I'll take an Uber, thanks

Learning how to drive a car can be a nerve-wracking experience. Abigail George recalls how she got thrown in at the deep end in the mean streets of Gqeberha

- NICOLENE LOUW

I am 16 years old and my first car, my mother tells me excitedly, is in the driveway. She points at our battered, off-white Ford Escort, aka The Fair Lady. Although lacking in power and looks, the Escort purrs dutifully whenever she starts. She’s a sturdy vehicle made for family outings to the beach where we live in Port Elizabeth (now Gqeberha); a car for sandy feet and muddy boots and taking dogs to the vet.

I look at my mom in disbelief. I doubt my father has sanctioned this decision. I can’t drive yet, nor have I ever expressed a keen interest to do so. But I go along with it and smile and act as if it’s all hunky-dory. She puts the keys in my hand and tells me to park it. As I climb in, my father appears in the doorway. He’s irate. My father does not want me to park the car.

“She’s sixteen! She cannot park the car, Gerda. You park the car!”

All I hear is that I’m sixteen. Maybe I’ll be young forever.

Years passed and I was in my early twenties when I finally summoned up the courage to write the learner’s exam.

At least an exam was something I was good at. I scored top marks on the written front and felt really proud of myself. But the real test, of course, lay ahead. The driving test, when you had to complete a faultless circuit of checking your blind spots, indicating at the right times, and all that. Despite my mother’s best efforts, I never got that far.