People think signs don't apply to them

There are reasons for signs like this.

I was travelling through a small village on the national road between Tsumeb and Ondangwa, a man in a large black SUV with a trailer overtook me (doing about 120km/hour) and as he went passed he saw the big cow starting to cross the road from the lefthandside, which I was slowing down for.  A huge oncoming truck was getting closer.  Fast. I wanted to close my eyes.  I started braking harder.  The SUV and trailer was aiming for the righthandside gravel of the road.  As it clipped the gravel edge the SUV started spinning out of control. I looked from left (the cow) to right (the SUV) and saw the SUV going back across the tar, hit the gravel on the left.  The trailer broke from the SUV and spun around in the gravel losing all its contents, the SUV rolled five times and came to a stop – on its roof.

I braked hard, slowed down enough to safely go onto the gravel and headed for the grass/shrubs the SUV lay in.  I saw the villagers almost not believing what they’d seen . I leapt out of my car (remembering to take key out of ignition and press central locking as I ran towards the SUV).  By now I think the villagers were even more stunned – a white woman leaping out of the Pajero and running towards the SUV.

As I got to the SUV, I could hear the radiator pressure releasing and I couldn’t smell any fuel so I dropped onto my stomach and started shouting into the vehicle “How many of you were in the car?”  By this time the first villagers were arriving.  I shouted to one of them to ask again.  “One” was the answer.  I could see someone strapped into the driver seat but almost into the back of the car.  The first villager who arrived was dressed in a navy “paramedic”-type overall with fading reflective stripes sewn on and kitted with welder’s gloves and a huge panga.  Very prepared, I thought.  Very strange, I thought too.  The men couldn’t get any of the doors open (squashed!) It appeared the man was able to move and talk so the men got round to oneside and I started counting to three and on the third attempt they got the flattened SUV on its wheels.  The “paramedic” cleared the shattered door window, cut the seatbelt and they got the man out.

There was debris and contents of the vehicle and trailer everywhere. By now there were 100’s of villagers standing around.  The driver of the oncoming truck had also stopped and was watching proceedings. 

The villagers were insisting I take the injured driver to hospital (whaaaaaat??? I thought to myself!  They are mad!)  I went up to the man and he was pointing at his chest and his voice was weak.  No blood or bubbles from his mouth, I thought.  No punctured lung.  Sad as it may seem, there is no ways I’m transporting an injured man to a hospital.  What happens if he goes into shock and dies?!  Then I’m responsible.  I told the villagers I’m heading for Ondongwa, so I’ll go and report it to the police station.  Everyone was now shouting take him to hospital “… and we’ll look after all his stuff.”  Ja, very likely I thought! I asked the truck driver to please explain this to the injured man.  I ran to my car and a little old lady stopped me to say thank you.

As I drove off, I remembered seeing a sign say call 10111 in case of emergency.  I did this and tried to explain to the operator what happened.  He told me to phone Ondangwa Police Station and gave me the number.  Turns out he should have given me the dialling code too.  After trying a useless number, I decided to keep to the plan of going to Ondangwa Police Station (50kms away).  Checked Judy Garmin and it was the nearest police station.  Set as destination. Done.

Once I arrived in Ondangwa and got to the Police Station, on the furtherest side of town, I parked my LSP and hoped it was safe as the tent is only tied onto the roof rack, not locked.  I walked to the gate and found 5 men sitting in the shade.  “Where do I report an accident?”.  Once again a white woman on her own is a strange sight.  One of the guys barked at me in Afrikaans, to which I fluently replied what I wanted to do.  He ungraciously pointed me to another gate a vehicle was exiting.  Back in my car, and into the next gate.  It looked like a rundown workshop.  A woman in Police uniform was standing chatting to a child.  She told me where I should park (in a more secure looking area) and where I should go.  In the office (which was totally ‘manned’ by women)  I said I want to report an accident.  Silence.  “On the B1,” I said.  The woman wrote down B1 and looked blankly at me.  WTF?????  Then another woman came around the counter and pointed at a door to the workshop.  “Go in there and walk down the passage.  If you find a door open, report it there.”  Fuck, now I was getting irritated.  I wandered down the passage and right at the end a door was open and a senior looking woman was seated behind a desk with five people sitting around the room.  They all looked at me as though I’d landed from outer space.  I said I want to report an accident and her phone started ringing and she answered it.  I could hear by the tone of her voice that the call was not of a serious nature.  I stood in the passage waiting.  Thinking “why am I bothering?” “Just get back in your car and go.”  I waited. After four minutes she called me into the office and eventually with the aid of some of the others in the office, she understood what I was doing. She spoke perfect English.  As with everything, it turns out this was the wrong police station to report the accident to.  (Did she think I was getting in my car and driving back 100-odd kms to go to another police station report this??) Sanity prevailed and she agreed to phone the other police and “hand the matter over to colleagues there.”  She, labouriously, took my name and telephone number and I could go.  Turns out she was the Unit Commander.

I could only hope someone was going to the accident scene.  By now it was late afternoon and I checked lodgings available and drove 6kms back out of town to the Nakambele Musuem and Community Campsite which is situated on an old mission station.  When I got there I explained what had happened to the woman running the campsite and the following morning she told me she’d seen “the black flat car” on the towtruck.  I felt a bit better.

Till later. . . .