Somaliland's endangered animals

Chichi may not be the ideal family pet

It is often difficult to clamp down on the trade in endangered animals in the Horn of Africa. The BBC's East Africa correspondent Andrew Harding discussed the issue with the minister of information in Somaliland, and his pet lion.

The minister was sitting in his back garden, in a comfy deckchair with his favorite pet, Chichi, lying on his lap.

Chichi purred, then growled, then clamped her jaws firmly round the minister's crotch.

The minister emerged from his bungalow and walked towards me, smiling like some benign zoo keeper

Mr Waranade stopped talking rather abruptly, and looked down at the fully-grown lioness that was sprawled between his legs.

For about five, mesmerising seconds, I waited to see how hungry Chichi was feeling.

The minister's garden was in Hargeisa, a dusty brown city in the hills of Somaliland, in the Horn of Africa.

Clamp down

Rather fittingly, I'd come to see Mr Waranade to ask him what his government was doing to clamp down on rare animal poaching.

The Horn of Africa may have more pressing problems like anarchy and starvation, but the animal trade is a growing worry.

Cheetahs are on sale openly in Somaliland

I'd just been to a Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of Hargeisa where there were two injured baby cheetahs on sale, tied to a tree. One could barely walk because its back had been smashed by its captors.

The animals had been brought into town by a group of nomads living in the dry plains that stretch all the way to the Indian Ocean.

When I arrived at the minister's gate, Chichi was the first to welcome me with a casual sniff. She turned and wandered off to a corner, to taunt the three adult cheetahs which were chained to the garden wall.

Hostile environment

From time to time, journalists at the BBC get sent on something called a "hostile environment course". It basically involves running round the English countryside for a few days pretending to avoid snipers, minefields, and crazed Balkan kidnappers.

Somaliland is stuck in limbo - a would-be country, with its own currency and passports already printed, waiting for the world to let it join the club

Apart from being a bit of a laugh, it's actually quite useful. But for some reason, the ex-army types who dreamt up the course failed to include even the most basic lion-handling exercise.

The minister emerged from his bungalow and walked towards me, smiling like some benign zoo keeper.

By then, three helpers were trying to keep Chichi under control with the assistance of a snarling, snappy dog, who just seemed to make the lioness more irritable. I noticed that one of the men had an eye missing.

Fear is catching. But so is confidence - and Mr Waranade seemed so thoroughly relaxed that I decided, with one eye on the door, to stay for tea.

"Yes," said the minister, as a pacified Chichi finally snuggled into his lap, "I suppose our country does have an image problem. People always confuse us with Somalia. But we are Somaliland."

Fighting to be recognised

He wasn't being pedantic. The distinction is crucial. Ten years ago, Somaliland declared that it was breaking away from greater Somalia - to become an independent country in its own right.

Since then, Somalia has descended into anarchy and poverty while Somaliland has become the proverbial island of peace and stability.

Somalia has other problems apart from the illegal animal trade

The trouble is that no one will recognise Somaliland as an independent country. Not even Britain, which used to run the place as a protectorate until 1960. Even the spell check on my computer has underlined the country with a dismissive red line.

And so Somaliland is stuck in limbo, or maybe purgatory. A would-be country, with its own currency and passports already printed, waiting for the world to let it join the club.

It turned out that Chichi wasn't feeling too hungry that afternoon. The minister pounded on her head a few frantic times with his fist and she opened her jaws and let him go.

The minister smiled - a small, embarrassed smile - like a parent apologising for a naughty child.

Chichi was given to the minister as a present

"Soon," he said, "I will pull her teeth and her claws out. She is getting a little big. But she loves to play, and so do I."

It seemed a good moment to ask him about the wildlife trade. But he insisted there wasn't a problem.

Chichi had been given to the minister as a present, along with two other lions. But they both died. In fact rumour has it that Chichi killed one of them.

The light was fading by the time I headed to the gate. Chichi and the minister had started a game of tug of war. He was holding the tail of a stuffed dead lion - straw poking out of its stomach. Chichi was gripping a front leg firmly between her bright white teeth.