It's been a while eh? Well, I have a post for you today, but it's not going to be funny and whimsical. It's a rather unpleasant story, another one set on these damned roads, and one that deserves telling. It was my fault.
It's a sunny Friday, the 23rd of March, when I leave the house around 7.20. It's just warming up at this time, and I'm looking forward to the weekend as I head to the branch on the opposite end of Dar: a rather tortuous hour-long drive in the morning rush hour, longer if I'm unlucky. As it turned out, it's not my lucky day, but even less so for someone else. I speed along the Peninsula road that forms part of the shortcut to the main arterial route into town from the north of the city. The Peninsula is never jammed, part of its advantages as a place to live, even though there's no avoiding the tailback that stretches miles out from the city centre in every direction. Ahead the turn into Toure Drive, a lovely road that skirts the Indian Ocean, where the still-rising sun leaves a golden trail on the little waves. Slowing, I'm pleased to see that I'm not even going to have to wait briefly to turn out: the nearest cars are a good couple of hundred metres up Coco Beach way. So I don't stop, I pull out, then as I see the black shape I brake and-
BANG!
The motorbike hits me, jolting my car just slightly as it collides with the bullbars at the front. The rider is thrown forward, slamming his head (in a helmet thank god) on my bonnet. And... shock. Shock and the first creep of fear. Drive to the side of the road. Breathing hard. Shit...
They tell you to be careful at times like this. Mobs form and make snap judgements, and you don't want to be on the wrong side. Some say to escape as quickly as possible, call an ambulance from a safe distance, don't get involved. But he was lying there, stunned, wheezing, eyes opening and shutting. He needs help. So I turn off the engine and get out. The motorbike's lying on the road, dented. Two of the small doughy snacks that people eat for breakfast here are lying in the road, fallen from their bag. One has a bite out of it. People start running over, but I don't see any anger in their eyes, just curiousity. Blood runs from his leg, and I see that it's resting at an unnatural angle. A man with glasses who introduces himself as a teacher suggests that I should get him to the hospital, rather than waiting for an ambulance that may take any amount of time to arrive. So my 4x4 with its fold down seats and big boot becomes the ambulance. A few of the people carry him, 'Pole' (sorry) as they see his pain. Part of me recalls advice not to move victims before paramedics arrive in case of neck injury, but it's too late to stop and leaving him to bleed out on the road seems no solution. Then the police arrive.
The first is in khaki, the regular police. His first question concerns my licence, then he starts looking over the scene and taking notes as a white-clad traffic policeman arrives and does much the same. For more than ten minutes they measure and question while the man bleeds in my car. A frustrated bystander, the only one to show even the slightest anger to me, demands why I didn't put him in a taxi as it was obvious the police would take time to allow us to go - as if the seat of a taxi was a suitable place for the injured man. Finally a plainclothes police gets in the front of the car with me, after I promise to fetch my licence from my flat later to show them, so we can get to the hospital. The drive was agonising for me, a thousand times more so for the rider. I try to minimise the effect of the potholed roads, each jolt bringing another moan from him, buses behind hooting at my slowness. The hospital is basic, wheelchairs made of wood and bicycle tyres, the stretcher dirty. Admission fee less than a dollar. Our bank sends someone to help me, who's dispatched by doctors to buy bandages and antiseptic. Then the long wait for x-rays.
The leg was broken, as it was obvious. He needs transferring to another hospital, the national hospital with better capabilities, and a quick debate ensues about who pays for the ambulance for that transfer. I offer but insurance absorbs it. It turns out that he's one of the fortunate few, a driver for Toyota with medical insurance and sick pay to tide him over. His wife appears, and then a terrible irony becomes apparent. She's our customer. She's got a loan, and moreover was actually in a branch when she got the news. She turns up to see what happened to her husband, and sees me and my colleague there dressed in our logoed T-shirts as is customary on Friday. At least I get an easy way of helping them.
The day is taken up with police proceedings. Discussion revolves around how my money can magically make problems go away. There's a suggestion that the police could change the drawing they made of the accident scene so I'm no longer at fault. A few days later we work out a payment, negotiated by my colleagues: $400. I visit the man in hospital, who shakes my hand as soon as I enter. He's lying on the bed, weak but stable, his leg hidden from view. Again, no-one has been angry at me, the atmosphere instead of resignation. I clear the wife's loan, another thousand dollars, and with it some of my guilt.
But the case doesn't go away. The wife presses the man from Toyota, who presses the police. Monday then Tuesday is scheduled for the hearing, then postponed. Today it finally goes ahead, and I sit in the court outside waiting area for four hours. Assurances all round that no more complications happen. The man from Toyota is informed about my repayment, and takes my side. They all believe that she's just trying to get more money off me. I have a hard time blaming her.
So the hearing, in a small room in the magistrates court. Never been to court before, what a place to start. The police outside with handcuffs, waiting to escort off those who are sentenced. The magistrate dressed impeccably, suit and tie. A lady reads the charge. The fear rises again. A comic moment as her phone goes off mid-reading, and she roots round in her bag to silence it only to find it's in her pocket. Charges read, I plead guilty. 'You are convicted'. Statement of mitigation.
Fine: $15... or 4 months' imprisonment if in default. The reassurances had been well-founded, and maybe my donation to the police did its bit. It's over.
