Last night we were in a taxi on our way to a Korean bar near the Chinese beach. As we came upon a busy section of Shenyang Road, we noticed that traffic had slowed down a little bit. As we got closer, we saw a fairly banged up black car pulled over to the shoulder of the road, windshield busted and front (in general) pretty well smushed. Surrounding his car was the carcas of a motorbike, bits and pieces strewn everywhere. At this point the taxi driver asked us if we understood Chinese. I told him that we understood a little, and that this (pointing to the accident) was not good, and we all had a laugh.
Our taxi pulled a little to the right to pass the car in front of us, which had slowed down considerably at this point. As we inched further and further right, I looked at the ground, and there it was. First it was just a head and shoulders and a pool of blood, and then it was the rest of a Chinese man, face down in the middle of the street, his body twisted and unnatural-looking. He wasn't moving. It was real. I just started saying "Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god" over and over while trying to keep it together as we drove past. I thought I was going to puke in the back seat while Rory and the cabbie (in Chinese) were telling me "don't look don't look don't look." I couldn't believe it. I saw a dead person. And no one was helping him. He was just there in the middle of the street, by himself, and no ambulance was in sight; somehow I doubt Chinese ambulances are famed for their response times.
After that, I was just in shock--it wasn't right for me to see someone's dad face down in his own pool of blood. Dead. Probably on his way home with dinner or something. Jesus Christ.
Wear your helmets, people.
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