1.
Crowd Behavior—Two Accidents in Two Days
(a)
Mbayani Accident
Westerners must exercise care when they are involved in
accidents with Malawians and their property.
Things can get out of hand very quickly, something seemingly at odds
with the otherwise placid behavior of Malawians. This past Saturday, I was with Jonathan
Banda, a Malawian who is a returned missionary from the South Africa Durban
Mission. It is hard to think of someone
more pleasant and congenial than Jonathan.
Jonathan is in charge of the District’s Young Single Adult (YSA)
program. He and I had driven into the main
market street in Mbayani to pick up someone who was going to pop popcorn during
a Saturday afternoon YSA movie/dance activity in the Blantyre Chapel. Mbayani’s market street is
typical—especially for a Saturday mid-day—crowded with throngs of Malawians,
doing a little shopping for the weekend, or just out for a break or
exercise. The roadway is so narrow
that, for the most part, it is not possible for two cars to pass one another
going normal speed—one must pull off to the side, while the other slips by
slowly. The roadway is paved, but, at
least on this Saturday afternoon, there is not much vehicle traffic, just the
occasional mini-bus, truck or car. Passing through the market requires caution
and patience—slowly one inches forward, while the crowds part quietly in front. Often those on foot barely pay any attention
to the traffic. It is not uncommon for vendors
to allow their goods to encroach upon the roadway, making driving even more
challenging.
Despite Jonathan’s efforts, we had been unsuccessful in
picking up the “popcorn” guy to help at the YSA activity—apparently he was
either not to be found or sick or have forgotten about the commitment all
together—I never got the story quite right.
In the Church’s Toyota Hilux (a good-sized truck), we were slowly
threading our way back through the market, returning to downtown Blantyre, but
had to pull off to the side to allow an oncoming vehicle to pass. Then we restarted, going slowly forward, before
getting back into the road’s center. I
never saw (nor for that matter, could have seen), the large open-faced weave
basket of tomatoes that one vendor had placed in the roadway. Jonathan, who was sitting on the passenger
side, felt the slight bump, and knew we had hit something before it was
apparent to me. I stopped the truck,
Jonathan got out, and a minute later I followed him to see for myself what had
happened. Our left front tire had damaged one side of
the basket and smashed a number of tomatoes.
The vendor was upset, though not
violently so. She lamented the damage
and loss. But rather than openly confronting us, she
retreated, climbing up a few steps, away from the road, much as though her
feelings had been hurt. Perhaps she
doubted she would get any redress from the “azungu” driver. But literally within seconds, a crowd of 20
to 30 had gathered, crowding in to see the damage, waiting to see how the
little accident would be resolved. The
knot of bystanders quickly blocked the roadway.
Once I saw the damage, I told Jonathan I would gladly
compensate the woman for her loss, asking him to take care of the
negotiations. I wasn’t concerned with
either the cost (I knew it couldn’t be much) or the relative blame. I was driving the truck, I hit her stuff,
and it didn’t matter whether or not she might have been at fault. I knew we could bear the loss much better
than a small vendor trying to eke out a living. After a short back and forth, they settled
at 10,000 kwacha (roughly $18.00 USD).
Was it too much money—had she taken advantage of the situation—I think
in each case the answer would be “yes.”
But in the bigger scheme of things, I wasn’t particularly
concerned. On those terms, she would have no grievance
against either me or the Church—although I don’t know whether she or anyone
else in the crowd knew who we were.[1]
The crowd, though curious and watchful, never turned
hostile. There was no yelling, people
weren’t agitated, they didn’t appear to choose sides. Nothing happened that might have signaled
where their sympathies lay, but it is not hard to imagine what they may have
thought. Those in the crowd had
virtually nothing in common me. To
them I would have appeared very strange--an azungu, a large truck, a white
shirt and tie, a foreign from an English-speaking country. Few, if any, would have known that I was a
missionary—though I was wearing, as I always do, my missionary tag, and the
side of the truck has a decal identifying the Church. Malawians are respectful of ministers and
missionaries, but this was not a church setting, to which they might have
responded. Indeed, there was little, if
anything, with which they might have identified and that might have drawn their
sympathy. But the street vendor was
one of their own—a young woman, trying to make ends meet, part of the street
scene, a native, likely as poor as most of them. So what appeared innocent, and harmless
enough, might have changed quickly—had the crowd sensed she was being treated
unfairly or bullied. Perhaps, at the
back of my mind, I was vaguely aware of the need to be careful. But I don’t think the sentiment was very
conscious—or motivated my behavior much.
I wanted to treat her fairly, knowing how hard loss of any kind, however
loss or insignificant, can be for many Malawians. They have little margin for error, and it
certainly wasn’t going to cost much for us to be generous.
Before driving off, Jonathan said he wanted to pick up the
damaged tomatoes. Since we had in
effect compensated the vendor for them, he didn’t want to leave them, so he got
a plastic bag and sorted through the basket to find those bruised, smashed and crushed.
