There’s a part of me that feels this blog is a confession, of sorts. Not in the sense that I was at fault in the accident, but perhaps with a more extensive record of bike-riding, I could have avoided this unfortunate and rather embarrassing moment. I say embarrassing because, most likely, everyone in Aru knows about the white girl who was ran over by a motorcycle.
Actually, I’m positive that everyone knows…
Here’s what happened.
It all began about six years ago. My hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska had decided to go ahead with a city-wide art project: Tour de Lincoln; constructing creatively designed stationary bicycles throughout the city. These bicycles were built with a variety of materials—metal, glass, steel—each of them unique. While I welcomed the beautification of our city, my feelings towards this particular endeavor weren’t exactly supportive…
One gorgeous winter morning in Lincoln, I had taken the city bus to campus for my German class. The price of parking for students was ridiculous and no matter what I always seemed to be ticketed. In any case, I preferred visiting with others on the bus. Unlike those of you commuting in NYC/NJ, as I used to, people are actually, outwardly friendly and conversations often occur when taking public transportation. Crazy, I know.
That particular morning, I had been visiting with another student. As we arrived on campus, our conversation continued. I moved towards the doors and simultaneously reached into my purse for sunglasses.
Honestly, it’s just that there were so many things happening at once: stepping off the bus, not finding my sunglasses, having a conversation with the guy: I just couldn’t handle it all!
I must also admit multi-tasking can be somewhat of a challenge. My excuse is that I become so absorbed in what I’m doing—be it talking, listening, or taking a sip of my coffee-to-go, etc…that I often can’t do more than one thing at a time. (Sipping my Starbucks when crossing streets or walking, especially in crowds, has definitely caused problems in the past.)
Anyways, as I turned to smile and say good-bye, all of a sudden, with unforeseen and surprisingly accurate force, I walked directly into a Tour de Lincoln bike. This bike was yellow, made of steel, and featured a person flinging themselves forward from the bike. I however intercepted its intended artistic, free-flying activity with the right-side of my forehead.
Within seconds, it seemed that I had hit the flying biker with such strength and such precision that it not only caused a reflexive bounce back, but I fell immediately to the ground face first. I knelt there for a moment, stunned, trying to gain some clarity of what just happened. Then I heard the voice of my new friend from the bus asking me if I was okay.
After helping me to my feet and informing me that my forehead was slightly bleeding, he offered to walk me to class. He also suggested the Campus Health Center several times, but I brushed it off with…No, it’s okay, but thank you. As I tried, but failed, to walk in a straight line, it soon became obvious to me why he felt he should walk me to class.
As we approached Old Father Hall, I said goodbye, reassured him that I would be fine, and headed for the women’s bathroom to clean up any remaining blood that I hadn’t been able to wipe away with my Husker Sweatshirt.
A lovely girl with perfect hair, colorfully painted nails, sporting a Nebraska Huskers t-shirt, whose voice reminded me of Chandler’s one girlfriend on Friends, addressed me as I walked into the bathroom. Her reaction went something like: “OH MY GOD, have you seen your face? Oh My God was right; half of my forehead had ballooned into the size of a golf-ball.
I spent that afternoon on the couch at my parent’s house emphasizing how the bike had been placed deliberately in a pedestrian walkway. In the weeks that followed, I convinced others (and myself) that the accident had been the consequence of a poorly chosen site which endangered the lives of all Lincolnites.
Fast-forward to last weekend.
As you can probably assume by now, I don’t ride bikes. In fact, I avoid situations that may even hint at bike-riding. I peddled around Key West, FL with a few friends when I was nineteen, but that was the most recent bike-riding experience I can remember. However, it’s an inescapable reality of living in Africa: everybody whose anybody rides a bike. The previous months, I protested and procrastinated, but last Sunday was just too damn hot to walk. So, I followed suit and hopped on a bike, trailing behind Karen and Clara.
I admit that I was relaxed and even managed simple greetings to the kids who congregate outside our gate. I was also following Karen’s tire tracks exactly.
Soon, as the wind began to blow through my hair, my mind wandered; I was creating and cradling even more idealistic notions of Africa. Here I was, thousands of miles from home, cycling along the red, dusty roads of the Congo, and BAM!
Before I knew it, rather than taking the wind slowly, I attacked it with force. After a quick jolt and a loud bang, I found myself flying into the air and as I flew a motorcycle was spinning out sideways to my right, its driver skidding alongside.
Everything happened so quickly. I jumped up and asked if he was okay. At first he said he was fine and apologized, admitting it was his fault. As I continued babbling in French and pointed out the cut under his eye, the accident all of a sudden became my fault: as if I deliberately started biking in front of him so that he could run me over?
As I started to defend myself, I noticed his left hand had been scrapped and was bleeding. Then, OH MY GOODNEES, seriously, my heart fell to my stomach once I realized that half of his index finger was missing. It was here that I lost all speech capabilities—French & English. All I could do was stare at his hand. Seconds later (though it felt like hours) I realized his finger had been missing for sometime because it was already healed.
By this time, at least 25-30 people had gathered around. Thankfully, the discussion over who was at fault in the accident was taken over by a gentleman who spoke French, English and Lingala, and is a regular customer of our Bakery. Soon the conversation turned to Lingala ONLY and involved everyone except me. The word police was mentioned several times and people seemed to be in disagreement as to whether to let him go or not. This was made obvious by the way they kept putting the key into the ignition and then taking it out again.
All I wanted to do was to start screaming in English, not that it would have helped. The more flustered I became, the further I diverted in a mental state of English ONLY, and could still find no words…
It ended with everyone going their separate ways.
The next day, I was asked by the gentleman who led the discussion after the accident if I was okay. I said, “Yes, of course, I’m bruised and sore, but fine.” I expressed to him that I was still very concerned about the driver’s hand. I was told he had injured himself working the previous week: that’s how he lost half his finger. Then, he turned to me and said, “You know, the problem was that he was drunk. That’s why he drove into you.”
CONCLUSION
To those of you who know me personally, you will have no reservations believing I walked directly into a stationary bike. Sad, I know. And the luck I have in taking my first bike ride in more than eight years and being hit by a drunken motorcyclist at noon on a Sunday, well that’s quite believable too.
So, today, I think back to that stationary, yellow bike I collided into and I marvel at the similarities: the stationary, yellow biker soaring forwards and myself, likewise, being tossed helplessly into the air.
Come to think of it, the timing of all this is rather inconvenient; I’m about to begin learning how to drive our recently purchased motorcycle. Regrettably, this experience has somewhat curbed my enthusiasm.
Prayers are welcome.
