Things We Take for Granted -- Part 3: Emergency Responders

Ambulances and fire trucks have been part of the backdrop of my life for as long as I can recall.

As a child, our house was filled with the endless chatter of a "scanner," the emergency radio that announced calls for the region's volunteer emergency workers. Holidays and family dinners were not infrequently interrupted by the sudden departure of my father or mother to answer calls for the volunteer fire or ambulance squad, and family road trips were occasionally diverted by the smell of smoke or the sight of a roadside accident.

Later, my brothers got in on the act, and I'd be left alone at the table, feeding my mom's dinner to the dog. It’s not that I didn’t want to help – I was a trained first aider and a CPR instructor, after all – but I just never felt the urge to join. Maybe I had spent too long being irked by the interruptions. At my high school graduation, the moment my family liked best was when my speech was interrupted by an ambulance carting off someone's dehydrated granny. The photo, they'll tell you, is priceless: me at the podium in black robe and yellow tassels, trying to look learned and grown-up; behind me, an ambulance with flashing lights.

With such a background, I guess I'm bound to notice that Sierra Leone is, basically, a country without emergency responders. (It’s also, incidentally, a country without fire detectors. Chief Manning, wanna send me a few?)

A man and his young daughter were killed recently in a fire in Freetown. My research assistant, Gibrill, spent most of the night – with the rest of his neighbors – carting buckets of water to douse the flames. The fire department (I guess there is one, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen a truck) turned up only after all was said and done.

Last Sunday, I was at the scene of a nasty accident. Two motorbikes hit one another and skittered off in different directions. One driver was badly scraped, but the other was much worse. He wobbled away but then collapsed, unconscious, on the side of the road. As a crowd gathered, a few people fanned his face to give him air, while others stared at the carnage: thick blood dripping from his mouth, shirt plastered with blood. Several others scurried around trying to arrange a vehicle to take him to the hospital, while a man with a whistle (why does he have a whistle? does he carry it always?) tried to slow the passing traffic.

I stood nearby in a state close to shock, wanting to help but not really knowing how, waiting for the familiar sirens but knowing that none were coming. I stepped through the crowd to check if the driver was still breathing. I told the man supporting his limp body not to move his neck or head. I turned to ask the policewoman if they had found a vehicle yet – planning to offer to bring him in my car, something I should have done from the get-go – but was told that a truck was ready to take him. More minutes passed. The man vomited suddenly, and I began to think he might die in front of me. I started to wish that my mom was there.

Eventually they loaded the man into a poda-poda and sped him off over potholed roads to the nearest hospital. I had precious little hope for the outcome: Too much time had passed, he was too badly banged up, and the hospital (once they got there) was probably too short on supplies and expertise.

As we climbed back in the car and continued on our way, I was overcome with emotion – most prominently, anger and disappointment at myself for not doing more to help. I should have stepped in from the very beginning, taken charge, ensured that his neck was kept as stable as possible and his airway kept open, had him put in my car without delay, sped him off to the closest doctor.

But I didn’t. I was paralyzed with uncertainty. I deferred to those who had already taken charge. I acted only belatedly, and only with hesitation. A half hour after we’d left the scene, I collapsed in tears, haunted by what I’d seen and (not) done.

Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that I didn’t do more. Back home, I’m not supposed to be the one to take charge. I’m not supposed to be the hero. That role belongs to my family members – or to the others that arrive with flashing lights and blaring sirens. My job is to keep the person breathing, keep them still, stop any major bleeding, and call 911. That’s what the Red Cross taught me.

But here in Salone, calling 911 won’t get you anywhere. If you want to save someone’s life, you have to take a little more initiative.

Next time, I tell myself firmly, I will.