Somaliland wants to be a trading hub. Here are the problems

..and the potential.

Somaliland, a semi-desert territory on the coast of the Gulf of Aden, has set its sights on becoming a regional trading hub for the Horn of Africa. Though not internationally recognised, Somaliland’s "autonomous" status has insulated it from the turmoil that has subsumed Somali for the past two decades. It has a functioning political system, government institutions, its own currency and relatively low levels of political violence.

At the heart of its economic potential is the port of Berbera, used as an import and export hub by landlocked Ethiopia. Its two airports have undergone a USD 10 million Kuwaiti funded makeover which Somaliland hopes will be the start of efforts to develop its infrastructure, creating the potential for it to augment its position as an alternative trade corridor to Djibouti for Ethiopia.

Ethiopia’s USD 43bn economy, while largely closed to the outside world, is growing by 7 per cent a year and the country is keen to develop coffee and leather manufacturing exports.

The need for enhanced infrastructure in the region is demonstrated by persistent bottlenecks at ports in Mombasa, Dar es Salaam and Djibouti. The appalling condition of the Mombasa road linking the port with the rest of Kenya and the countries of the interior exacerbates the backlog.

Ethiopia’s over reliance on one trade corridor through Djibouti leaves the country vulnerable to fluctuations in its relationship with its trade partner, thereby compromising its ability to effectively manage the political economy of trade logistics. The World Bank has encouraged Addis Ababa to develop transport routes through Somaliland to diversify its options and improve its negotiating position with transit corridors.

Infrastructure development will provide a boost to Somaliland’s fledgling natural resources sector. Sharing the similar geology to the oil rich Gulf states, Somaliland and neighbouring Puntland, offer attractive prospecting opportunities for oil & gas companies. Canadian-listed Africa Oil Corp and Anglo-Turkish oil company Genel Energy, have signed contracts with the semi-autonomous governments and are exploring in the region.

In a situation similar to the standoff between Baghdad and Kirkuk, the activities of international oil companies have sparked controversy over which authorities have the right to issue exploration licences. Following the presidential election in Somalia in 2012, Somalia authorities are reasserting their claim that the issuing of such licences falls solely within the remit of the federal government.

The Somali constitution gives considerable autonomy to regional governments to enter into commercial contracts for oil deals, while a petroleum law, not yet adopted by parliament is being invoked by federal officials in Mogadishu to claim that the central government can distribute natural resources contracts.

The seeds of this controversy dates back to the 1991 overthrow of a dictator that plunged Somalia into two decades of violent turmoil, first at the hands of clan warlords and then Islamist militants, creating a political vacuum in which two semi-autonomous regions - Puntland and Somaliland – emerged in northern Somalia.

Multinational oil companies with licences to explore Somalia prior to 1991 have since seen Somaliland and Puntland grant their own licences for the same blocks. At present the federal government is too weak to press its claim and is unlikely to remain so into the medium term. Any concerted effort to force Somaliland and Puntland to rescind contracts has the potential to provoke violent clashes between armed groups and the security forces in the territories.

Activity by a range of investors in infrastructure development and oil & gas exploration is indicative of the potential to be unlocked in even the most challenging territories. With appropriate insurance coverages providing balance sheet protection against the challenges posed by unpredictable government action and the threat of political violence, opportunities abound for the intrepid investor.

Photograph: Getty Images

JLT Head of Credit & Political Risk Advisory

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad