The huge Mercedes truck wallowed in the muddy pool like a drowsy hippo. My traveling companion and I looked on from dry land, wearily waiting to see what would happen next.
Jane and I had been in Somalia for three weeks and this was the latest in a long series of unwelcome adventures. There had been the usual hazards of traveling while female, also bandits and spilled blood in the north, and the repugnant advances and drunk driving of expats who worked for British American Tobacco in the capital, Mogadishu.
Now we found ourselves, again, in need of the blessings of the Patron Saint of the Young and Foolish.
Subscribe to Whole Stories Shortly and you’ll receive a weekly story that’s short enough to fit into your schedule, and long enough to help you escape from it.
