Djibouti Call: Where Geopolitics Goes to Sweat and Pretend It’s Working

You might ask, “What is the Djibouti Forum?” Excellent question. No one knows. Not the attendees. Not the organizers. Not the guy selling fake Ray-Bans outside the Kempinski. But rest assured, it was branded “an unqualified success,” which in the language of international diplomacy means: the PowerPoint didn’t crash, the seafood buffet didn’t kill anyone, and at least one minister got laid.

The Penthouse of Poverty

Djibouti, if you’re unfamiliar, is strategically located between the ass end of the Middle East and the even assier end of the Horn of Africa. It’s like if you took Monaco and replaced the casinos with Chinese military bases and UN development consultants who look like substitute chemistry teachers from Iowa.

It has a population the size of Des Moines, a GDP somewhere between a Little Caesars franchise and a suburban weed dealer, and more foreign military bases than viable restaurants. The U.S., France, China, Japan, and even the Italians (bless their sunburnt little hearts) have boots on the ground here. Why? Because Djibouti is the world’s most lucrative parking lot. It’s like a Motel 6 for global powers: no frills, bad plumbing, and everyone’s armed.

Geopolitics with Goat Curry

While I was there, the Forum’s theme was “Regional Integration and Inclusive Growth,” which, translated from DevelopmentSpeak™, means: “Let’s all sit in air-conditioned rooms and pretend this country isn’t being held together with duct tape and IMF loans.”

The panels featured men in suits three sizes too big—usually gifted by the Chinese—and women in pantsuits that screamed “I went to Georgetown and regret everything.” There was talk of logistics corridors, green energy partnerships, and digital transformation. Meanwhile, outside, stray goats were attempting to mate with solar panels.

Inside the main hall, speakers from donor nations took turns describing Djibouti as a “beacon of stability.” Which is true if you define stability as “a place where nothing happens because everything already sucks.” The only reason Djibouti isn’t in flames is because there’s nothing left to burn. Even the corruption is tired. Everyone’s already been bought—twice.

Mission: Implausible

Of course, the real action in Djibouti isn’t in the conference rooms. It’s on the airstrips. U.S. drones buzz overhead like aggressive mosquitoes, presumably targeting militants, goats, or whatever poor bastard forgot to update his WhatsApp privacy settings.

I took a drive near the Ethiopian border—by which I mean I rode in an armored SUV piloted by a man named Youssef who assured me he “used to drive for Gadhafi but only the good years.” We passed a scene that looked like the aftermath of a Michael Bay fever dream: charred pickup trucks, satellite dishes melted like Salvador Dali clocks, and a

group of locals arguing whether the latest explosion was an act of God or America. Honestly, it’s hard to tell. Both tend to arrive from above, uninvited, and ruin your day.

The Illusion of Functioning

Meanwhile, downtown Djibouti City is attempting a facelift. There’s a new marina being built to attract yachts from God-knows-where. (I assume the marketing pitch is “Come anchor in Djibouti: Somalia with valet service.”) Chinese-funded skyscrapers loom over dirt alleys where feral children play with plastic bottles and beg for SIM cards. The juxtaposition is so jarring you could get whiplash just by blinking.

To walk the streets is to witness what happens when aid money mates with cargo cult economics. Shiny buildings with no tenants. Roads that begin and end in the same pothole. A “tech hub” where the Wi-Fi password is written on a chalkboard and the servers are cooled with donkey fans. This is a country that could nationalize delusion.

Djibouti: It’s What’s For Dinner

I tried the local cuisine. It’s…ambitious. Imagine Ethiopian food, but everything tastes faintly of resentment and diesel fumes. There’s camel meat (chewy, angry), goat in berbere sauce (a dish that tastes like it holds a grudge), and rice that’s been boiled into existential despair. The beer selection is non-existent, the coffee is surprisingly self-aware, and the toilets are metaphorical.

But I’m being unfair. Djiboutians are warm, proud, and long-suffering. Which is to say: they’re every bit as bewildered by their country’s fame as I am. One hotel concierge, when I asked about the Forum, replied, “Yes, sir. Many summits. Many plans. But tomorrow, no water.” That should be the national motto.

The Takeaway (Don’t)

So what did I learn at the Djibouti Forum 2025?

That diplomacy is mostly cosplay for bureaucrats.

That geopolitics is an elaborate version of musical chairs, only played with drones and port contracts.

That you can hold a hundred conferences in a country and still not fix the fact that half its people live in tin shacks and poop in holes.

But also this: Djibouti is important not because it’s functioning, but because it’s available. It’s the real estate agent’s dream: location, location, location. Who cares if the house is on fire, as long as it’s near the ocean and comes with a helipad?

And that, folks, is Djibouti. A place where the world gathers to congratulate itself, while the locals wonder why the hell no one brought plumbing.

P.J. O’Rourke was last seen boarding a flight out of Djibouti with mild heatstroke, three souvenir kaffiyehs, and a bag of suspiciously unbranded chewing gum. He apologizes to the government of Djibouti, the international donor community, and the goat he may have accidentally insulted.

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