Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Spinning

I am shifting uncomfortably to remain straight and keep my cheeks from falling asleep on the uneven seat. There is sweat and grime between my toes car is hot with the breath of the six other passengers. I am in the middle seat, watching the road ahead and trying to anticipate when the bush taxi driver would swerve to avoid another pothole. His careful, steady navigation of the road is unusual for someone getting paid only a few dollars for this all day trip.

In the distance, shimmering heat, salt fields stretching to the horizon, and a large white shape gaining shape on the left side of the road. The driver slows; I can sense his eyes taking in the situation behind Top Gun style sunglasses: a white mini-bus, what we called ndiaye ndiaye had tipped over on the side of the road. I have seen plenty of overturned cars in my time in West Africa, but never an accident so fresh. Baggage is strewn like confetti: red backpack, a blue plastic grocery bag, white sacs left tumbled and shimmering along the asphalt. It looks like leftovers from the Mexican piƱata. I don’t see any ambulance; only a few people boarding another white bus on the other side of the road.

As I glance back for one final look at the wreckage, I catch the hard eyes of the woman in the seat behind me. Her eyes are staring straight at me and her face is stiff. I turn back around noticing Ellens’ hand is still clenched onto her heart in a gesture of disbelief and sorrow. I try to focus on the road ahead rather than on the silence in the small car.

Not five minutes down the road, I see a bright blue ndiaye ndiaye coming fast towards us. I watch as it veers suddenly left as if the driver had nearly missed his turn off. The bus does not slow, and its momentum carries it across the road. My hand drifts to my open mouth as slowly, the weight and momentum carry the top of the bus towards me and tips, strewing suitcases and baggage towards us like gifts for the highway gods. The front driver side wheel spins against the backdrop of clear blue sky. We slow to a stop, and the driver leaps out without turning off the engine, picking up a suitcase that has been hurled 20 feet towards us. A young man steps out of the back door followed by a young woman with a baby. There must be at least 25 people in that bus but not too many are coming out quickly. After a few minutes, our driver gets back in the taxi and puts it into gear. To the sounds of the other passengers, he grumbles that there is not much gas left in the vehicle and if turns off the engine he will not be able to restart it. As we pass the toppled bus, glass shards glitter in the hot sun, the low wail of a woman emanates from the interior, the tire spins endlessly into the hot afternoon.

I had so appreciated Dakar: sidewalks, crosswalks, murals and mosaics decorating the intra city byways; huge sculptures on the side of the road made me feel welcome and safe. Now, only a few hours outside the capital city, I see two overturned buses, and wonder at the human cost. Soon after passing the buses we abandoned the paved road all together, opting for bouncy dirt tracks and dust filled nostrils rather than the minefield of potholes on the government kept road.

Sometimes I feel like that tipped tire, spinning and spinning in the hot open air; What am I doing here if the government cant even make the commitment to take care of its people, to keep its roads safe? Am I just burning open air? I remember the silence. Sometimes I find the answer to these questions in the bright faces of the people I work with; Sometimes all I can remember is the silence of that car, filling the space where I would scream until I saw change.

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