The two men sat on the yellow bench. They had their trousers rolled up, while the flies buzzed close to the ears, the slow humming barely veiling the sharp jutting sounds of the chopper above them. The roof above was scarcely making sounds when the wind slowly catapulted some dust into their eyes.
"It's an old tree," said one of them to the other.
"Here she comes. She's been asking about that boy since morning. Just look at all of them, trying to get the things in order. Make that entry," he said.
They both were in the early 40s, short, cropped hair, writing names in their registers of men, women, children, old ones, who had been charred to death in the airplane crash four days ago.
"Don't ask me again, madam. I told you," said one of them.
The woman in front of them, in her late 40s, looking haggard without sleep, had been looking for her son, just like the whole milieu behind her, slowly snuffing out hope alongside embers of the aircraft's remains.
The gigantic turf where the plane had crashed, left little to the imagination of the horror that skewered lives.
The palm tree above the plane looked as it lost a meek struggle to the machine, with its leaves mangled into the left wing.
The mini mountain of ash brewing smoke had looked too difficult to douse, but the locals had come to the rescue, even as a handful survived.
Among the survivors was a child, a four-year old girl, who had lost her parents in a blink. The sight looked familiar, of those many such accidents where people have only found hope and communion in tragedies like this.
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