the inevitable lightness of being

Its Sunday afternoon at the Hilton Hotel. 5PM is time to consider transportation---our ritual of pancakes with the MTWarrens begins in an hour. Since the Vantreases are here, I decide to hire a contract taxi back to Bingham alone so we will have transportation after dinner. The Vantreases and E will catch another ride and meet me there.

Taxis are lined up outside the Hilton. I have choices, which means I can get a decent rate. I like to bargain. I knew its going to cost more than 20 Birr because thats what it costs to get to St Matthews, which is maybe half the distance to Bingham. I ask the first taxi driver in line, "How much to Kolfe?" and he pauses from his cell phone conversation and replies "As you wish." What a pushover I think, and offer an easy 30 Birr. He complies and I briefly think to myself "Shoot, I should have bid lower."

As we exit the Hilton premise, the cabbie says over his shoulder "Bole, right?" and I quickly interject with agitation "No, I said K-O-L-F-E." Without stopping, he says "No, Kolfe far away. Price now 50 Birr." I know this game; I should have seen it coming. With somewhat firm tones, I lean forward and remind him that 30 Birr is the agreed price. After slight gymnastics, I tell him the most I will pay is 40 Birr. He goes silent.

By the time we get back to the main road, he does not take the normal right but goes straight, the Merkato route. He turns the Ethiopian music on, which is more or less repetitive polka. As we descend deeper and deeper into the Merkato, I look up and begin to wonder afresh at the constant surge of pedestrians, animals, old cars. As I look to the left, I see a group of boys all facing the opposite direction. They are all in the 8-10 year range and quite lively. I stare at the boy who moves rapidly near the street, still with his back toward us. Before I can gasp, he darts in front of the speeding taxi. There is no use swerving, the brakes lock up.

I brace myself. The child never sees us, but he definitely hears the tires squeal. The bumper impacts his body, crushing him squarely above his waist. I lurch forward under the strain, expecting to run over him, but he bounces away from the car. The taxi halts right in front of him. The entire street swells around the motionless child. He remains still and silent at first, but then struggles to his feet sideways like a stunned deer. He breaks into hysterics when he feels the blood covering his face. He is bent over scrambling. A huge, loud crowd pulses forward; the driver gets out with fear in his eyes. I am paralyzed. I sense the faranj may be held responsible somehow. Above the shrieks of the people, the boy's mother screams and swoops down through the crowd. I slip into the mob towards the other side of the street. I am sweating.

Together, the mother and driver pick the boy off the ground. The mother holds his bleeding head and they open up the backdoor and place him on the seat that moments before, I occupied. The driver does not look for me as he jumps back into the driver seat. They race off to the hospital leaving me amidst a large sea of folks. I start walking and catch the next minibus and pay 2.40 Birr back to Bingham. One hour later, I drive to the Warrens. My stomach is reeling.