THE WHOLE COUNTRY'S STONED

Djibouti - By midafternoon, the heat, like the drug-induced
conversation, is relentless.

The khat-chewing men of Djibouti, their eyes shining bright and their
spit turning green, hit euphoria in a frenzied flight of fancy.

The women say the men are building "castles in the sky," planning
dreamy projects deep into the night that are forgotten after a
morning's sleep.

The men say gathering each day to chew the narcotic leaves is about
bonding, even if it is "a waste of time." But in this impoverished
port town that some people say could have been the Singapore of
Africa, there is little else to do.

"We could have made Djibouti an industrial area. Instead all the money
disappeared into khat," says Idriss Abdulahi, 54, his eyes aglow
during an afternoon khat-chewing session with friends. "We ended up
drug addicts."

Poverty is pervasive in this former French colony of 620,000 people on
the Gulf of Aden, nestled between strife-wracked Somalia and
impoverished Ethiopia.

Civil servants, who work only mornings, form the majority of the
limping work force in a country with 40 percent unemployment. Even
they have not been paid for months.

Education ends at high school, where many boys, their prospects dim,
already have succumbed to khat, which is legal in Djibouti.

Every morning an airplane from Ethiopia roars into Djibouti with up to
10 tons of leafy stems of khat, or Catha edulis, worth about $500,000.
Impatient customers swarm over the town's khat stalls before the
sweltering heat drives residents indoors.

The United Nations estimates 98 percent of Djibouti's men and a
growing number of its women chew the bitter leaf despite their
desperate poverty.

"We have no education, and we have no work, so we chew khat. It makes
me forget," says Mule Aden Ali, an unemployed 22-year-old who lives
off his parents and demands money from them to buy khat.

"They gave birth to us, so they must give us the answer to our
troubles."

Khat is everywhere. A policeman holds a bundle of leaves in one hand,
an assault rifle in the other. Men chew as they tow young children
through the streets. Taxi drivers with balls of green wedged in one
cheek mindlessly wave at prospective clients.

Once the daily air shipment of khat comes in, a speedboat makes a run
north across Tadjourah Sound, carrying bundles of khat to a demanding
northern district. Trains and trucks head south with more.

The speedboat captain says that during the recent presidential
campaign, he delivered free bunches of khat leaves to voters in behalf
of the government candidate, Ismail Omar Guelleh, who won.

At election rallies and town meetings, on shady street corners and
especially inside afternoon meeting halls - known as "mabraze" - men
stuff their cheeks with khat.

In one hot, dark mabraze, four old friends slip into khat's embrace.
The ceiling fan is still, and a bare light bulb is dark. The
electricity is out again.

Writer Ublike Carton brings his freshly washed leafy stems carefully
wrapped in newspaper.

Abdulahi sits on a mat with a glass of chopped leaves and a container
of sweet tea. The former legislator chews khat on Thursdays but
believes it is Djibouti's downfall.

Jama Hassan is concerned about his teenage son, who is already chewing
khat.

As they chew, the mood swings from the fatigue of stifling heat to a
frenzied buzz of intellectual fancy, the talk that bonds Djibouti's
men. "The only thing positive about khat is the conversation,"
Abdulahi says.

Unlike more potent drugs that produce a stupor in users, khat seems to
act more as an energy infuser, and the talk remains coherent.

Tea is poured. Carton swishes water in his mouth. He briefly chews
leaves and spits them out so he doesn't rot his mouth.

The sun sets, and the mood shifts again. The men are reaching
"mirghan," the khat climax, notorious for arousing sexual desire.

"It's a good time to see the wives," Hassan says.

The sexual impulse isn't real, Carton adds. It's just a drugged desire
demanding immediate relief.

The lure of khat destroys families, Hassan says. It keeps men away
from home, leaving Djibouti's women shouldering family duties.

Mukia Abdi, 28, would rather stay single than marry a khat
chewer.

"They don't know what's happening at home. They don't care about the
lives of their children," she says at the pharmacy where she works.
"There is not enough money to bring home food. Men who chew khat pay
first for the khat."

Hawa Daher, 30, whose unemployed husband chews the leaf, hates the
drug that she relies on to feed her seven children.

"If it were possible, I would prohibit men from chewing khat," she
says.