THE cafés on Abu Dhabi’s seafront fill as soon as the sun sets and the heat abates. Men gather around water pipes, smoking tobacco flavoured with melon, berry or perhaps even cappuccino. A thin boy scurries from table to table with a bucket of hot coals. Those enjoying such evening idylls may not know it, but their love of smoking shisha is fuelling a bloody insurgency more than 3,000km (1,864 miles) to the south, in Somalia. 
 
 The production and export of charcoal is an unlikely but important source of revenue for the Shabab, a militant group that rules swathes of Somalia and has been battling against troops from the African Union and the fragile Somali government. Charcoal made from Somali acacia trees is particularly prized in the Gulf, because it burns longer than alternatives from, say, Sudan or Nigeria. This quality comes at a price: Somali charcoal retails for about 15 dirham a kilogram ($1.85 per lb), compared with about 9 dirham for the inferior stuff. 
 
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 In 2012 the UN banned exports of Somali charcoal, yet the prohibition seems to have been observed mostly in the breach. Indeed, revenues earned by the Shabab have increased since the ban, say UN investigators. They reckon the Shabab took more than $25m off trade worth as much as $384m in the year to May, through “taxes” imposed on the transport of charcoal and “shareholdings” in the smuggling business. Charcoal exports are one leg of a circular trade that pays for the imports of weapons from Yemen, a short hop by boat across the Gulf of Aden. 
 
 On October 5th African peacekeepers and Somali forces captured Barawe, the Shabab’s last major port, which lies between Kismayo and the capital, Mogadishu. But the victory may not much dent the Shabab’s charcoal revenues. Most of the trade had already been shifted south to Kismayo. One reason may be that, when it comes to sharing the profits from charcoal, bitter enemies can quickly turn into unacknowledged friends. The UN investigators claim, in a report presented to the UN Security Council, that profits from Kismayo’s exports are divided between rebels, the region’s government and members of the Kenyan army—which has guarded the port since its capture from the Shabab in 2012. 
 
 Ports are but one link in a long supply chain that is taxed by the Shabab and other middlemen, including the regional government. At one end are the groups of men, 10-20 strong, who are hired by charcoal traders to cut down acacia trees, some of which are 500 years old. One consequence is massive deforestation and desertification across Somalia, forcing nomadic herders off their lands. 
 
 The wood is then hauled by donkey cart to crude kilns dug into the earth, where it is partially burnt for up to ten days before being allowed to cool for another ten. The people doing this hard labour see few of the rewards. 
 
 Much of this charcoal is loaded onto small dhows, often owned by Indians, and larger merchant ships. It is then taken to various Gulf destinations, including the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait and Oman, often under false paperwork. Shipping charcoal from Somalia is not without its risks, given the prevalence of another sort of illegal activity—piracy. UN investigators found two instances in which ships carrying illegal cargoes of Somali charcoal were hijacked off the coast of Barawe. 
 
 The continued trade is prompting some countries to argue for the imposition of tougher measures. One idea is for international anti-piracy naval forces to stop and search vessels leaving Somali waters. Better, however, may be the proper enforcement of sanctions in the Gulf states where, for the time being at least, compliance with the UN ban is about as substantial as the smoke issuing from a shisha. 

 Charcoal kilns are part of a nearly forgotten industry that, in the words of one expert, came to be thought of "almost like a criminal activity." 
 
 MILFORD, Beaver County — Unless you like to tramp around in the backcountry, you may never have seen a charcoal kiln. 
 
 They are a part of a nearly forgotten industry that, in the words of one expert, came to be thought of "almost like a criminal activity." 
 
 Retired U.S. Forest Service employee Doug Page recently drove through a pinyon-juniper forest, the kind used by charcoal kilns, on a road that's barely a road to a remote location in Beaver County. The site is called Seven Kilns and dates to about 1870. 
 
