THE ROMANCE OF A $200,000 PHONE CALL
By 2 a.m. we were ready. And then I realized I didn’t have the phone number. The beautiful woman had told me she was going to her parents’ house in Westport, Connecticut, for the holidays. But I didn’t know her father’s first name. I called 411. Back then you got a person on the line – a kind, polite, and patient person. I said, “Hi, I’m in Somalia...” and explained the situation to the 411 lady. She read me all the listings under that last name (a not-uncommon Irish one) in the Westport phone book. “Edward!” I said, “I think she told me her dad’s name was Ed.” The kindly 411 lady tried the number and I got through. I figure it only cost ABC about $200,000 in equipment, vehicles, supplies, payroll, and payoffs to Somali gunmen. I said, “Hi, I’m in Somalia... “ “Oh my gosh!” said the beautiful woman, “Are you all right?” “I’m happy!” I said, “And Happy New Year!” “That’s so sweet!” she said. “How on earth did you get through?” “Well, I’m out in the middle of the Somali desert in someplace called Baidoa with these other reporters and we set up the satellite dish and... “ Later the beautiful woman told me, “That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” She must have meant it because we’re married now and have three children.
We arrived outside Baidoa in the middle of the night and found a crappy but defensible place to stay. It was a roadside restaurant with a wall around it. In Somalia everything has a wall around it. That must have been around 1 in the morning – 9 a.m. New Year’s Day back in the States. We’d brought a bottle of whiskey from the Mogadishu compound. We had a couple of drinks. I was thinking about the beautiful woman. I said to the reporters, technicians, and camera crew, “I met this beautiful woman right before I left. I’m crazy about her. I’d like to call and wish her a Happy New Year. We’ve got to set up the dish first thing in the morning anyway... “ “Ooooo... A beautiful woman half a world away,” said everyone. (We foreign correspondents of yore were a sentimental bunch.) “Let’s do it.” The Somali “security” was on the restaurant floor, sleeping off overindulgence in Somalia’s national dish. (Which is, of all things, spaghetti – due to Italian occupation from the 1920s until the end of World War II.) Not that they would have been much help. The eight of us, with flashlights in our teeth, muscled the TV dish off the trailer and unfolded it. In those days the things were the size of beach cabanas. We did the same with the bulky generator and got it wired up and running. Then we needed to “find the bird.” This was before civilian GPS and the satellite location had to be eyeballed by azimuth and elevation.
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February 2020
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