Crashing cars
I was in my first car crash when I was, um, seven.
My family lived in Malawi at the time. There were about thirty cars in the entire country. My father managed to meet one of the other cars, head on, on bonfire night, after two beers. The steering wheel went into his gut. After being checked for injury, and returned home, he woke up screaming, and had to be returned to hospital to have a large proportion of his lower intestine removed. He was in hospital on and off for six months after that.
When I was about twelve, same country, my father rolled the Vauxhall estate on a dirt track somewhere near lake Malawi. Really, really, rolled it. We went over one and a half times. I can still remember the rolling; there are no emotions associated, and the fact that the car ended up on it's side on the side that I was on, meaning that most of my brothers and sisters were on top of me. I have made them suffer for this. A goat (kill all goats) had run into the road, and my father, asleep in the high african afternoon, had swerved to avoid it, and rolled us off the road. He related his experience of the slow motion with which I view the memory: He realised that the car was about to settle on the hand that he habitually kept around the window post, and removed it in time.
The next accident was the one that I spoke of in this post.
I returned to Tanzania and bought half of a Suzuki 410 Jimny jeep. The theory was that I was going to use it to practise, and learn to drive that way. After three months, this wasn't working, for various friendship related issues. So, another friend recommended the Love and Joy driving school, and off I went, downtown. The bevvy of men of all nationalities inside the shaded door of the concrete sixties construction told me that the best way was to book half an hour for two weeks, and then the instructor would see how it was going.
I went the next day after school, and met the instructor, a heavy lidded, good looking man in the Tanzanian urban stylee; a goatee and amiable inscrutability, from up country, who later proved that he was taking the name of his institutiou far too seriously. I can't remember what he was called. We sat in the learner car, a Volkswagon, made in the sixties. The inside had been modified with twine (best in the humidity) and some flattened twin cans to provide dual controls. It worked, as Tiberius (as I shall call him) demonstrated when the first pedestrian walked into the road in front of us.
Dar es Salaam is very, very hot, and even more humid. The roads were paved once, but at this time, the tarmac had largely disintegrated. The ruling party (not Nyere any longer) had let go of African Socialism, to some extent, in order to get the IMF loans that would enable the country to patch its infrastructure together, but the roads in Dar were still mainly a mixture of broken tarmac, stone, and potholes. We drove around for half an hour with Tiberius saying "go right, go left". I avoided several pedestrians with due warning.
I returned the next day; same thing. After about a week of this, Tiberius took to reading some letters while I was driving, remembering to instruct me upon direction every five minutes or so. I took to deciding directions for myself, and also managed to avoid many pedestrians on my own.
Now convinced that I could decide to turn right, or left, for myself, Tiberius took to talking to me about his rather complicated life. He had left his wife behind in Dodoma, and she wanted more money. His girlfriend in Dar es Salaam was giving him a hard time, as she also wanted money. I nodded, and concentrated on clutch changes. He offered to take me out. I declined, because it was clear that he couldn't afford me, as well.
After two weeks, Tiberius said that he had something to discuss with me. You really get to know a person if you spend half an hour a day avoiding pedestrians with them. I adopted a listening pose.
"You can take the driving test, now" said Tiberius.
I nodded, and said "When?"
"Give me five thousand shillingi," said Tiberius, "and I shall arrange it for next Monday. Bring a photograph."
I turned up the next Monday, with the five thousand shillingi (about, um, twenty pounds? Maybe five pounds), and the photograph. Tiberius indicated that I should get into the car. He had returned to his earlier authority over directions. I was directed to a government building, sixties concrete, four floors, covered in the mould left behind by water runs.
"Give me the five thousand shillingi," said Tiberius.
"Er," said I
"No," he said. "It's fine. I promise you, I won't run off with it. You can trust me. I have to give the money to the man who will give you your license."
I handed it over, and sat in the Volkswagen, shifting sweatily on the sixties plastic covers. I had a cigarette, and thought a bit. I wondered if a dual control Volkswagon was adequate exchange for five thousand shillingi.
After half an hour, Tiberius returned. "Here is your license," he said.
"Shouldn't I take a test?" I asked.
"No, no," said Tiberius. "The minister trusts me. I say you can drive. You can buy me a beer, now."
I bought him a beer, and rebuffed some more suggestions to meet extra curricularly.
The next accident I had was in the Jimny 410, once it was fully mine. A student in my tutor group had died, rather spectacularly, in a traffic accident. The student in question was an Asian Tanzanian with an African chauffeur. The boy was not a nice lad; I have to record that some people aren't nice, even if they are children. Apparently, The child had habitually bullied the chauffer on the way into school, telling him to drive faster, and threatening to get him sacked if he didn't. The child had boasted about this to his schoolfriends, who came out with the stories after he had died. On one of these drive faster sprees, probably, the chauffeur met a car coming the othe way in the same lane, swerved to avoid it, and rammed a lampost. The chauffeur and the boy died instantly; the boy's sister lived.
