Date: 18 July 2002

Subject: Coaster accident on Sunday, 14 July 2002

From: Abby Stamm

Dad, you can forward this if you want.

I had gone to Blantyre for the weekend. On Saturday there was a Southern Region GAD (Gender and Development) meeting, which was uneventful, except for Nick (who looks like Nicholas Boswell), who taught us how to make mud stoves. On Sunday, I left the Blantyre PCVL (Peace Corps Volunteer Leader) house and caught a lift to Limbe with a man who had been taught by PCVs in the 1970's. From there, a preacher turned Escom (electric company) worker brought me to Zomba. On the way, he told me his theory on AIDS: the cure according to the Bible, Acts maybe, is prayer, nothing else. Given that I was essentially his guest, I held my tongue. Otherwise, he sees a very negative future for Malawi, especially considering the coming famine. Many well-off Malawians are negative about Malawi's future. Much later, at Mangochi Turnoff, I stopped for a soda. My choices were orange fanta and coke, cold fortunately. I almost stopped for lunch too, but it was only 1:30 pm and I wanted to be home in plenty of time to go to the market.

I boarded the first bus I saw, a coaster run by a company with an Arabic name. Coasters are supposed to be the safest form of public transport in Malawi. I was the last the board, so I stood in the aisle next to the door and just behind the seats where they pile the katundu (luggage). We set off neventfully. My own pack was on my back because I had nowhere to set it down. At Mwima, we dropped off a man, leaving me with much more room to stand. Mwima is the last village before my site, about 15 to 20 minutes away. Someone in the seat ahead of me left, but I hesitated and someone else climbed over me to reach the seat. Had I sat in it, I would possibly have later flown into the windshield.

We had just left Mwima and had not yet picked up speed when I realized we were leaving the road. At first I thought we were turning onto a footpath.

Perhaps the driver had decided to visit a relative. Then I saw that we were passing the footpath and heading for the ditch just beyond it. Consciously, I observed the bank come closer, completely caught in the present. Unconsciously, I braced my arm against the back of the seat to my right and leaned into that seat, behind the katundu. I remember the impact vaguely. No fear. The bus lurched to the left under my feet. I was sure it would roll, but it hit the embankment by the footpath and stopped. My head hit my arm, which was held by the katundu and uninjured, but my glasses were caught and badly bent between them.

When I could stand straight, I watched the people stream out of the side door to my left and throw katundu out the front windshield, which had apparently broken, in front of me. I retrieved my Nalgene bottle, which had bent without breaking. It was leaking slightly and the loop that attaches the cap and bottle was broken. Of my katundu, it and my dress, which has a big hole now, were the only casualties. Then I stumbled to the door and stepped straight onto the embankment. I had taken off my glasses, bent as they were, and was carrying them in one hand. Once on the embankment, I became very disoriented and had no idea where to step to climb it. Finally, I reached up and called to a man above me, "Mungandithandize?" (Can you help me?) He pulled me up the bank, then guided me to the footpath, where I immediately removed my pack and collapsed.

On the footpath, I studied my glasses and noted that they were bent, but not broken. I bent them back into shape. They were out of focus, but wearable. I rubbed my face, perhaps pushing hair out of the way, and felt blood for the first time. My face had been scratched up badly by my glasses. Then I studied my left leg, which had started throbbing terribly when I reached the footpath. My knee was scraped up and swelling, but not bleeding profusely. I drank the water that was left in my bottle, which had not all leaked out.

A short time later, an agogo, an elderly woman, pulled me to my feet and started to lead me to a minibus (van) that had pulled up. I could not walk, so she finally hoisted me onto her back, piggyback style, which would have worked better if my dress had not been so narrow or if I had been able to properly bend my leg. She carried me to the shoulder, where I climbed the small rise, then she carried me to the minibus. I saw a pick-up truck and flagged it down. There was no room in the minibus to straighten my leg, so I explained, steadily more angrily, that no matter how they lifted me, I would not ride in it. I wanted to be in the pick-up, on the mpando (seat). Finally, one of the men listened and threw me over his shoulder. Another followed with my pack. They put me on the seat and I took up most of it. Fortunately, the driver was Malawian and was feeling generous, so he did not charge matola, fare to wherever we were going. I had the money, but most of the Malawians did not, since the coaster people had not refunded us. A man sat with me who introduced himself as the brother of Kennie Chibayo, one of the more intelligent Form 2 boys and one of my best students in Form 1B last year. He never told me his name. He made sure that the driver brought us as close as possible to Ulongwe II Primary School, where I live.

