Driving Me to Insanity

One of life’s necessities since moving to Cape Town is that I have to drive. After living in urbanity for the better chunk of the last 15 years, my driving escapades have been limited to the occasional rental in some far flung locale, the borrowing of a friend’s car or the occasional use of a Zipcar. Hence, I may be a little rusty in the applied vehicular knowledge.

If my rusty driving skills were the sole problem, this thing would be a cakewalk. Pile on the fact that people drive on the other side of the road, you sit on the other side of the car and parking on the sidewalk is not the sign of a drunk or insane person – now you can imagine my own personal hell every time I get behind the wheel.

But alas, I have no choice in the matter. Driving means doing the things I want to do in my life, so now I am a driver.

First, the wrong side of the road thing. At first I thought this would be the killer. But it’s fine as long as you keep shouting left to the left, right to the left to yourself as a reminder to keep you from pulling onto the wrong side of the road when turning. Problem solved. Circles; a tad more challenging but as long as there are other people there, you can just follow along. The only issue was a recent brief foray to the US when I became utterly confused at an empty street corner and had to think hard before deciding which lane to go into. Yikes!

So once I got the hang of the wrong side thing, I noticed all the other things… namely the roads. Ladies and gentlemen, we are not talking the interstate highway system – South Africa has yet to elect their own Dwight Eisenhower. Most roads are as wide as the sidewalk on Broadway near Herald Square but with the ludicrous expectation that two-way traffic will use it. Sure the cars are small, but c’mon! Spending a lot of time in reverse, rather than playing (but feeling) chicken.

Even parking in the driveway can seem like stuffing a sausage into the casing - see photo.

The parking lunacy doesn't end there. While driving last week on a beautiful scenic road (which there are no shortage of), I noticed that they had actually marked little white lines for parking spots on the SIDEWALK – which explains why everyone thinks it is perfectly fine to park pretty much anywhere they want, often leaving pedestrians to walk in the road.

But I have also noticed this flagrant attitude of “Fuck You” that comes from pedestrians. They walk right in front of moving cars, indifferent to the fact that a machine is barreling towards them at 40 miles an hour (will never get that kms thing, sorry). Overall, it's a very tense relationship but can you blame them? I mean the cars park right in your path!

Cars v. pedestrians. Same ‘ole war no matter where you are.

P.S. Haven’t even thought about riding my bike. Scared shitless for that one!

Badass Biker Girl

Some of you know about me and biking… and some of you don’t. I am a crazy biker, highly committed to the bike as a mode of transportation. I love my bike.

I am crazy about the rhythm you move on a bike, somewhere between walking and running. You can gaze, enjoy, see and wonder but a little but faster and a touch away from the crowd. Pic to the side from a recent day on my bike, a beautiful mural.

I love my bike.

In America, I have the most amazing, ridiculously beautiful bike. Prettier and skinnier than Kate Moss. It weighs 17 lbs and glistens with the most handsome royal blue and beautiful details of tiny scalloped flowers.

I really love that bike.

I debated briefly about bringing it here to Buenos Aires, but this is a tough town for everything (including biking) and I can’t imagine my slim racing tires would last long in a town with potholes wider than my behind. But through some good fortune, I managed to pick up a bike for less than $100 from the friend of my old roommate. Score.

It’s kind of a junky beach cruiser and if you look at my profile pic, you can see it in the background. The handlebars broke within two days, which I thought was a sign of my vast strength. No, the dude in the bike store told me, they’re just old. Just like the rest of the clunker, I thought. Nonetheless, it gets me around. The old bag - gearless, with foot brakes – gets me to and from the gym every day, to matés in the park, to friends’ houses. And more importantly, the ability to just explore the city at a pace I love.

My favorite part has been learning how to ride in the city. Riding a bike in a city requires understanding another language – the language of driving. The crazy thing is there is no professor, it is only about understanding how people move, think, act and react.

What's even more interesting is the language of driving in the US and here are probably more similar than the spoken language. Both have extremely aggressive drivers who believe they own the road and see little reason to stop, give an inch to or not permanently maim those who share the road with them. Good times on a bike.

The difference here is that I am mostly ignored on my bike. In DC, assholes love to honk at you on the road as they drive up your ass. Here they just zoom around you, indifferent to your existence. The only time I am acknowledged is when I ride on the sidewalk and occasionally feel the disapproving glare of an old woman, which may be for riding on the sidewalk or may be for being sweaty and dirty in my gym clothes in public. Who knows? Chances are if she yelled at me, it would be in crazy lunfardo and I wouldn’t understand her thick porteña accent.

Anyway, don’t worry about me on my bike. I take it easy, not afraid to stop if the rhythm seems off or if I don’t understand what's going on. Besides, how fast do you think a bike with no gears can go? It’s safer this way, trust me.