Learning to drive

There are few experiences in life as utterly forgettable as learning to drive. Americans are so dependent on their cars, and adults usually spend so much time driving, that it is nearly impossible to remember the process by which one came to take driving for granted.

I counted myself in this category until just a few weeks ago when we made the purchase of our 2003 Ford Fiesta diesel with "boite standarde", i.e. stick shift. There were lots of good reasons to purchase the car, and many of them were even research-related, so it seemed a good investment in making our life easier here. One slight hitch--I never learned to drive stick.

A is an excellent driver, and he is also a very patient person, so with his reassurances that I would learn in no time we embarked on the car adventure. Before we had even purchased the car I had spotted the perfect spot to practice. One of the Catholic cemeteries here has a nice big lot, long lanes for getting up to 3rd, and some decent turns to boot.

A few days after acquiring the car (the most expensive thing we've ever bought to date and we paid in cash!) we headed to the Catholic cemetery. A, being a firm believer in the capacity of the internet to solve most of life's problems, had found a few tips from the Car Talk guys about practicing with just the clutch to get moving before learning to shift. We spent an hour driving around in circles with me putting the clutch in an out, and I realized this might not be too bad.

By lesson #3 I was zipping around the parking lot, dodging and weaving among taxis going the wrong way, horse carts pulling construction materials, mopeds, and various and sundry pedestrians who are a fact of life in Dakar driving. But was I road ready?

The first test was the long road out to the Pointe des Almadies where I managed to avoid livestock, runners, joggers, taxis, and other obstacles. After my second road lesson I was ready to forge into real Dakar traffic and get us home. This is where the real flashbacks of learning to drive kicked in--sweaty palms, clenching the steering wheel, little ability to focus on anything else besides the car itself (forget other cars, they will just have to watch out for me!), no radio, and don't even think about trying to talk to me unless it is to tell me to shift. It was just like the first time around with Mr. Swinn at the Sear's Driving School in Flint, MI.

After several outings with A as my driving coach I was ready to go on my first solo flight. My research assistant and I had planned to visit a group of young women who are part of our 20-something swingers set, and then head over to her house so that I could meet her aunt, whose network will be part of our 50-something older marrieds/divorced set. I woke up around 5am yesterday, and I was already anxious about the driving ahead. I am still at the point where when the car actually responds and goes from a dead stop into first it seems like a minor miracle. How to make this miracle happen again and again is the challenge, especially given the numerous opportunities to come to a complete standstill in Dakar traffic. (A likes to describe driving in Dakar as "Welcome to the Thunderdome.")

In spite of my jitters, which my research assistant told me to stop talking about because I was making HER nervous, we forged ahead and set off for our first destination. There was little small talk on the way but we arrived at the TIMS girls' apartment without so much as a sputter at a stop sign. I even had to drive down a few sandy lanes to park in front of their apartment building.

The next leg was much more ambitious--a good several kilometers through some of the most congested and torn up roads that the Dakar suburbs have to offer. We arrived at her house with only one major incident--getting stuck in about six inches of sand as we careened down from the main road into her aunt's neighborhood. Something about the sand made it nearly impossible to get enough acceleration to get into first without stalling, so after about four stall outs we invited the now assembled group of boys to push us through the sand. They had a terrific time telling me exactly what to do (more gas! into first now!) and they were even more pleased with the 50 cents we gave them for their services.

The last leg, my trip home sans research assistant, was the most challenging. All went well until I had to slow down on my way into a busy rotary to ask directions, and that lead to a few episodes of stalling before I was underway again. Stalling out is not in itself so terrible, but our ignition key is quite temperamental, so after the car goes off it can take up to 30 seconds of jiggling the key to get it to turn again. Since I don't seem to be able to stall out once without adding a second and a third to complete the set, the process of getting underway again can take a good several minutes. As I pointed out to A, the one advantage of Dakar traffic is that most cars are clunkers and it is entirely common to see cars broken down in the middle of rotaries, highway lanes, busy intersections, etc. I usually get a few honks and waves, but Dakar drivers are accustomed to navigating around all sorts of obstacles without any advance notice.

I had to stop once more to ask for directions (this time without stalling out) and I finally arrived home just before dusk feeling quite pleased with myself. My sense of accomplishment is undoubtedly out of proportion with the actual victory at hand, but I'll take my victories where I can find them. Next major challenge--driving after dark!