I have never driven a car in Antarctica, Africa or South
America. I therefore can only imagine the perils of doing
so. Falling into the icy depths of an Antarctic crevasse being
one I imagine, obliterated by a charging rhino being the African
experience perhaps. As for South America, I once dreamed that
I drove a Volvo from Mancchu Picchu to Lima while asleep.
You have to concentrate very hard to do that. Conscious or
not, it was a perilous experience I can tell you. That leaves
the four continents of North America, Asia, Australasia and
Europe where I have driven. Driving a car in America/Canada,
Australia/New Zealand and Europe would seem to be as normal
an automotive experience as one is likely to have, though
I have to say I’ve never driven in Rome. And so I come
to Asia.....
Homicidal & Suicidal
Apart from another Dream n’ Drive experience, this time
in Tibet, my first real life challenge was Bangkok. Even in
the early 1971 Bangkok traffic was already an awesome spectacle.
On getting off the plane on my first ever visit I noticed
the entire Thai nation was plunged into mourning, rather akin
to the national mood in England as the country crashed yet
again into an ignominious rout, losing the Ashes to the Aussies.
It appeared that the Grand Patriarch had just been killed
in an up-country automobile accident. With a saffron coloured
Mercedes front and aft of him a Thai lorry driver had still
managed to flatten the middle Mercedes and sent the Grand
Patriarch on to his next incarnation.
The report in the Bangkok Post concluded with the cryptic
acronym “DFS”, which I later found out meant “driver
fled scene”. As for self-drive, advise from friends
was twofold, avoid it as long as possible and always carry
your passport with Baht 100 in it. Thai automotive genius
appeared to me to embody suicidal and homicidal characteristics
in equal measure, combined in lemming-like proportions. So
it was in mortal funk that I finally took to the road when
left with no alternative. Surprisingly, It didn’t take
too long to get the hang of it. Despite appearances there
was a kind of manic rhythm to it. Once you developed the mental
force of character to hold your water and were able to convey
intent, things actually flowed. Other than drugged or just
plain bad driving, hesitancy was more like to cause an accident
than anything else.
Colonial Relic?
Apart from the interminable wait to get through the Cross
Harbour Tunnel driving in Hong Kong was a doddle. Being stuck
in a traffic jam going up the mountainside while developing
violent cramps in the arch of your clutch foot soon converted
me from stick shift to automatics. Singapore was anodyne and
Malaysia actually a pleasure, mostly. That is, except one
occasion when I decided to drive from KL to Penang and through
stinginess made the mistake on renting an under-powered car.
This was in the sleepy days on Tun Razali, before Mahathir
decreed the autobahns of the new Malaysia. The main road North
was 2-lane all the way and this was my introduction to the
bolt upright motor bicyclist travelling imperviously in the
middle of the road at 30 mph, and the family on a bike. It
was a nerve-wracking 300 miles of stress, rage and gritted
teeth as, young and foolish, I took my life in my hands to
squeak by on the few stretches of straight road in the face
on an oncoming behemoth. Malaysian taxi drivers, though invariably
charming, could be a worry too. The one multi-lane highway
in the country ran from the airport into KL.
Taking the taxi downtown my driver prattled on happily and
engagingly, while driving at speed. He had the unnerving habit
of turning round so he could address me face to face for considerable
periods of time as the oncoming traffic and rubber trees flashed
by. In no time I was struck dumb with fear, which only served
to increase his desire to communicate fully. Wracking my brain
to find a nice way of telling him to keep his eyes front and
on the road I hit on asking him what he thought the white
lines in the middle of the road were for? Turning round even
more fully he grinned at me for an eternity, “Oh, that’s
something the British left behind”, he explained helpfully.
Terror in Formosa
The place that spooked me more than anywhere was driving out
of Taipei. Accompanied by my Taiwanese girlfriend at the time
we had rented a car for a 10-day exploration of what was justly
called Formosa or beautiful island. Within seconds of hitting
the streets we were totally surrounded by motor bikes, millions
of them, all behaving like demented hornets in heat. I was
totally freaked, and I wasn’t even hung over. I simply
couldn’t hack it. Gaining the curb with difficulty I
leaped out the drivers seat. “You’re Taiwanese,
you get us out of here”, I squeaked ungallantly.
Which brings me to Bali. When I first drove here the by-pass
was only partially built. I took to the roads without thinking
too much about it. That is, until I had to drive at night
on unlit roads. The by-pass soon had me reduced to a nervous
wreck. Almost anything could loom up at you out of the gloom
without warning. Twigs and a few leaves marking an abyss,
oncoming traffic on your side of the road, inexplicable blocks,
oil drums, and diversions, eccentric cambers, sudden pools
of water of lakelike proportions and massive if intermittent
road dividers. What finally did it for me was a blood-chilling
discovery. On completing the journey home after dinner out
with friends we were discussing the road experience. I shared
that though it was a stressful drive I wasn’t too phased,
for example take those oil drums, says I. If you have to,
you can always hit them without serious consequence. Everyone
blanched and stared at me in horror. Didn’t I know,
one of them explained gently, “they’re not empty?
They’re full of concrete.....”. I didn’t
drive at night for a year.
Hyper Defence
Driving in Bali is special in a variety of ways, I’ll
not go into further here. The belching behemoths bullying
their way from Gillimanuk to Padang Bai are a noxious menace,
but hardly unique to Bali. Overall, driving in Bali is more
necessity than pleasure I’d say. The one particular
quality peculiar to this place that worries me most are the
motor cyclists, particularly the young women. They seem blithely
oblivious of all about them. Espying one of these 100 yards
ahead about to turn into my path throws me into automatic
defence mode. In Bali it seems motor cyclists entrust themselves
to God and you to look out for them, for they are surely absolved
from any such chore. That’s OK, and in Bali, seems as
it should be. Aggressive or forceful driving, however competent,
just isn’t needed here, if anywhere. Hyper-defensive
driving skills, on the other hand, are mandated unless you
want your life to change in an instant. The problem comes
overseas, in Europe or America. There, until acclimatised,
you go into your preternatural spasm of defensive driving
because you spot a car 1/2 a mile ahead about to turn into
your lane or, heaven forbid, you anticipate and prepare for
no less than a dozen potential fatal road lunacies by the
car ahead or behind you. Don’t! It’ll kill you
or cause a 3-mile $ zillion freeway pile up. Just goes to
show what a biddable and predictable bunch most of us are
when it comes to self-preservation.
