Powerless at the Wheel

One of our housemates from when we lived in the community house back in Chimoio was in a car accident yesterday. Apparently he was driving in Tete Province in the north of the country when an oxcart carrying a family with lots of kids crossed the highway right in front of his vehicle. Our ex-housemate decided to swerve off the road rather than hit the oxcart, and managed to get himself seriously injured in the process. He was taken to Malawi (not far from the border - he was lucky he had access to a decent medical center) and was operated on. He's got several broken bones, lost part of his ear, had to have stitches in his leg and had to have blood pockets drained from his face.

I'm horrified by what happened to him, and I really hope that he has a quick recovery, but there's part of me that just doesn't buy this story. This housemate had some serious issues with drugs and alcohol, in addition to being bipolar and off his medication for more than a year because it's not available here in Mozambique. So he self-medicated with other substances, and generally used getting drunk and high as a way to deal with the shithole that is Chimoio. I mean, we all dealt with that environment in our own special way - I got bossy and compulsively organized, B. overate, P. was a workaholic. I'm still not sure what Rico did but I'd venture to say it had to do with being overly patient even when staying quiet wasn't the healthiest option.

Anyhow, I certainly don't want to pass judgement but the fact remains that this housemate had several addictions and was more often than not fucked up. Every night he'd drink a case of beer on his own, not to mention the joints he constantly smoked. And many times he'd go to work drunk or high, and would often drive a car in these states without considering the danger he was putting himself and others in. So the whole story about the ox and the little kids - maybe it's true, but my gut says it's just a cover for what really made him swerve off the road. God help me for saying this if I'm wrong...

Hearing about the ex-housemate's ordeal took me back to all the times here I've been seriously worried that I'd be in a car accident while driving through the bush. A couple of months ago one of our clients died on the side of the road after suffering an accident in a remote area with no cell phone signal and nobody around to call for help - the same road we'd drive on every time we had to go to Zimbabwe via Espungabera, where our tea client is located.

One of the times I was most conviced that my life was in danger was actually a trip B. and I took to Espungabera with this ex-housemate driving the old Land Cruiser ambulance we used to borrow from a friend. Our ex-housemate was being really reckless in an unreliable vehicle on a dirt road that was winding down a cliff. I asked him to stop the car multiple times, to please drive safer, and he simply wouldn't listen. We were pretty much at his mercy because B. doesn't know how to drive and at the time I wasn't confident driving a right-hand drive vehicle, much less in offroad conditions.

When I expressed my concern, the ex-housemate said I was being paranoid and basically a sissy. I was so scared that I started crying in the front seat of the vehicle. I really thought I was going to die that day and thoughts of my family and friends started passing through my head. I remember thinking, "I can't belive it's going to be like this." Now, hearing about his accident, I can't help but remember that day and how terrible it felt to be in the car completely powerless...

I wrote this about the experience and later posted it on the blog:

We finally got on the road about 2pm, the start of bumpy, teeth-clenching ride that made me remember just how terrible travel can be. Everyone has a different tolerance for the “adventure factor” in a trip; in most cases, my standards are quite liberal, but there are a couple of situations that make me balk. High-speed driving along steep, curvy roads is one of them. Even more so if I’m in a decrepit vehicle on a dirt trail through the interior of Africa.

Now I’m certainly not in a position to criticize anyone else’s abilities, but G. drives like an absolute madman. He was right at home as the back side of the Land Cruiser skidded out of control, nearly sending us off the side of a huge cliff in the middle of an elephant reserve area. B. and I, on the other hand, were scared out of our minds. We pleaded with G. to take it easy, but it took several hours and a miscalculated curve that sent us slamming into a sugarcane field for the message to sink in. I was near tears the entire time, praying to whatever being has protected me thus far to keep special watch over our car.

About halfway through the trip, there is a big river with no bridge. The dirt road comes abruptly to an end and all vehicles, livestock, and people have to pile onto a floating platform to get to the other side. The platform, o batelão, is powered by a manual cogwheel that takes three big Africans to spin and moves at a snail’s pace between the banks. We loaded onto the batelão and stared out at the shallow water, grateful for a break in the driving. The light over the river was incredible – it seemed like the sky was split directly above us, one half heavy with gray storm clouds, the other an intense, clear blue. The bottom portion of a rainbow had formed in each half and thin rays of sunlight shone over the platform, accompanying us across the water. B. and I took it as a sign that we would make it safely, aware though that it was still a good 2 hours to Espungabera and it was starting to rain…

I also wrote this and didn't post it for fear of worrying my parents:

As we tumbled down the crater-ridden dirt road to Espungabera last weekend, I thought a fair bit about death. I don't mean to be melodramatic, but it was on my mind in a very real, immediate way. At the time, the practical side of my brain responded to the fact that I was scared shitless by imagining different worst-case scenarios. Perhaps we would skid off the road into a deep valley. Perhaps G. would lose control on the next curve and we would hit a tree. Or maybe we would run over a woman carrying laundry on her head, unable to slow down in time for her to scurry out of the road.

I kept imagining what my reaction would be to each of the situations. What if someone was seriously wounded? What if I got hurt? What if I suffered, pinned under the vehicle or left to watch my friends moan in pain unable to do anything to help. What if nobody found us? What would it be like to die in the middle of the bush in Africa, half a world away from family and loved ones?

I thought of my mom several years ago on a Zodiac boat ride we took while on vacation in Kauai. We were in a big, motorized raft in the open ocean along the Na Pali coast, speeding over every swell and catching air on the whitecaps. My mom was scared out of her mind. For the first hour, she was miserable, trying to dominate her fear and wrestle control over the situation. At some point, however, she had an epiphany and began to release her white-knuckled grip on the ropes. She looked out at the water, a deep swirling blue. She felt the wind on her face and the salt tangling her hair. She concentrated on the beaches and the tall green cliffs in front of us. At one point my mom leaned over to me and laughed, visibly enjoying the Zodiac adventure. “At least if I die it will be in a beautiful place together with my beautiful daughter.” I smiled and held her hand. She was able to recognize her fear, honor it, but also let it go. We had a great time on the raft.

I remembered this episode and tried hard to tune into a different wavelength as we bumped along the muddy road to Espungabera. I looked out at the landscape, long stretches of scraggly vegetation broken by the occasional granite boulder and odd patch of dark green jungle. Every few kilometers we would pass people walking alongside the road, going to and from small farm plots. I observed women carrying gravity-defying bundles of firewood or laundry on their heads, backs perfectly straight, bare feet making slow progress along the path home.

I watched groups of children walk down the road together, all wide-eyed and wearing rags, the older ones taking care of the younger ones. Some children carried hoes or tended small herds of goats. Many others walked along the road with nothing except a resilient smile and a friendly wave, chasing after our Land Cruiser as if it were the most exciting thing they’d ever seen. I wondered how many children had parents to go home to, what they would eat that night for dinner, if they would ever go to school.

After a while I, too, was able to make peace with my fear. It didn’t go away – I still felt my stomach in my throat every time we lost traction on a curve – but it certainly became more manageable. Like my mom several years ago in Hawaii, I accepted being powerless. I made friends with the idea that I might die right then and there.

There is something about the rawness of the surroundings here in Mozambique that brings you close to the fundamental questions of what it means to be human. Life is a blessing, and it is our duty each day to live it out to its fullest...

We are always at death's door. It feels pretty dramatic to come out and say it like that, but it's true. I've felt like my time is almost up on a couple of occasions, always to come out on the other side okay. I'm painfully aware, though, that it could be any of us, anytime.