Friday, September 10, 2004
The Bedouin Cop.
The four of us were sweating. The Land Cruiser lad, the two policemen, and yours truly. It had been some fifteen minutes since the accident, and the policemen had arrived in less than fifteen minutes from the time I had called 999.
I had had a chance to inspect the damage meanwhile, and it looked like the Land Cruiser guy would be taking my car and then some if the police report found me the guilty party. The front right side of the land cruiser looked more than deformed. The light was broken, the bumper badly dented, and the area above the wheel looked like it had been put through a juicer blender. Blackey, my cute li'l 190E had escaped with a few scartches by comparison. Sure, the tail light was gone, but hey what's a tail light when you get hit from behind by a spanking new Land Cruiser, while you are cruising at a 100 kms per hour. It was a miracle no-one was injured. It was a bigger miracle I had not rammed into that bus! This Land Cruiser guy had appeared out of nowhere. One minute I had looked into the rear view mirror and it was just the empty road. The next time I looked up, I had the Land Cruiser smelling blackey's fumes, and blinking incessantly to stay concious. I had begun changing lanes, when I saw the bus come out of that bus stop. It was less than a 100 meters away, and I was doing a 100 Km/Hr. Anxious to avoid landing into one of the bus seats, I hit the brakes while mid-way on lane changing. The dork behind the Land Cruiser's wheel had already sneaked into the area I had begun vacating. He hit me... and as I came to a screeching halt, missing the bus by a few meters, I saw the Land Cruiser veer past me struggling to steady itself. The last thing I remember having seen before I had pulled over on the side was the bus going away into the horizon... and ofcourse, the kvetcher still babbling on the phone.
So, here we were. Yours truly shaken from the experience, slightly if I may add, the kvetcher busy on the phone with VGA, and passing on the minutest of details of the incident to her, and the Land Cruiser parked in front of us with the hazard lights blinking. The Land Cruiser guy turned out to be a UAE national, barely 19 and slightly taller than the shortest lady in our office. He probably bought a gillette every birthday, and possibly had yet to invest in his second shaving foam bottle. That did not keep him from swearing a li'l when he had been over to the right side of his car.
As the police arrived, he advanced towards them with alacrity and proceeded to give them his version of the accident... in Arabic. He had been driving within the speeding limits of the fast lane, and then I had come speeding from the right lane (the slow lane) and had swerved in front of him in my attempt to cut past the bus in front of me. I was not surprised, somehow I had expected him to lie. He was young, local (UAE National) and probably thought I was an Indian who did not understand Arabic at all. I waited for him to finish, and then told the policeman my story in English. Seeing that I had disputed his story, the local lad asked for the matter to be referred to the police station. It is normal procedure. If the two parties do not agree on what had actually transpired, the matter is referred to the police station where traffic police specialists re-enact the scene basis damage to the cars and arrive at a conclusion. I did not want that. The damage to the cars did not tell the whole story, and in the police station it would be his word against mine. A local boy against an expatriate. My prayers were answered as the second policeman, this one looked more bedouin because of his darker complexion, got out of the patrol car and refused to refer a simple matter like this to the "Markaz" - the station. We inspected the exact spot of collision, the damage to the cars (once again), and still could not agree on one version of the accident. The non-bedouin looking policeman seemed sympathetic to the local lad, and it did not bode well for me. However, the bedouin policeman took charge of the proceedings. He heard our stories again, and arrived at the conclusion that we were both at fault. I should have seen the bus coming out of the stop, and Land Cruiser should have maintained reasonable distance. This was not entirely wrong, but this verdict meant I had to repair my own car and he his. I wasn't willing to part with any money because the shaikh's son was not tolerant enough of the expatriate vermin plying on his country's roads when he was testing the limits of his spanking new Land Cruiser VX-R. The bedouin seemed to read my thoughts, and clearly stated that as far as he was concerned we were both citizens of the city, and he was doing his best to arrive at a just conclusion. I was relieved. This time when I spoke, I spoke in my best arabic. After admitting that I should have seen the bus coming, I underlined the fact that had the shabab (youth) maintained his distance from me, and not snuggled into my lane before I had completely left it, the accident would not have happened. More importantly, had he not been tailgating me there would not have been the panic stricken attempt to change the lanes in the first place.
He agreed, and gave his verdict. The UAE lad was wrong, and I was right. I think the local lad protested a bit about how they were not siding with their own and all, but the bedouin closed the case saying he had arrived at the conclusion. In the process he cast aside his partner's meek suggestion that the matter could still be referred to the station.
I got the green chit, testimonial that I was not the wronging party, and that all my damage would have to be paid by the local lad's insurance. He got the red chit, meaning just the opposite.
We shook hands, all of us. The local lad walked over to me, and apologised. In all the hoopla, the Kvetcher had complied to my request and gone ahead for her driving class, which is where we were headed in the first place. Ironic, isn't it? To be driven to your driving class, where they teach you the nuances of driving, and ways to avoid denting and painting expenses, and be given a practical lesson in lane changing along the way.
I knew I had been helped by my colourful and abstract arabic... but somehow I felt that even if I had not been able to speak in his language the bedouin would have ensured that a fair decision was arrived at.
This was the umpteenth time I had seen, first hand, why the bedouin tradition is so looked up to in this part of the world. They are fair, truthful, and do not hesitate to call a spade a spade. But that... let me cover in another entry.
For now, if you see a black 190E with a broken left tail light and a dent above the rear-left wheel cruising in the fast lane, tailgate it all you want, there is little chance I will change my lane in a hurry!