It's a sunny Friday, the 23rd of March, when I leave the house around 7.20. It's just warming up at this time, and I'm looking forward to the weekend as I head to the branch on the opposite end of Dar: a rather tortuous hour-long drive in the morning rush hour, longer if I'm unlucky. As it turned out, it's not my lucky day, but even less so for someone else. I speed along the Peninsula road that forms part of the shortcut to the main arterial route into town from the north of the city. The Peninsula is never jammed, part of its advantages as a place to live, even though there's no avoiding the tailback that stretches miles out from the city centre in every direction. Ahead the turn into Toure Drive, a lovely road that skirts the Indian Ocean, where the still-rising sun leaves a golden trail on the little waves. Slowing, I'm pleased to see that I'm not even going to have to wait briefly to turn out: the nearest cars are a good couple of hundred metres up Coco Beach way. So I don't stop, I pull out, then as I see the black shape I brake and-
BANG!
The motorbike hits me, jolting my car just slightly as it collides with the bullbars at the front. The rider is thrown forward, slamming his head (in a helmet thank god) on my bonnet. And... shock. Shock and the first creep of fear. Drive to the side of the road. Breathing hard. Shit...
They tell you to be careful at times like this. Mobs form and make snap judgements, and you don't want to be on the wrong side. Some say to escape as quickly as possible, call an ambulance from a safe distance, don't get involved. But he was lying there, stunned, wheezing, eyes opening and shutting. He needs help. So I turn off the engine and get out. The motorbike's lying on the road, dented. Two of the small doughy snacks that people eat for breakfast here are lying in the road, fallen from their bag. One has a bite out of it. People start running over, but I don't see any anger in their eyes, just curiousity. Blood runs from his leg, and I see that it's resting at an unnatural angle. A man with glasses who introduces himself as a teacher suggests that I should get him to the hospital, rather than waiting for an ambulance that may take any amount of time to arrive. So my 4x4 with its fold down seats and big boot becomes the ambulance. A few of the people carry him, 'Pole' (sorry) as they see his pain. Part of me recalls advice not to move victims before paramedics arrive in case of neck injury, but it's too late to stop and leaving him to bleed out on the road seems no solution. Then the police arrive.
The first is in khaki, the regular police. His first question concerns my licence, then he starts looking over the scene and taking notes as a white-clad traffic policeman arrives and does much the same. For more than ten minutes they measure and question while the man bleeds in my car. A frustrated bystander, the only one to show even the slightest anger to me, demands why I didn't put him in a taxi as it was obvious the police would take time to allow us to go - as if the seat of a taxi was a suitable place for the injured man. Finally a plainclothes police gets in the front of the car with me, after I promise to fetch my licence from my flat later to show them, so we can get to the hospital. The drive was agonising for me, a thousand times more so for the rider. I try to minimise the effect of the potholed roads, each jolt bringing another moan from him, buses behind hooting at my slowness. The hospital is basic, wheelchairs made of wood and bicycle tyres, the stretcher dirty. Admission fee less than a dollar. Our bank sends someone to help me, who's dispatched by doctors to buy bandages and antiseptic. Then the long wait for x-rays.
The leg was broken, as it was obvious. He needs transferring to another hospital, the national hospital with better capabilities, and a quick debate ensues about who pays for the ambulance for that transfer. I offer but insurance absorbs it. It turns out that he's one of the fortunate few, a driver for Toyota with medical insurance and sick pay to tide him over. His wife appears, and then a terrible irony becomes apparent. She's our customer. She's got a loan, and moreover was actually in a branch when she got the news. She turns up to see what happened to her husband, and sees me and my colleague there dressed in our logoed T-shirts as is customary on Friday. At least I get an easy way of helping them.
The day is taken up with police proceedings. Discussion revolves around how my money can magically make problems go away. There's a suggestion that the police could change the drawing they made of the accident scene so I'm no longer at fault. A few days later we work out a payment, negotiated by my colleagues: $400. I visit the man in hospital, who shakes my hand as soon as I enter. He's lying on the bed, weak but stable, his leg hidden from view. Again, no-one has been angry at me, the atmosphere instead of resignation. I clear the wife's loan, another thousand dollars, and with it some of my guilt.
But the case doesn't go away. The wife presses the man from Toyota, who presses the police. Monday then Tuesday is scheduled for the hearing, then postponed. Today it finally goes ahead, and I sit in the court outside waiting area for four hours. Assurances all round that no more complications happen. The man from Toyota is informed about my repayment, and takes my side. They all believe that she's just trying to get more money off me. I have a hard time blaming her.
So the hearing, in a small room in the magistrates court. Never been to court before, what a place to start. The police outside with handcuffs, waiting to escort off those who are sentenced. The magistrate dressed impeccably, suit and tie. A lady reads the charge. The fear rises again. A comic moment as her phone goes off mid-reading, and she roots round in her bag to silence it only to find it's in her pocket. Charges read, I plead guilty. 'You are convicted'. Statement of mitigation.
Fine: $15... or 4 months' imprisonment if in default. The reassurances had been well-founded, and maybe my donation to the police did its bit. It's over.
Very well written. Sorry to hear the unfortunate accident. You have acted correctly. We are proud of your action.Hope the victim is better soon.
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