witness

An article by esteemed travel writer C.S. for a distinguished travel website mentions a tragedy which occured in the most recent city to be blessed with the wandering adventurer's presence.

Following in the footsteps of the likes of Richard Burton and Hester Stanhope, I found myself in the domed city.  It was more magical, and yet more normal, than any other city I have visited.  Walking down the twisting medieval streets in the early morning, listening to the shopkeepers haggling with their suppliers, boatmen on the river giving each other orders and news, women calling each other from open windows while they hang night-dampened bedsheets - it was like stepping into an old-time, big-budget movie.  

But bits of gritty reality washed in too, things film can't transmit.  Besides sounds and colors, there were smells.  Some good, like the bakeries or the markets piled with fresh and fragrant fruit.  Being used to the sterility of supermarkets, the blazing brightness of the hues and the heady scents of fresh picked melons, peppers, tomatoes, apricots and various citrus fruits was simply overwhelming.  Everything leaped out at me from its stand, daring me, begging me to pick it up and test its weight and firmness in my hands before shaking my head at the merchant's exorbitant price and confidently saying I would pay half.  Other smells were less enjoyable.  From alleyways and patios near butchers' and fishmongers' wafted invisible fists of blood, guts and other bodily products.  I was assaulted in a restaurant toilet by the stench of layers of spilled urine, lying untouched for years like sediment on the river bank before it hit the city limits.  

The river itself was none too pleasing to the nose.  It was terribly scenic with its old stone bridges, lean boats slipping people and goods up and down, and dark, shining water that reflected everything like a scrying mirror.  But the odor that glided up over its walled banks...was tremendous.  Its subtlety and pungence left me wordless.  Trying to describe its components is like dismantling the formula of some complicated perfume.  I can't force myself to think about what might be mingled in its waters and settled on its bottom from the factories just outside the city limits.  From the first moment I had a sense of foreboding, a mournful feeling of unavoidable tragedy regarding this river.  The way it slithered through town, with none of the stateliness of the Thames or the rush of the young Mississippi, made it seem sinister.  In spite of the lack of twists and turns - it runs practically straight in its course through the city - I sensed an aura of the serpentine when I gazed down upon it from the oldest surviving bridge.  This bridge is now pedestrian only, cobbled, with fanciful street lights and carved faces on its centuries old walls.  Only the faces and the very ends of the walls are original; the others have been added over the years by commission of the city authorities to honor famous sons (and daughters).  Of the four oldest faces, only one is inarguably identified: the founder of the city.  He stares grimly at the knees of the passers by, perhaps in disapproval of the bare flesh he now sees paraded before him.  About twenty faces are named only by rumors, the historians at the university archive shrugging their shoulders when asked and saying only that the documents have been lost.  How?  When?  Ah, more mysteries.

This bridge was the scene of the most memorable event during my visit.  Of course, I am referring to the biggest news story of the past week.  Oddly, the excitement makes my memories blurry and difficult to read, like action photos taken with a disposable camera.  I suppose it was the crushing emotions that burned these fuzzy, smeared images into my brain, more than the sight itself.  The midday sun was pouring down like lemonade, tinting everything slightly yellow and making everything sticky.  I was meandering, thinking about an appointment I had with the curator of ancient artifacts in the Municipal Museum (which is not, I was sternly told, to be confused with the City Museum.  Ever.)  My late breakfast of lightly toasted ham and bread with currant jam was on its last legs in my stomach and my thoughts kept turning to those rosy apples I had in my bag.  The street was full of people, locals and tourists, but the noise level was pleasant, energizing.  I was taking the street next to the river, since smaller streets had often turned me around and spit me back onto the main thoroughfares blocks before the point I had turned down them in the first place.  Other days I could handle the labyrinth, but today I had somewhere to be at 1:30 on the dot.  And then, the incident happened.

The bridge was about 200 feet in front of me, pale tan over the snakeskin emerald of the river.  And then it was all black and smoky.  The noise was so loud, I think I didn't even register that there had been a sound for several seconds.  I just saw the smoke.  I felt the vibration.  Like the loudest clap of thunder in the wildest summer storm.  I even saw little pebbles dancing on the wall next to the sidewalk and wondered what had turned them into jumping beans.  Then I saw people all around me reacting.  Some were pointing with one hand and covering a wide open mouth with the other.  Some were cowering on the ground, covering their heads.  Some were like me, looking from one face to another, trying to take in what was going on, to make a decision.  Then the smell hit me.  It was a horrible chemically smell, like burning rubber or plastic.  The heavy black smoke hadn't even reached us, but the smell whizzed through the air, still air yet, to claw at our noses.  I gagged and dashed for cover with everyone around me to the restaurants and bars across the street.  Fortunately for us, all the traffic had also been stopped by the astonishment and curiosity of the drivers and nobody was in danger of being bashed by the chugging, tooting hunks of metal that shudder down this city's streets.  After an eternal wait in a quaint cafe full of heavily clothed tables and jeweled mirrors, police and soldiers appeared to reassure us of our safety, but also to remind the tourists of where their country's nearest consulate was.

Needless to say, my meeting at the museum was postponed.