¶ 9/10/2004 01:09:00 AM
I had had a chance to inspect the damage meanwhile, and it looked like the Land Cruiser guy would be taking my car and then some if the police report found me the guilty party. The front right side of the land cruiser looked more than deformed. The light was broken, the bumper badly dented, and the area above the wheel looked like it had been put through a juicer blender. Blackey, my cute li'l 190E had escaped with a few scartches by comparison. Sure, the tail light was gone, but hey what's a tail light when you get hit from behind by a spanking new Land Cruiser, while you are cruising at a 100 kms per hour. It was a miracle no-one was injured. It was a bigger miracle I had not rammed into that bus! This Land Cruiser guy had appeared out of nowhere. One minute I had looked into the rear view mirror and it was just the empty road. The next time I looked up, I had the Land Cruiser smelling blackey's fumes, and blinking incessantly to stay concious. I had begun changing lanes, when I saw the bus come out of that bus stop. It was less than a 100 meters away, and I was doing a 100 Km/Hr. Anxious to avoid landing into one of the bus seats, I hit the brakes while mid-way on lane changing. The dork behind the Land Cruiser's wheel had already sneaked into the area I had begun vacating. He hit me... and as I came to a screeching halt, missing the bus by a few meters, I saw the Land Cruiser veer past me struggling to steady itself. The last thing I remember having seen before I had pulled over on the side was the bus going away into the horizon... and ofcourse, the kvetcher still babbling on the phone.
So, here we were. Yours truly shaken from the experience, slightly if I may add, the kvetcher busy on the phone with VGA, and passing on the minutest of details of the incident to her, and the Land Cruiser parked in front of us with the hazard lights blinking. The Land Cruiser guy turned out to be a UAE national, barely 19 and slightly taller than the shortest lady in our office. He probably bought a gillette every birthday, and possibly had yet to invest in his second shaving foam bottle. That did not keep him from swearing a li'l when he had been over to the right side of his car.
As the police arrived, he advanced towards them with alacrity and proceeded to give them his version of the accident... in Arabic. He had been driving within the speeding limits of the fast lane, and then I had come speeding from the right lane (the slow lane) and had swerved in front of him in my attempt to cut past the bus in front of me. I was not surprised, somehow I had expected him to lie. He was young, local (UAE National) and probably thought I was an Indian who did not understand Arabic at all. I waited for him to finish, and then told the policeman my story in English. Seeing that I had disputed his story, the local lad asked for the matter to be referred to the police station. It is normal procedure. If the two parties do not agree on what had actually transpired, the matter is referred to the police station where traffic police specialists re-enact the scene basis damage to the cars and arrive at a conclusion. I did not want that. The damage to the cars did not tell the whole story, and in the police station it would be his word against mine. A local boy against an expatriate. My prayers were answered as the second policeman, this one looked more bedouin because of his darker complexion, got out of the patrol car and refused to refer a simple matter like this to the "Markaz" - the station. We inspected the exact spot of collision, the damage to the cars (once again), and still could not agree on one version of the accident. The non-bedouin looking policeman seemed sympathetic to the local lad, and it did not bode well for me. However, the bedouin policeman took charge of the proceedings. He heard our stories again, and arrived at the conclusion that we were both at fault. I should have seen the bus coming out of the stop, and Land Cruiser should have maintained reasonable distance. This was not entirely wrong, but this verdict meant I had to repair my own car and he his. I wasn't willing to part with any money because the shaikh's son was not tolerant enough of the expatriate vermin plying on his country's roads when he was testing the limits of his spanking new Land Cruiser VX-R. The bedouin seemed to read my thoughts, and clearly stated that as far as he was concerned we were both citizens of the city, and he was doing his best to arrive at a just conclusion. I was relieved. This time when I spoke, I spoke in my best arabic. After admitting that I should have seen the bus coming, I underlined the fact that had the shabab (youth) maintained his distance from me, and not snuggled into my lane before I had completely left it, the accident would not have happened. More importantly, had he not been tailgating me there would not have been the panic stricken attempt to change the lanes in the first place.
He agreed, and gave his verdict. The UAE lad was wrong, and I was right. I think the local lad protested a bit about how they were not siding with their own and all, but the bedouin closed the case saying he had arrived at the conclusion. In the process he cast aside his partner's meek suggestion that the matter could still be referred to the station.
I got the green chit, testimonial that I was not the wronging party, and that all my damage would have to be paid by the local lad's insurance. He got the red chit, meaning just the opposite.
We shook hands, all of us. The local lad walked over to me, and apologised. In all the hoopla, the Kvetcher had complied to my request and gone ahead for her driving class, which is where we were headed in the first place. Ironic, isn't it? To be driven to your driving class, where they teach you the nuances of driving, and ways to avoid denting and painting expenses, and be given a practical lesson in lane changing along the way.
I knew I had been helped by my colourful and abstract arabic... but somehow I felt that even if I had not been able to speak in his language the bedouin would have ensured that a fair decision was arrived at.
This was the umpteenth time I had seen, first hand, why the bedouin tradition is so looked up to in this part of the world. They are fair, truthful, and do not hesitate to call a spade a spade. But that... let me cover in another entry.
For now, if you see a black 190E with a broken left tail light and a dent above the rear-left wheel cruising in the fast lane, tailgate it all you want, there is little chance I will change my lane in a hurry!
¶ 9/10/2004 01:09:00 AM
