ICBC Jaffna Style
Yes, we had another crash. Last Sunday, following a wonderful day riding to Casurina Beach on our scooter, the sun warm on our face, the light breeze blowing about our clothing to cool us, and after swimming in the Indian Ocean with Tamil and Sinhalese and Muslim families, we headed back into the crowded mayhem of Jaffna City traffic.
As we rounded a corner, there was a mini bus parked very near to the corner. Don’t ask us what happened, but the next thing we knew, I had my helmet plastered into the side of the minivan and our bike had zoomed into the side of the minivan.
“Bill, what happened?” I inquired.
Forlornly, Bill replied, “I don’t know.”
We dismounted, Bill told people around (many, many people) that he was responsible and a young lad tore off excitedly to find the driver of the vehicle. A small crowd gathered as a dozen men inspected the dent and scratch on the side of the minivan, still loaded with passengers. Bill continued to accept responsibility for the accident and using his only Tamil word, kept repeating Nandri (thank-you in Tamil).
One old bitty inside the bus hung her toothless old face out the window, cackling and grinning at our misfortune. Over and over she cackled to the driver, “Money, Money” Cackle, cackle.
Then, out of nowhere, an elderly barefooted and sarong clad man sauntered over and gave his rendition of the accident to the gathering crowd. He pointed out that the mini bus was too close to the side of the road and then, to our astonishment, pointed to the large, pothole in the road, right where we had tipped the bike. The people seemed to listen to his elderly wisdom.
“How much? How much,” Bill asked. With much debating back and forth, many brown male hands running over the dents and scratches, a verdict was reached. All agreed: 1,000 SLR should cover the damage.
“Are you sure that is enough?” Bill asked in growing concern.
“Is that enough? “I will pay more,” declares the judicious Mr. Blair. “Nandri, nandri.”
No, 1,000 SLR became the fixed price. Out came Bill’s wallet, he fished out a 2,000 rupee note, someone found the right change, we donned our helmets and we scuttled off to the grocery store. Bill was shook up, now believing he was getting too old to drive the scooter anymore. I was beginning to wonder the same.
A man in the grocery store told Bill he had witnessed our incident and he believed the bus was parked too close to the corner. That made us feels better.
However, the incident prompted some riding changes. Now, from time to time, Bill rides bitch as a way for me to practice riding with a passenger. He loves challenging social norms of male patriarchy anyway.
As we rounded a corner, there was a mini bus parked very near to the corner. Don’t ask us what happened, but the next thing we knew, I had my helmet plastered into the side of the minivan and our bike had zoomed into the side of the minivan.
“Bill, what happened?” I inquired.
Forlornly, Bill replied, “I don’t know.”
We dismounted, Bill told people around (many, many people) that he was responsible and a young lad tore off excitedly to find the driver of the vehicle. A small crowd gathered as a dozen men inspected the dent and scratch on the side of the minivan, still loaded with passengers. Bill continued to accept responsibility for the accident and using his only Tamil word, kept repeating Nandri (thank-you in Tamil).
One old bitty inside the bus hung her toothless old face out the window, cackling and grinning at our misfortune. Over and over she cackled to the driver, “Money, Money” Cackle, cackle.
Then, out of nowhere, an elderly barefooted and sarong clad man sauntered over and gave his rendition of the accident to the gathering crowd. He pointed out that the mini bus was too close to the side of the road and then, to our astonishment, pointed to the large, pothole in the road, right where we had tipped the bike. The people seemed to listen to his elderly wisdom.
“How much? How much,” Bill asked. With much debating back and forth, many brown male hands running over the dents and scratches, a verdict was reached. All agreed: 1,000 SLR should cover the damage.
“Are you sure that is enough?” Bill asked in growing concern.
“Is that enough? “I will pay more,” declares the judicious Mr. Blair. “Nandri, nandri.”
No, 1,000 SLR became the fixed price. Out came Bill’s wallet, he fished out a 2,000 rupee note, someone found the right change, we donned our helmets and we scuttled off to the grocery store. Bill was shook up, now believing he was getting too old to drive the scooter anymore. I was beginning to wonder the same.
A man in the grocery store told Bill he had witnessed our incident and he believed the bus was parked too close to the corner. That made us feels better.
However, the incident prompted some riding changes. Now, from time to time, Bill rides bitch as a way for me to practice riding with a passenger. He loves challenging social norms of male patriarchy anyway.
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