Schmidt was an ordinary oilfield engineer. Because of a $30 billion oil and gas development agreement between ExxonMobil and the Somali authorities, he had been sent to the capital, Mogadishu.
Although he had made all kinds of preparations before coming here, the degree of ruin still exceeded his expectations.
He had once read in a travel magazine that, before the civil war, this place had been known as the White Pearl of the Indian Ocean.
But now, any building with a bit of history left only broken walls and ruins. Bullet holes were clearly visible in the walls, most roads were riddled with potholes, and there was almost no greenery anywhere in the city. The moment one opened their mouth, they were bound to get a mouthful of sand.
And it was not just the lack of greenery that drew criticism.
Because of the local culture, there were no bars here, and drinking casually could even earn one a whipping.
Although their executives had managed to secure them the privilege of drinking without being whipped, that privilege was limited to the employee dormitories. The varieties and quantities available were also extremely limited, making it impossible to feel happy about it.
Therefore, for employees like them who had been stationed here, the only entertainment was buying the latest newspaper, sitting in a café near the company compound, enjoying air-conditioning the locals could not afford, drinking hand-ground coffee priced in US Dollars, and passing away an afternoon.
What newspaper it was did not matter.
Whether it was BBC or Playboy, anything with words would do, because life here was simply too boring.
As usual, Schmidt went to the café, ordered a black coffee so awful that it could take all afternoon to finish, then took his newspaper and sat in a safe