Life along the Med never gets dull, but last week's events took things to a whole new level! Every minute I "rent a taxi," as they call it here, I fear for my life and offer up many thanks when my feet are on solid ground nowhere near the street again.
Our friends allowed us the use of their car in their absence, so it's been a brand new kind of adventure driving a standard through downtown traffic around here. 'Rules of the Road' technically exist, but it's much more like 'Suggestions of the Street.' There are stop lights, and you will generally find taxis and learning drivers stopped there, but that's about it. It's definitely "a give an inch, take a mile" kind of scenario. Of course, there are more roundabouts than stop lights in this city and those things can be plain confusing.
One of the biggest road hazards (for drivers and pedestrians alike) are all the motorcycles and vespas. It's as if they all believe that all basic traffic laws (like traveling with and not into oncoming traffic) don't apply to them, and you can throw common courtesy out the window like the trash. Let me tell ya, these things are everywhere! They fill the alleys in the medina, the sidewalks, and every other crevice they can find. I was just mentioning to a friend last week that I should probably get one of those motorcycles, you know, to blend in with the culture and all. That's definitely not going to happen now.
Tuesday I was showing some friends around town and had just left them to head on back home to meet a friend for coffee. As I pulled into the roundabout and followed the cars in front of me, I decided I would be nice and let the truck (18 wheeler pulling an empty bed) to my right move on through the roundabout before I let off the brake. Apparently, his response to my kindness (which I must admit is few and far between when driving around here - and now we know why) was to scrape the side of the car with his wheelbase. Oh yes, it was an ugly sound and it sure did leave some ugly marks.
I knew this day would inevitably come, but it was just so unfortunate that I was alone and in someone else's car. The traffic policeman told us to move out of the roundabout and pull over to the side. So I got out of the car to survey the damage, but also the situation. I had no idea what to expect in this context in terms of culture. While the policeman and other driver were assessing the car, another van stops and a man is telling me that I left something in the roundabout. So we walk into the circle of traffic, he picks up two pieces of trim from the car door and jollily hands them to me. Check. He's done his good dead of the day. I'm just glad he was the only participating spectator.
Now I knew I was in for a treat with all kinds of new Arabic words being thrown at me. We've basically gotten to the point in language, finally, where we can pretty well understand and be understood - if it's subject matter with which we've had exposure. Let me just let y'all know, there wasn't a chapter in our "Arabic textbook" titled, 'Words to Use When a Car Accident Occurs,' although, maybe there should be.
All in all, after about 5 minutes of the policemen asking us for papers, he decides that we need to go to the police station. ???!? Yes. That's what I thought too. But what's even more...African, is that he suggests I give the other driver (who damaged my car) a ride to the police station! haha. Only in Africa.
The police station was exactly what I was expecting, after living here for just over a year now. There wasn't a lot of order, but there were big guys strutting around with their belly pooches and inflated egos. The other driver and I sat in what I later learned was the police chief's office in chairs opposing each other on the front side of his large flat desk. The room was hot, the dying fan squeaked, animals under the window meowed and hissed, and the clock lazily kept time. Just like any other office, a pile of purchased electronics boxes (the kind you keep after buying something new, in case you want to return it) sat in the corner in a pitiful attempt to remain hidden and look organized behind the locked metal cabinet. A lone pair of handcuffs hung just over the chief's right shoulder. I absently wondered if that was the stations only pair.
By the time we had found our way to the police station, the officer who witnessed the incident was waiting in the chief's office. After no small amount of searching and collecting the desired paperwork and multiple Arabic men speaking to me all at once, the others left to make photocopies and the chief slowly explained to me that they would give me a copy of the other driver's information but that we needed to come back in the morning to finalize the claim.
Dealing with the insurance and the third-party insurance adjuster, oddly named "The Expert," has proven to be an interesting study of culture. In this country it's not the police who determine who was at fault in the wreck, but the insurance agency. So the next morning, we met the other driver at the police station (yes, I brought back up with me for this one), then drove together to my insurance company, where the other driver gave his statement and went on his way. The insurance agency gave us instructions on how to get reimbursed for repairs and we were surprisingly able to complete most of the paperwork the very next day. That's really quite a feat around here this time of year.
Oh, and I almost forgot, just after we were headed back from finishing all the running around, guess what happened? Yep, we got rear-ended! One can only laugh at that point, especially since the bump didn't leave any damage. To end on a positive note, we left the car at the mechanic's this morning and should have it looking new again in no time!
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