People
always say humanitarian work is full of sacrifices. But let me tell you, you
don't get what that means until you're out in the field, deep in a place like
South Sudan. I spent over five years working in South Sudan with three
different organizations and trust me, it's a place where challenges are as
constant as the dust in the air. I've seen everything from navigating political
tensions with the government to figuring out how to motivate a team under
extreme stress. But none of the challenges were as disturbing as the ones I
encountered with snakes.
Now,
South Sudan is infamous for being a snake country. Every time you step outside,
you must keep your eyes on the ground—especially in Upper Nile, Warrap,
Jonglei, and Pibor Administrative areas where I worked. Snakes were everywhere.
In the bushes, the compounds, and sometimes even inside your room. I'm not
talking about some harmless little garden snakes but the big, venomous ones.
Imagine walking barefoot in the heat, only to spot a puff adder or cobra coiled
up by your door. And don't even get me started on the stories of colleagues who
found them under their beds or inside their tents.
But
the real snake drama began when I had a field trip to a remote county called
Baliet. Baliet was so disconnected that it was very hard to access it. During
the dry season, you could take a road trip from Malakal to get there. But in
the rainy season? Forget it. The roads were flooded, and the only way to get in
or out was by boat on the river Nile. The Nile is long, winding, and full of
surprises, some of which are deadly. A speed boat from Malakal to get there
takes between 3 and a half to 4 hours ride down the River Nile.
When
I got to Baliet in October 2021 to provide technical support to my
organization's field team, it felt like stepping into another world. Baliet
wasn't just remote; it was isolated. We stayed in a shared compound run by
GOAL, where tents and grass tukuls were the only accommodations. I had my
tukul, a mud-and-grass hut, which they decided would be my "safe
space" for my field trip. But while the tukul was "secure," the
snakes didn't quite agree.
One
night, after a long day of meetings, I did my usual routine—working on my
laptop in bed under the mosquito net until late, then heading out for a quick
pee around 11 PM. I froze as I stepped out of the tukul and into the dark.
Right before me was a massive snake, its head raised as if to say, "You
better turn around, buddy."
I
screamed—loudly—which was probably a good thing because the boat drivers, who
were staying nearby, heard and came to my rescue. They killed the snake, which,
by the way, was one of the venomous ones. Snakes in South Sudan are a real
threat, and the closest clinic was hours away, meaning if I got bitten, I'd
probably be out of luck. We all know the drill: in places like this, if a snake
is poisonous, you kill it before it kills you.
But
here's where it gets even weirder.
The
next night, I decided to go out for my pee routine a little earlier to avoid
another scare—a bad idea. As soon as I opened the bedroom door of my tukul,
there it was—another snake, this time inside the living room at the entrance
door—a big black one, right in front of the door, just waiting to attack. My
heart dropped. I panicked and called a colleague, Abolich, who rushed over with
others to help. We devised a plan, using a wooden pole to pin the snake down
while they pushed the door open from the outside and killed it. It was a team
effort, but I'm unsure who was more traumatized, the snake or me.
Afterwards,
I was left in that room, trembling, wondering: How did it get in? Could it have
come through the roof? Under the door? I could not sleep for most of the night,
and it was a very long night.
The
next day, I inspected my tukul and discovered a large gap at the bottom of the
door frame. That's how the snake had sneaked inside my room. Knowing I could
block that gap and sleep easier the following nights, I felt greatly relieved.
But of course, I kept asking myself: What if more snakes show up?
The
fear that night was real. I lay wide awake, flashing my phone light around the
room almost every 10 minutes to make sure no other snake had intruded. I even
joked with my colleagues the following day, "I think I'm done with South
Sudan." But I didn't realize that some of my colleagues had snake stories
even worse than mine.
One
guy, a fellow aid worker with another organisation, told me how a snake had managed to
get into his Osuofia bag while he was in Baliet. He only realized it when the
bag started shaking in the morning as he headed towards the Nile to board the
boat. When he opened it, two massive snakes popped out! Thankfully, they killed
them before anything worse happened. But let's say I wasn't the only one who
had a close encounter.
Then,
another colleague shared a story that still gives me chills. One night, he was
in the compound, sleeping inside a tent and under a mosquito net, when a snake
crawled into his tent. He didn't notice until he tried to get up to pee, and
his phone torch lights flicked on. The moment the light hit the snake, it went
into attack mode, and he froze. Again, he screamed for support, and thankfully,
colleagues came and killed the snake before anyone got hurt.
And
it doesn't stop there. I later heard about a terrifying incident involving one
of the humanitarian boat drivers. A snake had snuck aboard the speedboat while
parked at the riverbank. It wasn't until they were in the middle of the river
Nile that the snake started to emerge from the compartments. The boat drivers
calmly killed it before anyone realized what was going on. It was all so quiet;
it was like they'd been practising this routine.
After
hearing all these stories, I realized that working in places like South Sudan
can feel like living in a jungle. Every day brings something new; no matter how
much you plan, you're always on edge. But that's the reality of the work we do.
It's unpredictable, messy, and sometimes scary. But you keep going because you
know that your work matters. You know that your presence in these communities,
even with all the snakes, makes a difference.
And
that's the real lesson from my snake encounters. In places like South Sudan,
you don't just battle political instability, poverty, and disease—you battle
fear itself. But in the end, if you can survive the snakes, you'll come out
stronger, more resilient, and ready to tackle the next challenge.
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