On the roads of Trinidad, wise men say, only the strong survive. It helps, of course, if you have mag wheels, a souped-up engine, and various protuberances attached to the body of your vehicle to make it look cool. Further accessories to prove your manhood (for of course, we’re talking about men here) include a paint job that looks like a dragon threw up on your car; and oversized quad speakers, three of which are bass. Rearview mirror danglers are also big among a certain clientele.
Imagine, then, my apprehension when, about a year and a half ago, I placed my trust in the Almighty, and my car in the swirl of traffic speeding around the Savannah. I was a brand-new driver, you understand — and an old (which is to say, aged) one, at that. For 40-odd years I had resisted the lure of becoming motorised. Don’t bother to ask why; let’s just say I was busy. But a new millennium was about to dawn, and I was determined to change my pedestrian ways.
The less said about my driving lessons the better. All parties, nevertheless, emerged with body-parts and sanity more or less intact. I’m certain that the licensing inspector allowed me to pass my driving test so he would never have to see me again. (His most memorable line, I seem to recall, was: “Madam, are you trying to kill me?” This, as I almost backed the car into a ditch).
As my instructor waved goodbye with a sigh of relief, I girded my loins, buckled my seatbelt, and prepared to meet my fate. No, I did not don a crash helmet; but the temptation was there. My two young sons, having no options to speak of, were philosophical, if not optimistic.
Amazingly, a year and a bit later, we’re all still alive (and long may it last). From being a timid creature who would creep out of intersections and quail if an angry horn blew behind me, I’ve been transformed into a full-blooded Trini driver, with more than my requisite share of testosterone. While I’ve not quite acquired the urge to move at the speed of light or zigzag wildly between lanes, I certainly learned fast when it came to swear-words and rude gestures — much to the surprise of our local males, most of whom expect women drivers to behave like ladies. All I can say is, don’t cut in on me if you value your modesty.
This may come as a surprise (it did to me), but I’ve actually turned out to be quite a safe driver, notwithstanding the colourful language. To date, I’ve not damaged any living organism, except perhaps the odd nocturnal frog. Inanimate objects, however, have not been so fortunate: my first six months behind the wheel had me cast as the terror of parking lots. Car owners seeing me about to back out would suddenly be transformed into traffic cops, waving and gesturing and cajoling me to go easy. For the most part, other cars escaped unscathed; but walls, pillars, curbs, you name it, I hit it.
The climax came the day I agreed to take my sister’s rambunctious dog for a run in the Savannah. How was I to know that the stupid canine, not content with the view from the back seat, would try to climb over my shoulder as I rounded a corner? I turned to yell at him — and the car, perhaps fantasising about escape, seized the opportunity to leap the curb and plough into a wall. I have rarely been more angry.
This feeling lasted well into the next day when, still depressed over my broken headlight and split bumper, I made matters worse by scraping along the tailgate of a parked truck. Deep gouges ran along two doors and a fender; one side-mirror dangled like a broken wing. I almost reverted to pedestrianism then and there.
It was at this point that I decided to pay a visit to my mechanic. I didn’t mind a few bumps and scrapes: I flaunted these as badges of my macho, silent warnings to other drivers not to mess with me. But my silver-grey Sentra was by now resembling something from Desert Storm. I was starting to feel embarrassed.
Larry the mechanic walked pensively around the Sentra, trying to keep the pain from showing in his eyes. I left the car with him for almost a week; he did what he had to do. Most of the new bits matched the old paint job; but it was clear that someday, an overall re-colouring would be necessary. Larry glanced tactfully sideways and muttered, “Um . . . if I were you, I wouldn’t paint it right away.”
That was just before Christmas 1999. Determined to prove Larry’s fears unfounded, I made it my New Year’s resolution that the car would suffer no new traumas, at least, not of my making. And I kept it, too — at least until August 1, Emancipation Day. But that’s a whole other story . . .
