Following a crash in the US, police usually gather and try to determine exactly what happened. They may interview several witnesses, receive a variety of stories and spend some time analyzing tire tracks, paint smudges and other informational clues. In the critical seconds just after an accident, witnesses may turn into heroes or helpers as they dial 911 and provide any assistance they know how. While the police are gathering evidence and redirecting traffic, paramedics are on the scene to evaluate the injured. Firefighters or tow trucks may even arrive to clear the wreckage.
It was the evening of the Eid and we were waiting with Ousmane for the bus to the airport. 10:30 on a Friday night. Traffic was light and in Kinshasa this usually means fast. With no apparent speed limits and no way to enforce them, drivers take to driving as fast as the open roads allow- on a clear, late night such as this one, that could easily mean speeds into the 70’s or 80’s. We were standing outside the Air Maroc agency when the scraping of metal and squealing of tires caught our attention. I looked over and saw a large white SUV that appeared to be speeding away. A small red taxi spun across the road and a larger blue taxi van skidded into a turn and appeared to dump half of its occupants out the open sliding door. If the police had interviewed me then, I would have said the white SUV had something to do with the crash. Later, I wasn’t so sure. Nothing really seemed too clear. The red taxi was in a very odd position and between the three of us, we couldn’t agree on which direction it had originally been traveling.
There is nothing quite like the deep and solid thud of an impact to make your heart rise up and your pulse take notice. My stomach immediately began to churn when wailing followed. Clearly there were some injuries. Several large and angry crowds assembled, one around the people on the ground where the blue van had hit and the other around the driver of the red taxi. Police arrived on the scene, by foot, within five or so minutes. All I could think about was how out of order everything seemed to be. I knew an ambulance was not on its way. The police made their own crowd around the driver and there was a lot of hustling, bustling, and jerking going on. The driver was grabbed by his two elbows and pulled back and forth. He was dragged off in the direction of the police station a few blocks away, the red car left at an angle blocking the road.
While this was going on, an onlooker- or perhaps fellow passenger- escorted a woman across the street. She appeared to have blood on her shirt. She barely made it to the curb before collapsing to the ground. A crowd formed around her as well. While I felt a sickening resignation about the futility of the Congolese emergency system, Ousmane was busy telling us that in Guinea he could dial 777 and receive an emergency response or 1212 for an ambulance. I kept wondering how the scene would play out---do the injured ever get help? What would they do with the body of someone who died?
Back across the street, the police had assembled again, this time around a few guys by the blue van. One was clearly a kid who put up an excellent fight, received a slap in the face and remained undeterred. He was dragged down the street by three or four policeman—a completely different direction than the police station and previous driver. I could see his silhouette kicking up dirt and bouncing around as he fought the whole way. It was still not clear to me if there were more injured, if people had gotten hit by or thrown from the van or how the accident had occurred exactly. A large battalion tanker passed us armed with flashing lights and men with guns. These large trucks remind me of the boxy type of fire trucks but they are much larger, more square and drove right by the accident without the slightest concern. The injured woman continue to lie on the roadside unaided.
I felt dizzy with my helplessness and an eerie sense of distance. I watched horrifying scenes continue to play out on the now partially blocked boulevard. Taxis stopped and stalled in the middle of the road, passengers got in and out and ran across the street as SUV’s whizzed by. Life as usual, I suppose, but the dangerous stupidity of it all was so much more illuminated.
Finally, the woman was carried into a taxi with cries of “Hospital, hospital.” No one got in with her, though Kazadi had run over to the crowd twice, trying to entice action. There was no siren, no EMT team working to stop the bleeding and check her vitals, just one lone woman in a taxi that turned back across the devilish boulevard and down a dusty dirt road.
By this time, the police were now dealing with the inconvenient placement of the taxi. They had begun pushing it over to the side of the road and even lifted it together in order to straighten it out a bit. The front fender was completely smashed in and partly impeding the tire movement.
Ousmane’s bus began loading baggage and soon after he showed his documents and boarded. We waved goodbye, got in our car and began the short drive home. Mohamed was especially talkative, he gets that way when he’s trying to think something through. He was clearly as disturbed as I, though neither of us actually saw anything. It was what we didn’t see that was so troubling. Even as I write this, I feel a useless pressure just below the surface. The order of events couldn’t have been more OUT of order.
