Bus Wreck

On our way back from Chek Chek, we had our worst experience of the trip—we were warned the first day that the most dangerous threat to us in Iran is traffic—whether crossing the road as a pedestrian or auto accidents. We were merging lanes after coming through a roundabout when we ‘merged’ too closely with the business end of a dump truck.

Our bus was totaled—the whole front right corner smashed in. Fortunately, most of the people closest to the impact saw it coming and were able to protect themselves. Those of us in the back or sleeping hit the seats in front of us, and had more injuries. I smacked my head pretty good into the window, but the window didn’t break. Here are some of the thoughts I wrote down and remember from the experience:

There is a roaring, almost indescribable, sound made by a bus hitting the back of a heavy truck, of a windshield crumpling and the side windows shattering; there is the sound of coming to a dead halt after brakes are applied and skid across pavement. There is the sound of soft thuds of people hitting the seats in front of them, and the hard smacks of hitting windows, of computers and cameras and eyeglasses going flying.

Then there is the sight of a spray of fine glass showering down across the street beside me, of bits of metal flying, clattering onto the pavement. Where did that dump truck go? It was here and then gone.

There is the sensation of head hitting hard against a surface, and another feeling, which seemed like brain hitting against the inside of one’s skull. I did this though when we hit the brakes, and before the impact. So I saw others hit hard, then the flying glass, and heard the silence in the first moment after the crash.

I remember checking internally to see if everything was alright. Can I still see? Hear? Move? Is anyone dead? Injured? Missing? I remember the first moments after the crash in Iraq, the initial knowing before knowing that someone had died. A spirit demanding that its body be searched for and discovered in a field would not let me alone until I found him. I remember worrying in Iraq, and now in Iran, that news would reach the States of our crash and injuries and would this lead our nations into war?

I remember getting everyone and everything off the bus. By luck we had crashed just in front of a police station, and their response was immediate. We were ushered inside, after getting final pictures of our poor bus, wreckage with curtains hanging out and a rearview mirror twisted upward into a giant yellow question mark. Once I sat down in the chair inside, the adrenaline wore off and I began to realize something was not quite right within. I was foggy still; my head was hurting more; I felt an unnatural rage and wanting to scream at everyone present. This is something like having a splintered mind, with two-thirds beginning to act irrationally and the remainder trying to hold the rest together. It was not unlike having been too long and overindulged at a party and now trying to make it home in one piece. One foot in front of the other, hold yourself together. Don’t do anything rash. Don’t just go to sleep.

Meanwhile, Priscilla has a goose egg on her forehead and several bruises; Judith hit her nose and cut her hand; Dan needs stitches in his eyebrow for a gash; Jane has wrenched her neck. I look fine. I must be fine. Why can’t I go to sleep? I decide to concentrate hard on not sleeping, and my silence is what earns me a trip to the hospital. I remember people telling me I was shivering and maybe going into shock, and hearing this and it not entirely registering. Not panicking either; just passively absorbing. We go to the hospital, receive x-rays, find nothing broken, I am advised to take the usual precautions against exacerbating a concussion; although it could just be a bad headache. As long as I’m up and walking, things are fine. Sitting too still and I get fairly loopy. Our guide is not entirely satisfied with the doctor’s thorough questioning and prognosis and does his own tests, quizzing me on the details on my driver’s license. He actually has plenty of experience in evaluating people with head wounds, due to his time in the war. In the middle of all this, I remember learning to explain in broken Persian that we had a bus crash and I hit my head. An attendant at the hospital brings us tea and sugar cubes while we wait. We sign a postcard as a thank you note for our very thorough hospital staff.

The hospital we visited was really what you would expect from the 50s or 60s. We saw mostly the emergency room, which is set up similar to my hometown hospital, though it has the old-fashioned white porcelain tiles and that medicine-green paint and curtains between beds. I had to get x-rays of my skull and right shoulder, and for this I changed into the hospital garb, which for women here is a knee-length pink smock and a lilac kerchief-hijab. I would have appreciated a pair of pants as well, but it was only for twenty minutes or so. It was an old-fashioned x-ray machine also, at least as old as the first x-ray I had when I was in third grade, but the usual precautions for x-rays were observed and it wasn’t a bad experience. I wish I had felt better in order to have been more observant about the experience.

The police station was a compound of sorts with the actual office surrounded by a wall, watchtowers, and main gate. The walls also served as sheltered parking for the police cars. But people could come and go freely, and we took up most of the chairs in the waiting area for the better part of the afternoon. Perhaps they weren't quite as hospitable there--after all, the police didn't drop everything to serve us tea--but still they were patient and kind in the midst of a bizarre situation.

We joke later that we’ve gotten a first-hand look at two places we most wanted to see but otherwise couldn’t—the inside of a typical hospital, and being up close with the police. In two or three hours we got a good view of both.

Sayyid, our guide, must be exhausted by now. He was sitting up front, realized the driver didn’t see the truck and yelled to warn him; and held out his arm to prevent anyone from flying forward. He himself was thrown and hit the windshield, but fortunately didn't go through it. There is a large bump on the back of his hand, but he won't let us worry about him. He also guided us through the police paperwork; we decided we didn’t need to sue anyone, so the driver was not put in jail though he has traffic fines to pay. He walked us through the hospital and into new cars and back to the hotel where we had food waiting for us with a sympathetic staff. And he made sure we could all borrow his phone to call home and let people know we were okay. He is a good guide as well as a good friend and we are fortunate to have him.

A day after the crash, it’s a little unnerving to be back on the bus and especially to be typing again on the bus, which is what I was doing when we crashed. But the company sent a full-size bus along, which is built not unlike a tank, so I really shouldn’t worry. And it is also a far more stable, less bouncy ride. Although, I really did like our smaller bus and the sense of closer community it provided as we traveled these long roads through the desert.