Kennie's brother then carried me to my house and fetched Mrs Zembani, my neighbor and, I joke sometimes, the keeper of my keys. Another man brought my pack, then vanished soon after. Mrs Zembani came and her son, Prescott, opened my door to let out my cat and put my pack inside. I ignored him and asked her for water to wash my wounds. It appeared eventually, very hot, while I was trying to explain to Mr Zembani what number to call to reach my PCMO (Peace Corps medical officer, either Sheila or Fraser). One of the many local agogos who had gathered washed my knee, face, and scraped up right arm. Meanwhile, Mr Zembani kept returning to report that the emergency number did not work, then the PCMOs' numbers. Finally, he reached Owen, the man in charge of the Transit House where PCVs stay in Lilongwe. Owen told him to bring me to the closest medical facility. I don't remember how I got to Kalembo dispensary.

Perhaps I limped with support from others. Perhaps I was carried. It is no more than 300 metres from my house. While I waited, Kennie's brother bent my water bottle back into shape and I received condolences from various people who knew me, including Mrs Zembani's mother and Miriam's mother. Miriam, my former worker, moved to Zomba to marry at the beginning of this month, so I have hired one of the Form 2 girls, Sarah Makawa.

At last, my headmistress, who met me at the dispensary, arranged for me to see the doctor. Health worker anyway; I was just glad he had decided to open his office on a Sunday. He put iodine on my wounded knee and otherwise left it alone, but referred me to Liwonde Hospital, the best in my area. The ambulance that had miraculously appeared drove me to my house. It had planned to drive me to Liwonde, but Sheila called and ordered me to stay in Ulongwe until I could

get transport all the way to Lilongwe. So while Mrs Zembani fed me the fish and nsima/ugali left over from lunch, Mr Zembani and my headmistress set out to find transport. They finally commandeered a pick-up truck from Ulongwe Catholic Mission. It showed up just after 4:00 pm, which I recall only because 7-year-old Prescott, who was sitting with me on the Zembanis' porch when I finished eating, announced the time in English according to the watch I had never noticed him wearing before.

We took my spare mattress and blankets and some pillows and put them on the bed of the truck so that I could be more or less comfortable. The headmistress, Madam Kamphonda, sat with me in the back. Mr Zembani sat in front with the driver. I took the same frame pack that I had brought to Blantyre. The back of the pick-up was cold, even wrapped in blankets and sweatshirts, especially once the sun set. July is winter here. The crescent moon and stars were beautiful though. The moon looked exactly like it does on mosques, like a bowl. I watched the clouds for a while too, until it grew too dark, and they looked like they were only a few feet above us. When we passed the crash site, Madam Kamphonda told me another bus by the same company had crashed just north of Machinga a few months ago. Though she did not say, I got the impression that people were killed. Luckily, no one on the coaster was killed and the worst injury was the conductor's broken leg.

We arrived in Lilongwe shortly before 8:00 pm and reached the Peace Corps office with little trouble. As we turned onto Murray Road, an oncoming car nearly flew into us, but that was all. At the office, I gave the headmistress my Peace Corps ID to show the guards. They studied it for a long time, then came out to the truck to see me. Finally, they let us in. Sheila was not there, so I set up camp on the front porch of the office with Madam Kamphonda. The others went with one guard to the Transit House to use the phone. Sheila had not told them that I was coming. They were reluctant to leave me, but I absolutely refused to get back in the pick-up truck.

When Sheila arrived, she had the guards lift me onto a stretcher and wheel me to the medical office behind the main offices. Then, while she wrapped me in blankets and turned on the heater in the examination room, she settled the others into the waiting room and called Chris, the administrative officer, the find them lodging for the night. I was shivering badly. I don't know if it was from shock or cold or both. Sheila briefly examined me, focusing primarily on my head and left leg. Then the others, including Chris, came in to check on me. I said goodbye, but I don't recall it. Once they were gone, Sheila brought me to her house for the night.

The next morning when I bathed was the first time I saw the bruises covering my right leg and the scratches all over my face. Both appeared much worse than I had imagined them. After breakfast, we went to MARS, the hospital, for x-rays. No fractures or broken bones. I am still waiting for the swelling to go down before Sheila can examine my ligaments. On Monday I will see the orthopedic surgeon. Until then, I am hobbling around on polio crutches, begging friends to buy me food, and begging Peace Corps to drive me between the office and the Transit House. I am doing well, but I am extremely bored.

Tiwonana, Abby

Update 22 July 2002: The orthopedic surgeon found no damage to my knee, so I just try to walk it and wait for the swelling to finish going down and the bruise to heal. I am still trying to extend for another year. No definite word for a few more weeks.

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