CHARISMATIC MEGAFAUNA

By Quiconque

Driving Lesson 2: L is for Lickdown

"Suppose you and I are walking on the road," said Swamiji, the holyman whose storytelling I was researching in 1985. "You've gone to University. I haven't studied anything. We're walking. Some child has shit on the road. We both step in it. 'That's shit!' I say. I scrape my foot; it's gone. But educated people have doubts about everything. You say, 'What's this?!' and you rub your foot against the other....Then you reach down and feel what it could be....Something sticky! You lift some up and sniff it. Then you say, 'Oh, this is shit.'" Kirin Narayan*

I had been warned years ago that I would have trouble learning to drive. Mama Ass told me that smart people tend to over-intellectualize what is basically a mechanical process. She also warned me that the longer I waited, the harder it would get. Damn, she was right. I find myself thinking dumb things like, "Why isn't the driver's seat in the center of the car? Why doesn't the steering wheel respond as quickly as my bike's handlebars?"

Now, I already have some issues with driving. Number one, as a passenger, I fall asleep if I'm in a moving vehicle for more than 20 minutes. Only three weeks ago did I learn that, when I was a baby, my father used to lull me to sleep by driving me around the neighborhood. I have been conditioned to associate cars with sleep!

Then there's the death factor. Four years ago, Prima and I nearly crashed into the runway at Schiphol Airport, NL. Prima was a little shaken, but I was calm, because I knew that there was absolutely nothing I could do about the situation. Being calm, being alert, being nervous--none of these things would influence what was taking place in the cockpit. For me, lack of responsibility is freedom. Not so in the car. My stupid mistake can mean damage, injury, or even death. Until now, I was pretty comfortable in the knowledge that no one would live or die based on any decisions I made.

Finally, I have long entertained the vain hope that I would lead a rich and glamorous life in which I would have a chauffeur. Yes, I would be the first anthropologist with a chauffeur. I don't just mean some local guide to drive me around the field. I mean a full-fledged driver with a hat and a suit and a town car. (Besides, my "field" is Paris, France. There were no "natives" clamoring to drive me around.) Learning to drive means accepting that the dream is over.

Last Thursday's lesson was like a blooper reel. It is unbelievable how badly I drove. I drove on the wrong side of the road. I hit the brake in the middle of turns. My instructor's cries of "Where is your foot?" and "Do not be holding the wheel so tight!" were in direct conflict with his commands to relax and not be "nerwous." At the end of the lesson he told me he wished he'd had a video camera so he could show my terrible turns his other students.

I was not looking forward to Sunday's lesson. I could not help being "nerwous." In addition to the gas, the steering, the brake, and the mirrors, I had to deal with pedestrians. Since when are there so many teenagers wandering aimlessly in the middle of the road?

In Trinidad, student drivers have to display an "L" in their rear window. The "L" stands for "learner," but as kids we always said, "'L' is for 'lickdown,'" meaning, stay off the road when you see that L. I would think that the big awning on the top of the car would have a similar effect on the people in my neighborhood as I wove through the streets. Alas, no. On one particularly harrowing stretch of road, I had to slalom through two double-parked cars, only to have a five-year-old boy run in front of the car in pursuit of his football.

You'll be happy to read that I didn't kill the little boy. I was calm, and so was he. In fact, I don't even think he saw the car. I was tempted to wonder, "What? Does this little child not value his life?" but I realized that such ponderings are fruitless. It was more important to slow down, turn the wheel gently, and swerve away. I think I'm getting the hang of being in control.

Narayan, K. 1997. "How Native is a 'Native' Anthropologist?" In Lamphere, L. et al., eds. Situated Lives: Gender and Culture in Everyday Life. New York: Routledge, p. 33.

LINKS

DIARYRINGS

READING: So many articles about France and immigrants.

WATCHING: Cable at my parents' house.