I have memories of being ten different people at once, retaining silence, and not knowing which truth was better. The chauffeur had a family; nothing was done for them, publically. A memorial cricket competition was instituted in the memory of the boy.
I was on the way to the funeral of the child, with my boyfriend of the time; and we heard a screeching noise. A Toyota bakkie appeared out of nowhere, skidded across the road, and crashed into the driver's door. I saw him coming about fifteen seconds before the end, tried to accelerate out of it, but crashed into it. I had to pull my hand out carefully - the indented door was putting pressure on my fingers, but nothing was damaged. The bakkie had been reported as having brake problems; and the mechanics driving it, had taken it onto the road, to test out the extent to which the brakes had failed.
Totally, I'd say.
We didn't make the funeral.
The next accident was on holiday, back in Malawi, on holiday, with the boyfriend. I wasn't driving. The boyfriend was. We were on our way up to Lake Malawi, on a newly tarmacked road, when a young girl ran out into the road in front of us. She was killed. I don't visit this memory often, and I want to write more about it some other time. It was not my fault, and, later, the police deemed, not his fault. There's nothing to be done to undo the action.
The last accident was in South Africa. I had been away for a weekend to a game park with some internet friends, and I was taking one of them back to Johannesburg via Mafikeng. I was going to house sit for the holidays in Johannesburg, and had several pet rats that came along with me. I put the rat cages in the back of the Volkswagen Golf to travel,,using the beatselt to trap them in, and usually, transported them trouble free.
The rainy season had started, and, as we drove nearer to Johannesburg, a car ahead of us crashed into another at some traffic lights. I slammed on the brakes, on the greasy new-rain road, and found myself heading for the ditch to the left. There was a lampost ahead, to the right and (and I remember assessing all of this in slow time), and pedestrians in the distance; I wasn't sure of missing them if I tried to turn the car back onto the road. Mmories of crashes previously went through my head. I aimed the car at the ditch. I directed the car towards the ditch.
Leslie, my passenger, raised his head. "What about the rats?" he said. So, he was alive.
The rat cages were open. We found the beasties cowering under the driver's seat. Alive, as well. We put them back into the cages. The cages fastened easily. The car could move, and so, I drove it back to Johannesburg really, really slowly. I spent the holidays getting the car fixed.
Six out of nine lives, then.
On edit: Erk. I've been told that this reads rather heavily; sorry. It is not significant in any way at all; nothng I write ever is. I started writing about the Love and Joy driving school, and then remembered the crashes. That is all.
My family lived in Malawi at the time. There were about thirty cars in the entire country. My father managed to meet one of the other cars, head on, on bonfire night, after two beers. The steering wheel went into his gut. After being checked for injury, and returned home, he woke up screaming, and had to be returned to hospital to have a large proportion of his lower intestine removed. He was in hospital on and off for six months after that.
When I was about twelve, same country, my father rolled the Vauxhall estate on a dirt track somewhere near lake Malawi. Really, really, rolled it. We went over one and a half times. I can still remember the rolling; there are no emotions associated, and the fact that the car ended up on it's side on the side that I was on, meaning that most of my brothers and sisters were on top of me. I have made them suffer for this. A goat (kill all goats) had run into the road, and my father, asleep in the high african afternoon, had swerved to avoid it, and rolled us off the road. He related his experience of the slow motion with which I view the memory: He realised that the car was about to settle on the hand that he habitually kept around the window post, and removed it in time.
The next accident was the one that I spoke of in this post.
I returned to Tanzania and bought half of a Suzuki 410 Jimny jeep. The theory was that I was going to use it to practise, and learn to drive that way. After three months, this wasn't working, for various friendship related issues. So, another friend recommended the Love and Joy driving school, and off I went, downtown. The bevvy of men of all nationalities inside the shaded door of the concrete sixties construction told me that the best way was to book half an hour for two weeks, and then the instructor would see how it was going.
I went the next day after school, and met the instructor, a heavy lidded, good looking man in the Tanzanian urban stylee; a goatee and amiable inscrutability, from up country, who later proved that he was taking the name of his institutiou far too seriously. I can't remember what he was called. We sat in the learner car, a Volkswagon, made in the sixties. The inside had been modified with twine (best in the humidity) and some flattened twin cans to provide dual controls. It worked, as Tiberius (as I shall call him) demonstrated when the first pedestrian walked into the road in front of us.
Dar es Salaam is very, very hot, and even more humid. The roads were paved once, but at this time, the tarmac had largely disintegrated. The ruling party (not Nyere any longer) had let go of African Socialism, to some extent, in order to get the IMF loans that would enable the country to patch its infrastructure together, but the roads in Dar were still mainly a mixture of broken tarmac, stone, and potholes. We drove around for half an hour with Tiberius saying "go right, go left". I avoided several pedestrians with due warning.
I returned the next day; same thing. After about a week of this, Tiberius took to reading some letters while I was driving, remembering to instruct me upon direction every five minutes or so. I took to deciding directions for myself, and also managed to avoid many pedestrians on my own.
