To the Left, To the Left...

…Everything you own in a box to the left.

Okay, you may not see the relevance of Beyonce’s hit song, but I'm afraid it has become my mantra. I hear it over and over again in my head – okay, it's just that one part, and I guess it’s only when I’m driving. To the left, to the left…Left side of the road, that is.

I’ve been driving for over a month now, and I’m starting to feel a little more comfortable on the road. Well, comfortable enough to pump up the volume for Beyonce anyway (and please, no comments about my bad taste in music). The left side of the road, right side of the car situation is beginning to feel slightly more natural. Slightly. Other than repeatedly reaching over my left shoulder for the seat belt and turning on the windshield wipers every time I go for the blinker, I think I’m doing okay.

Of course, there is the small issue of entering the car. And Beyonce’s song is of no help, I’m afraid. I had just met Roger for lunch after doing a bit of grocery shopping, and I’m walking back to the car feeling quite impressed with myself. Driving? No problem. The whole morning had felt so normal…and those moments are somewhat rare. Usually, I am hyper aware that I have moved to AFRICA, that I've made a monumental decision and moved to the opposite side of the planet. So, those moments of normality are like little gifts, and I'm particularly wrapped up in this one as I enter the parking garage thinking, I’m gonna be just fine. I open the car door and slide in, only to find myself sitting in the passenger seat.
Dammit!
I quickly hop out of the car and instinctively look around to see if anyone has witnessed my rookie mistake. I scurry around to get in the other side of the car, but as I start to back out of the (very narrow) space I hear a light scraping sound and realize that I am scratching the side mirror along the cement column flanking my parking spot. Oops. Well, this feels normal anyway.

In addition to learning how to drive all over again, I am also learning my way around a new city - a city whose streets make about as much sense as a mythical labyrinth. Not only does First Avenue East have no correlation with First Avenue West, but Jan Smuts is also called Henrik Verwoerd, which is also called Main Road, which at some point turns into the William Nicol. It’s not confusing at all (she said sarcastically). And the fact that I can’t pronounce the names of 90% of the streets doesn’t help either.

I'm learning fast though: A yellow light means accelerate (unless you want to be rear-ended), and a red light only means stop if it's been red for more than five complete seconds. I've also learned that lanes are not designated by lines on the street, but by the width of the cars traveling on any given road. A mini cooper and a couple of sports cars? Well, that’s a four lane road. An SUV and a truck? Two lanes. Unless of course a taxi is involved. A taxi automatically gets its own lane. In fact, taxis have their own set of traffic laws altogether. The drivers of these vans make their money by carting the masses from the townships to the city…translation: they transport the maids and the gardeners from the poor parts of town to the wealthy parts of town. These taxi drivers notoriously have zero respect for the sanctity of life – certainly not the lives of their sardine packed passengers, much less the life of a tentative, terrified, driver like myself. No, these taxis enjoy their reputation for recklessness. So, I just take a deep breath and try to keep my little sedan out of the way…To the left, to the left…

I’ll get it eventually. I hope. Then again, some might say I never exactly mastered driving in America, so what makes me think I’ll figure this out?

You could have a point there, but at least now I have a theme song.

To the left, to the left...