that feels like a bass line under a late-night jam.

as the day waned, i climbed a small hill behind the university campus to catch the sunrise - well, actually the sunset - over the rooftops.
the sky turned a soft amber, reminding me of a faded polaroid left in a car glove compartment.
i snapped a few frames, my fingers numb from the cool breeze that sneaked in despite the heat.

before calling it a night, i stopped by a street-side grill where the meat sizzled like a snare rimshot.
the owner, grinning with a missing tooth, said, "i heard that the best shots come when you're hungry and a little reckless."
i laughed, wiped my hands on my jeans, and packed my gear for the next adventure.

i've dropped a few links for anyone wandering these parts: check out the market* reviews on TripAdvisor, grab a coffee at the spot Yelp fans rave about, and peek at the local events board for impromptu jam sessions on Hargeisa Events.

after wiping down my lenses, i wandered toward the eastern edge of town where the old railway tracks fade into scrubland.
a group of kids were playing a makeshift drum circle on overturned buckets, their rhythm bouncing off the corrugated metal shacks.
i tossed them a few extra batteries from my bag, and they rewarded me with a spontaneous chant that sounded like a chorus of snares and hi-hats.
later, as the call to prayer echoed from the minaret, i found myself sitting on a rooftop terrace, sipping sweet tea while the city lights flickered on like a series of tiny LED panels testing their brightness.
a stray cat brushed against my leg, reminding me that even in a place where the wind carries whispers of ancient trade routes, comfort can be as simple as a warm mug and a shared silence.

here's the map to keep you oriented:


and a couple of shots to give you a feel for the place:

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About the author: Topiclo Admin

Writing code, prose, and occasionally poetry.

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