Now convinced that I could decide to turn right, or left, for myself, Tiberius took to talking to me about his rather complicated life. He had left his wife behind in Dodoma, and she wanted more money. His girlfriend in Dar es Salaam was giving him a hard time, as she also wanted money. I nodded, and concentrated on clutch changes. He offered to take me out. I declined, because it was clear that he couldn't afford me, as well.
After two weeks, Tiberius said that he had something to discuss with me. You really get to know a person if you spend half an hour a day avoiding pedestrians with them. I adopted a listening pose.
"You can take the driving test, now" said Tiberius.
I nodded, and said "When?"
"Give me five thousand shillingi," said Tiberius, "and I shall arrange it for next Monday. Bring a photograph."
I turned up the next Monday, with the five thousand shillingi (about, um, twenty pounds? Maybe five pounds), and the photograph. Tiberius indicated that I should get into the car. He had returned to his earlier authority over directions. I was directed to a government building, sixties concrete, four floors, covered in the mould left behind by water runs.
"Give me the five thousand shillingi," said Tiberius.
"Er," said I
"No," he said. "It's fine. I promise you, I won't run off with it. You can trust me. I have to give the money to the man who will give you your license."
I handed it over, and sat in the Volkswagen, shifting sweatily on the sixties plastic covers. I had a cigarette, and thought a bit. I wondered if a dual control Volkswagon was adequate exchange for five thousand shillingi.
After half an hour, Tiberius returned. "Here is your license," he said.
"Shouldn't I take a test?" I asked.
"No, no," said Tiberius. "The minister trusts me. I say you can drive. You can buy me a beer, now."
I bought him a beer, and rebuffed some more suggestions to meet extra curricularly.
The next accident I had was in the Jimny 410, once it was fully mine. A student in my tutor group had died, rather spectacularly, in a traffic accident. The student in question was an Asian Tanzanian with an African chauffeur. The boy was not a nice lad; I have to record that some people aren't nice, even if they are children. Apparently, The child had habitually bullied the chauffer on the way into school, telling him to drive faster, and threatening to get him sacked if he didn't. The child had boasted about this to his schoolfriends, who came out with the stories after he had died. On one of these drive faster sprees, probably, the chauffeur met a car coming the othe way in the same lane, swerved to avoid it, and rammed a lampost. The chauffeur and the boy died instantly; the boy's sister lived.
I have memories of being ten different people at once, retaining silence, and not knowing which truth was better. The chauffeur had a family; nothing was done for them, publically. A memorial cricket competition was instituted in the memory of the boy.
I was on the way to the funeral of the child, with my boyfriend of the time; and we heard a screeching noise. A Toyota bakkie appeared out of nowhere, skidded across the road, and crashed into the driver's door. I saw him coming about fifteen seconds before the end, tried to accelerate out of it, but crashed into it. I had to pull my hand out carefully - the indented door was putting pressure on my fingers, but nothing was damaged. The bakkie had been reported as having brake problems; and the mechanics driving it, had taken it onto the road, to test out the extent to which the brakes had failed.
Totally, I'd say.
We didn't make the funeral.
The next accident was on holiday, back in Malawi, on holiday, with the boyfriend. I wasn't driving. The boyfriend was. We were on our way up to Lake Malawi, on a newly tarmacked road, when a young girl ran out into the road in front of us. She was killed. I don't visit this memory often, and I want to write more about it some other time. It was not my fault, and, later, the police deemed, not his fault. There's nothing to be done to undo the action.
The last accident was in South Africa. I had been away for a weekend to a game park with some internet friends, and I was taking one of them back to Johannesburg via Mafikeng. I was going to house sit for the holidays in Johannesburg, and had several pet rats that came along with me. I put the rat cages in the back of the Volkswagen Golf to travel,,using the beatselt to trap them in, and usually, transported them trouble free.
The rainy season had started, and, as we drove nearer to Johannesburg, a car ahead of us crashed into another at some traffic lights. I slammed on the brakes, on the greasy new-rain road, and found myself heading for the ditch to the left. There was a lampost ahead, to the right and (and I remember assessing all of this in slow time), and pedestrians in the distance; I wasn't sure of missing them if I tried to turn the car back onto the road. Mmories of crashes previously went through my head. I aimed the car at the ditch. I directed the car towards the ditch.
Leslie, my passenger, raised his head. "What about the rats?" he said. So, he was alive.
The rat cages were open. We found the beasties cowering under the driver's seat. Alive, as well. We put them back into the cages. The cages fastened easily. The car could move, and so, I drove it back to Johannesburg really, really slowly. I spent the holidays getting the car fixed.
Six out of nine lives, then.
On edit: Erk. I've been told that this reads rather heavily; sorry. It is not significant in any way at all; nothng I write ever is. I started writing about the Love and Joy driving school, and then remembered the crashes. That is all.