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Missives from Indian Streets
I've had two learners licenses expire on me so far. I'd like to argue, if pressed, that I was too busy to give the driving exam at the end, with other, far more important medical exams pressing. The truth is I was simply too lazy.
But now, finding myself in actual need of one, since the NHS accepts "sorry boss, dunno how" as a poor excuse for showing up late to an emergency, I paid a good chunk of my own salary to one of the driving instructors at one of the more reputable companies around (they own a car brand, though they were mildly put out because I made it clear I wasn't a prospective customer).
The last two times, my dad coughed up the change, but this time, both actual enthusiasm and hard cash were transferred from my far more empty wallet. You'd think his modestly justified annoyance at me having wasted the money before would be outweighed by paternal pride and affection at his son adding more alphabet soup behind his name, but alas.
Up till this point, my instructors had been bad, to put it lightly. And the extent of my experience on the road was driving through quiet suburban streets and doing my best to weave through parked cars and avoid the odd cow or pedestrian.
This time, well, I got what I paid for. Far better tutors, 5 whole lessons in a simulator running Windows 10 but using software probably written in the early 2000s. Unfortunately, today I braved the midday sun in an exceedingly long walk to the motor training school (for obvious reasons I can't drive there) , I can't call myself an Englishman quite yet, but mad dog? The heatstroke left me panting.
To my chagrin, it turned out that my last simulator class was supposedly a two-in-one affair, and they expected me to hit the road again, for the first time in several years.
At high noon. On the main road carrying half the city's traffic, a fucking arterial line spewing motor oil and NO2 emissions, a far cry from the sedate streets I feel quarter comfortable in.
I didn't let on that my inner self was kicking and screaming, and followed the instructor to the awaiting training car with barely repressed terror.
It wasn't that bad. The car, that is. No obvious dents, the air conditioning and power steering worked, a far cry from the broken down beater they'd seen fit to hand me at the previous place.
The driving? Talk about being thrown in the deep end. I swear I don't feel that level of hyperfocus even the odd time I'm dragged in for a surgery. Because after all, what's the worst that could happen there? The patient doesn't make it. Whereas I'm too cute to die, and I have a lot to live for.
Miraculously, despite hitting 55 km/h on some of the busiest roads I've had the misfortune of seeing, I made it through mostly unscathed, even if the gearbox didn't.
That's it. I'm buying an automatic. I modestly hoped that self driving cars would be common enough that I could always procrastinate learning to drive to the distant future, or preferably never. Sadly the distant future is today, and the odd car that can plausibly be said to drive itself is far outside my budget.
Instead, I'm buying a
Porsche,a Mustang, nah, a plain old horse. Runs off renewable energy. Confuses the meter maids enough that I might get away with it if I can't find free employee parking. Fully self driving, or good enough cruise control and lane keeping to make sure my sorry ass makes it home from the pub.I saw God, today. He was wearing a seat belt. So should you.
The traffic in India (Bengaluru) is amazing. My memory of being there in brand new car inside a river of scooter and our parktronik was beeping all the time because we couldn't get up to the speed for it to shut up. Also the concept of oncoming and our direction traffic being separated and contained in the right and left of the road was lost. And from the hotel I could hear the honking symphony 24/7
KL and Jackarta were worse when it came to speed of movement, but people obeyed the laws.
Bangalore traffic is notorious even for Indians. Like, you can't pay me enough to drive there. Even the largest motorways drive at the pace of an arthritic snail (xe/xer only has the one foot anyway).
Even more aggravating is that the auto-rickshaws literally charge more than an Uber for equivalent distances, the public transport is absolutely fucked.
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