5.9.10
Shopping and Prayer
I have discovered a favorite new fabric store. Well, perhaps favorite is a strong word, but it is definitely a useful new fabric store. I have two now and I always visit them together. Lambada is what I consider a conservative store. It is the tried and true, steadfast friend you can call in the middle of the night if you need something and be certain to be helped. This store has many styles of fabric in a variety of patterns. It is orderly and neat with samples piled up in folded squares layed out across table after table. Prices for 2, 4, or 6 yards are clearly marked on small chalkboard signs. They have one of my favorite sections where the cloth is bundled in pairs. Deux temps. There you can find a bright and vibrant pattern paired with a solid color or you may find the same pattern but with the colors reversed. When checking out, you will first give your cloth (ironically- or perhaps arabically) to the man at the table sitting closest to the exit. From there you will work your way (backwards) to the lady on his right. She will issue you three copies of each receipt for each piece of fabric you have selected. You move on to the cashiers who are (first) next in the row. They will cheerfully take your money, provide change and stamp all three copies of your receipts, keeping one. Finally you move back to the (end) beginning and show your receipts in order to collect your fabric, which is bagged and handed off. Music plays, providing a pleasant atmosphere and there is rarely a (long) wait.
Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.
The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.
The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.
It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt. Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.
Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.
This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.
This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.
Bizou Bizou, however, is your wild cousin from out of state who shows up and whisks you off on a spontaneous beachside vacation. I met Bizou Bizou by way of an older but fabulously dressed woman in one of the food stores. I had been noticing a particular style of fabric on many Congolese that I had previously only associated with West Africa. I had not seen this type of waxed and dyed fabric anywhere. She was standing in the checkout line just ahead of me looking beautifully regal in that Guinean way. I surprised her a bit trying to get her attention but when I began the subject of the fabric, she smiled and introduced me to Bizou Bizou.
The shop is actually several storefronts long, with large doorways open to each section. There is a curtain fabric area where you can also find soft cottons with exquistie 'African motif' patterns ( cozy blankets is how I envision these fabrics being used. When I recently bought only 1 meter for a baby blanket, I was met with an odd stare. Only 1 meter? As if...) They are dreamy and beautiful and soooo expensive.
The second entrance to the store is the equivalent of a late night dance club. The music is booming from two enormous speakers posted at the entrance. Just inside, there is a pile of fabric on the floor slightly resembling those late Ocotber NY leaf piles we used to jump into as children. Women are everywhere grabbing and pawing through the cloth. (Apparently, this is the "sale rack.") A 'DJ' stands perched on a box draped in long, flowing samples and holding a microphone. Somehow, he manages to be louder than the music. His partner stands just by the entrance, decked out in an equally comedic fashion, fabric pieces hanging toga style. To complete the scene, scraps of fabric are being cut and tossed through the air overhead. Its electric.
It is the second 'DJ' (I can't help but to think of them this way...they dance and sing and call out price reductions with talent and energy) who is the one that will bag your purchases upon exit. He has an abrupt style, grabbing the fabric from your hands and placing it roughly in a bag along with the customary tearing of the receipt. Although I know this is coming, it always seems to affect me in the jolting way of a carnival ride with its jerky starts and stops.
Browsing Bizou Bizou, one can find a larger variety of fabric styles, sequins, sparkles, waxed, batik, saris, and silks. Prices are not always marked and bargaining is possible. You must first locate someone to measure and cut your fabric (sold by the meter.) Once cut, the fabric may be tossed and held by the guy at the door or brought up to the counter. The cutter will call out the number of yards and the price per yard. Somehow, it gets written on a scrap of paper.
This day, I was shopping with Ousmane in preparation for his return to Guinea and also celebration of the Eid. In addition, a new baby had entered the world, and I was hoping to find some fabric that would enfold her with African spirit. Bizou Bizou, always packed, was especially busy today. I noticed 5 or 6 women also clearly shopping for the Eid. I found it difficult to choose items for the Soumah women and wanted to rely on Ousmane for that. It became quickly clear that that was probably a mistake. He could not recall what color they liked or generally wore. I tried to remember the few days we had spent together and also photos I'd seen. I was drawn to some deep reds with shimmering flowers. As I contemplated my purchase, Ousmane noticed someone out the back door using a plastic tea kettel filled with water to wash his hands, head and feet in the manner of Muslims before prayer. "You can wait for me? I am going out to pray." I nodded as I watched him join the man outside. While my cloth was being measaured and cut, I continued to watch Ousmane move through the ablution. He washed his hands, his head and balanced precariously on one foot while trying to rinse and wash the other. I saw a hand move in and take the small plastic tea kettle from him and rinse his feet.
This is the image I carried with me up to the overcrowed and highly confusing checkout. No three receipts here. One line, one hope of maintaining your place in line (it doesn't exactly move in the linear fashion, its more of a squiggly line in which you hope to be pulled to the cashier by sheer momentum) and finally payment to a cashier who has magically managed to receive all of your fabric and slips of paper outlining the price. I noticed very little of this as I was spiritually still back with Ousmane, just outside the door of a fabric shop, in a foreign country while a stranger washed his feet.
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