My wife signed a release form the first time I went to South Sudan to do missions work. She was warned that I could be taken hostage. I could be tortured. I could be dismembered or maimed. I could be murdered.
There are rebels. Beggars and bandits. Corrupt government officials. Pick-pockets. There are whole families of scam artists.
There are cobras. Black mambas. Scorpions. Land mines.
There's really not very many places to go potty that are comfortable.
But the most scary, horrifying, take-your-life-into-your-hands thing you can do is drive in traffic in Kampala, Uganda, the first stop on the way to Sudan.
These pictures are of a head on collision we got into fifteen minutes after I landed. I drunk driver was in the wrong lane. We were in an armored Landcruiser and they were in this little tin can. It was not pretty.
That's the car. The other drivers, our opponents, of you will, left the scene of the accident since they were drunk, hurt, and there's no ambulance service. You have to kind of find your own way to the hospital if you're hurt. It took about two hours for the cops to get there. They had about half-a-mile to drive from the police station.
If you're offered insurance before you go overseas, you should buy it. If you're not offered insurance, look into it yourself.
Am I wearing a hip pack? Oh, man. Sorry,