Tráfico

I saw it happen, right in front of me.

It was quarter after seven this morning. I was walking north up Calle San Martín to the bus stop at the corner of Calle Ecuador. I was approaching Calle Colombia, the street before Calle Ecuador. I was maybe 70 or 80 feet from the corner of Calle Colombia. The bus I was hoping to chase down barreled right on by me into the intersection. Already in the intersection crossing Calle San Martín from the west was a big silver-gray van. The bus was too late to stop; I don’t think it stopped at all. The front of the bus collided with the right rear of the van, sending the van skidding, spraying glass from its broken taillight and shedding pieces of bumper. It was a frightening sound, the sickening dead thud of metal on metal and the crash of glass. The left side of the van scraped against obstacles on the left curb of Calle Colombia and came to a stop. The bus sputtered several more feet up Calle San Martín and braked.

The passengers, dazed but seemingly all right, evacuated the bus slowly. A family staggered out of the van. A woman was wailing. A boy, her son I imagine, was kneeling, hunched, cradling his arms. Were they broken? And other people from the van and the bus were weeping and moaning.

All the while I was frozen. I looked up; all the lights in the traffic signal were lit, red, yellow, and green. Were they like that before the collision? And other questions. Whether the signal was working or not, who had the right of way? Shouldn’t the bus have proceeded more cautiously, slowly, toward the intersection? Shouldn’t the van have been proceeding more cautiously? Did the passengers in the van have seat belts, and were they wearing them? I know the buses have no seat belts. There are rules of the road; doesn’t anybody follow them?

The anger came later, but at the moment I was shocked. I saw a collision, and from the looks of it, it could have caused fatalities, but for the grace of God and the guardian angels.

And helplessness came over me. I couldn’t call an ambulance. My phone does not work here. And if I could, would I know what to say or do? A crowd was gathering close to the family. Were they, could they help the family? What did they need? What could be done?

I stood, impotent, watching these helpless people. I had to get to school to learn the language I came here from four thousand miles away to study so I could help the helpless in New York City. Would this family, would these bystanders understand if this man dressed in a friars’ robe walked away from them without a word, without a gesture, not because he did not care but because he felt afraid and ignorant and embarrassed to have nothing to give but surprise and shock, which he was trying hard to hide?

I walked past the crowd to the bus stop at the corner of Calle Ecuador. I felt like the priest and Levite on the Jericho Road. Dear God, forgive me for not knowing what to do.

Did I have a premonition of this incident? Last night I dreamed of a plane crash, that a plane went down in Bolivia.

What I take to prayer tonight is grief for the hurt family. I take anger that the roads are so unsafe in Cochabamba. I take fear because I worry about getting to school and to the convent safely every day. I don’t know whether to walk or ride the bus. I take the hope that city leaders will do better, improve the functionality of traffic signs and signals. I pray they will enforce the rules of the road, punish bad drivers, and train all who apply for licenses to operate motor vehicles more responsibly. I ask God’s guardian angels to slow down the motorists and steady their hands and feet and focus their eyes and ears.

Pray that God will watch over all of us in our coming and going. Amen.