 "This is in really nice shape, really," Page said. “It’s part of American history that we’re fast forgetting.” 
 
 Page would like to see the kilns preserved. 
 
 There’s another historic site, just outside Tooele, in Matt Peterson's backyard farm. 
 
 "Yeah, I'd like to see it kept and preserved the way it is,” Peterson said. 
 
 Peterson's kiln was built by the great-grandfather of Alice Dale, who is now the president of the Tooele County Historical Society. 
 
 “This is how they had to live it to survive,” Dale said. “It's pretty important. We learn from our history." 
 
 Bureau of Land Management archaeologist Nate Thomas says charcoal was critical to the mining industry. Kilns sometimes also made charcoal for homes and important buildings. 
 
 "Some of the charcoal within the Tooele area went to the Salt Lake Temple to heat the temple,” Thomas said. 
 
 Most kilns were at mine sites because charcoal was needed to smelt metals, a process discovered at least 6,000 years ago. 
 
 "Without metals, you wouldn't have had an Industrial Age, and without charcoal, you wouldn't have metals,” Page said. 
 
 People would cut down surrounding trees and burned them in the kilns, nearly smothered the fire to make it smolder very slowly. 
 
 "All the vents were sealed. The top was sealed, and it was left sealed for approximately a week to let it cool down so it didn't reignite,” explained Page. 
 
 The resulting charcoal was compact, tightly packed energy. Crucially, charcoal packed more punch than wood, burning hot enough to smelt metals. 
 
 "You need a hotter fire, roughly 2,000 degrees,” Page said. 
 
 In most cases, the kilns only lasted a few years. That's partly because they ran out of wood. 
 
 Kiln operators typically took out every sizeable tree within about a mile, according to Page. 
 
 "They basically clear-cut anything that could be used,” Page said. “A lot of times it was, 'Exploit an area, and move on.'" 
 
 "So in some parts of Utah, there was a mass deforestation,” Thomas said. “By the end, it was almost considered like a criminal activity." 
 
 Even today, some argue the economic tradeoffs were worth it. 
 
 "I think it was probably necessary to provide jobs for the people at that time,” Dale said. 
 
 "(It) made people a livelihood while they were here, so I think it was a good thing,” Peterson said. 
 
 But to Page, the lesson is still relevant. 
 
 "Take what you can, but never take everything if you want to keep a forest out there. Leave something there for the future,” he said. 
 
 Even those experts aren't sure how many kilns there were — or are. They've counted 41 just in a 30-mile radius near Seven Kilns, and they'd definitely like to preserve those that are still in good shape. 
 
 Email: hollehorst@deseretnews.com
– In Utah's backcountry, you're liable to see wide stretches of open space populated by little more than old brick huts. Their purpose, once essential to the state's economic life, came to be considered "almost like a criminal activity," an expert tells the Deseret News. In the late 1800s these huts were charcoal kilns, where forested trees were slowly heated in a week-long process that created charcoal packed with energy. Mostly it was used to smelt metals from mines, a process dating back 6,000 years or more. "Without metals you wouldn’t have had an industrial age; and without charcoal, you wouldn’t have metals," says a retired forest official who wants the kilns protected as historic sites. Yet the kilns had a downside: vast deforestation. "A lot of times it was 'exploit the area and move on,'" says archaeologist Nate Thomas. Most kilns lasted just a few years before running out of wood, and "by the end it was almost considered like a criminal activity." Some still say the kilns were necessary for economic progress, but Thomas believes they carry a lesson: "Take what you can but never take everything if you want to keep a forest out there," he says. "Leave something for the future." It isn't just a historical issue, either: In Somalia, kiln-made charcoal not only leads to wide deforestation and desertification, it's a business that allows the militant group al-Shabab to siphon off tens of millions of dollars a year, the Economist reports. Why the big bucks? Water-pipe smokers in the Gulf prize the pricey, high-quality charcoal that only comes from Somalia.