(b)
Kampala Traffic Accident
Early Sunday morning (the very next day), I almost was
involved in another accident, though this time one far more serious. The last several weeks I have been picking up
President Tchongwe, the new Blantyre 2nd Branch President, at the
mini-bus station, on the Chikwawa Road, closest to his home. The purpose is to get together for an hour
or so before our 8:00 a.m. Sacrament Meeting to prepare for the service and to
make plans for the upcoming week. As I
was turning from left to right across the main road, on to the unpaved side
road, I checked for oncoming traffic, seeing none, I started to turn; several
folks on the unpaved road were crossing in front of the truck, so I held up for
a few seconds to allow them to cross.
Once they cleared, I slightly accelerated to get out of the main road,
when suddenly I saw in front of me, coming from left to right, a motorbike, not
on the paved road, but off on the dirt.
Just in time, I broke to avoid a collision, causing the motorbike to
swerve and tip over. Fortunately, it
was going quite slow at the time, but it did crash on its side, dumping its
driver and passenger. By the time I
pulled off the road, the driver, now back on his feet, charged the truck,
gesturing and yelling. I rolled down
the window to talk to him, to apologize for causing him to tip over and to
check whether either he or his passenger were hurt or the bike damaged, when,
to my surprise, he reached out and hit me in the face.
As he approached the truck, I could see from his demeanor
that he was upset, but I did not expect to have to ward off an attack, so I was
totally defenseless when it occurred.
But if there is an unexpected blessing in this case, it is that he had
enough presence of mind to pull his punch.
His fist extended far enough to connect with the tip of my nose, leaving
a sting, but otherwise there was no force behind his blow. It was more a slap than a slug, and luckily it
did not break my glasses or nose. I
won’t have been happy about that. No
one likes to be hit in the face. So
for this, of course, I am grateful, as it kept the incidence from deteriorating
into sometime more serious.
After a second, I got out of the truck to inspect the
motorbike and to see if either the driver or passenger had been injured. Each was fine, and the motorbike didn’t
appear to have suffered any damage.
This time there was no crushed basket or smashed tomatoes. In fact, as best I could tell, there was no
damage whatever, other than a loss of dignity and a moment of fright—neither of
which is inconsequential, but fortunately are injuries that one can overcome with
a little time and distance. As I
inspected the motorbike, the driver started yelling about “gas;” initially, I
thought he meant the bike’s gas tank had been punctured, resulting in a loss of
fuel. I looked to see if spilled gas
were visible or the tank had a hole.
But within a few seconds, it was clear he was trying to communicate
something else---that was his way of asking for compensation for the accident. Given the cost of fuel, and the fact that
many drivers barely have the funds to operate their vehicles, often they struggle
to scrape together the funds to operate their vehicles and constantly are running
out of fuel. One of the most iconic
images in Malawi is coming upon trucks, cars, mini buses, and bikes stranded in
the middle of the road, because they have run out of gas or suffered from some
kind of engine failure.[2] He couldn’t tag me with a bill for damaged
parts (because nothing seemed to have been broken) but at least he could demand
punitive damages in the form of a request for fuel. From my perspective, I was of course relieved
to see that my driving hadn’t caused property or personal damage. So settling up for a few kwacha was hardly
the biggest of my concerns. This time
is cost me 2,000 MKW or the equivalent of about $ 4.00 USD.
I know I scanned the oncoming traffic on the Chikwawa Road,
before turning across it to turn off on the unpaved road. I did not see the motorbike. Had I seen the motorbike bearing down on me,
I would not have turned. So I don’t
know if I was just careless or whether the biker driver, who clearly could have
seen me parked in the road, waiting for the passengers to clear, didn’t slow
down or thought he could just pass me by pulling off the pavement onto the dirt
and slipping around the truck, without breaking his speed. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. I was fortunate not to have caused an
accident and pleased the whole thing could disposed of without more hassle or damage.
Obviously, this little incidence likewise attracted a crowd,
though in this case, a much smaller one than Saturday’s crowd in the
market. I think ten or so watched to
see how everything would play out. I
think, but could be wrong, that the jury may have been more favorable to me
this time around. One young man
expressed his quiet support for me, leaving me to think the biker driver may
have been more at fault than I. Everything
happened so quickly, moving vehicle accidents are that way, so I had little
time to think. I never felt in danger,
regretted the trouble I caused, and again didn’t want to shift any financial burden
to the bike driver, whoever might have been at fault. But what is perhaps most surprising is that I
wasn’t too upset by being struck. Like
most, I am particularly sensitive to blows to the face. Yet, I kept my composure much better than would
have been the case had the same thing happened back home. When handing over the money, I did however
quietly say to the driver that he shouldn’t have hit me.
[1]
Ironically, it turned out that one Church members was in the crowd. She is a member of the Blantyre 1st
Branch, and we ended up giving her a ride into town. I was a bit surprised when she popped into
the back seat.
[2]
For some reason, quite beyond me, the Malawians rarely are able to pull their
stranded vehicles off the road when they run out of fuel. They mark the stranded vehicles with a line
of broken branches that they leave in the lane in front of the car, truck,
minibus or bike.
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