A Tough Day Today

I watched a man die today. I couldn’t do anything to help him. I watched as he bled from his nose and mouth and head, his eyes half open, glazed over. I watched as his body involuntarily twitched, his shallow breaths coming at greater intervals. 

I haven’t updated this blog in months. To be perfectly honest we just haven’t done much that seemed to warrant an entry. Jon and I have fallen into the same old routine – home to work and home again. Yesterday I had a doctor’s appointment at a nearby hospital which has a wing of doctor’s rooms, as they are called here.  I got there to find the power was out, and so I completed my new patient paperwork by lantern.  It didn’t seem to bother anyone, least of all the doctor, who simply pulled two chairs up to the closest window in his office to examine my hand.  I called Jon at work and told him about this funny little episode. He laughed and said, “Now there’s your next blog entry - another ‘welcome to Africa’ moment. “

It has been such an incredible adventure for Jon and me here in Africa. Our blog’s subtitle even reflects that. We are planning to return home in June next year and lately I have become torn about leaving.  Though the first year here was excruciatingly difficult for me, both Jon and I have come to like it here more and more. Yes, there have been lots of “Welcome to Africa” moments, those silly little incidents when we are reminded we are not living in a first world nation. We watch the news and read the papers daily and there is no doubt that South Africa is a “rough neighbourhood.” Our friends and family worry about us. Currently there are over 20,000 SA miners on strike. There have been protests, violence, riots and dozens of deaths. But we live a long way from these mines so it doesn’t affect us. There has been a trucking strike for the last few weeks. Violence and protests between strikers and those truckers who cross the picket lines left us with some empty grocery shelves, but nothing more serious. Closer to home, two more houses in our complex were robbed a few weeks ago. That makes four in a year. We are reminded by security to keep our doors and windows locked and closed, unless they have bars. We are told to stop when we come through the entrance gates so no one can tailgate in behind us. People here shrug off the corruption in government, steer clear of the growing illegal settlements, and turn a blind eye to the street hawkers and beggars. They blow their horns and gesture with their hands when seas of taxis disrupt traffic flow, create roads from medians, shoulders and sidewalks. Everyone knows they are a necessity for carrying hundreds of thousands of native Africans wherever they need to go. I’ve talked about the taxis here before, how there are gazillions of these rickety old tin cans on the road in Jo’burg, and all over Africa as well. The taxi drivers are callous and careless. They must meet a daily minimum in cab fare each day. Once the minimum is met the driver gets to pocket all the overage. This incentive has created an army of drivers who regularly run red lights, pass illegally, speed recklessly and behave rudely. But other than making me a much more careful and defensive driver, I have learned to ignore them, just like I do with the street hawkers and the beggars.

Taxi accidents are a daily occurrence. Fender benders, side-view mirror taps and paint scrapes are the norm. Occasionally the wrecks are catastrophic, with dozens hurt or killed. Two weeks ago Jon and I watched a taxi T-bone a Jeep, flipping it on its side. The taxi’s windshield was shattered and as Jon and I pulled over to help, we watched several women crawl out of the taxi, crying.  We stood with them, talking and hugging.  No one was seriously injured and so eventually we drove on, chalking it up to one more crazed taxi driver who should have his license revoked.

And then, there’s today. I dropped Jon off at 5:50 this morning at the nearest bus station where he catches the bus every morning for his ride to work. I always then head north for my 40 minute commute to Pretoria. While I was waiting at the light, second in line behind a van, I heard the crash. I looked up to see a white taxi and a blue car that had collided violently, a third car hit peripherally. The man in front of me and I jumped out to help.  The people climbed from the crumpled taxi; there were women’s shoes in the street, a car speaker, other car parts and glass. An older black woman about my size was clutching her head and literally fell into my arms. She was dazed and crying. I held her and guided her to the curb to sit down, rocking and talking to her. The sidewalks on either side filled with onlookers but no one came to help.  When the woman seemed to be okay, I ran to the blue car, the most damaged of the three vehicles, to see if I could help the man. I was crying and yelling for someone to help, but no one came. I felt like I was in one of those strange post-apocalyptic movies; it was eerily silent even though by now, there must have been 50 people standing on the sidewalk. I didn’t touch him because I wouldn’t have known what to do for him anyway. I just wanted to comfort him or do something to help. But I didn’t, remembering the high HIV population here. The man who was driving the van in front of me came over and looked in on the driver as well. He just shook his head when I asked him what he thought. And on this surreal Friday morning, I came to the realization that, for me, Africa no longer feels like an adventure. Today I know I am ready to come home.