What kept me close to hyperventilation was the thought of driving. And this was extremely out of character because, whether bravado is deserved or not, I have always been an extremely confident driver. But in an effort to prepare me for the worst, Doug had told me way too many scary stories about fatal accidents. Violent car-jackings. Horrific road conditions. Constant police harassment. Incomprehensible traffic laws. And to top it off, instead of the small two-door convertible I was used to driving, I would be navigating a 1980s-era Land Cruiser (with a right-hand steering wheel) down the left-hand side of streets.
Doug has oodles of wonderful qualities, but he is not someone you want to have in the passenger seat while you are attempting to navigate a strange city in an oversized SUV. Thus, upon arrival, I was determined to get a driver. I posted a classified ad, asked every person I encountered for recommendations, and did everything but wear a sandwich board emblazoned with the words, "I will pay a ridiculous sum of $$$ for a driver." Needless to say, I wound up walking lots of places.
Until the day that Doug started experiencing heart problems. The only thing scarier than having my husband checked into the Instituto do Coracao in Maputo was knowing I would have to drive home from the hospital by myself. As I crept along the side of the road, I chanted, "Stay on the left. Stay on the left. Stay on the left." I'm not sure if I exhaled the entire drive, but as I was pulling through the gate into our complex, I was paralyzed by the thought of another hurdle: Our miniscule parking garage. I was now responsible for placing a vehicle the size of a Winnebago into a designated spot that, I kid you not, would be a tight squeeze for a couple of bicycles.
Parking has always been my Achilles' heel. I blame this shortcoming on my poor depth perception, which was also clearly responsible for the C+ I made in Analytic Geometry during high school. I have side-swiped so many poles over the course of my driving career that I have become a family joke. Seriously, the money I've spent repairing the right quarter panel of various cars could pave all of Mozambique.
So, back to my predicament: While I don't generally try to bother a Higher Power with requests of the non-life-threatening variety, I found myself praying that both the neighbor who parks his car in front of ours would be out to dinner. Preferably with the neighbor who parks her car next to ours. And that they had both taken separate vehicles.
No such luck in that regard. But Fortune was definitely smiling down upon me as I bravely put the car into reverse . I've accomplished one or two things over the course of my lifetime but nothing felt quite as momentous as sliding that Land Cruiser between a cement pillar and another car.
Fast forward three months later: Doug now tells me to slow down on the Marginal for fear that I will flip the car while taking a turn. And instead of silent self-monologues reminding myself to breathe and remain on the left hand side of the road, I now find myself giving helpful advice to others such as, "Get those #$% goats out of my way!" or "Pick a lane, you idiot!"
So, yeah, the wise reader knows exactly where all of this is heading...I got pulled over by a cop earlier this week. And unlike two weeks ago, this time there was no good samaritan to run interference for me. I was alone.
According to the unsmiling official with the AK-47 strapped to his back, I made an illegal right-hand turn. Which may or may not be true. Who knows? There was no sign posted nearby, but that doesn't exactly matter here in Maputo. The sign could have been placed one mile up the road. Or it could have been hidden behind foliage. Or maybe I was just a foreigner who unluckily drove by at the same time some guy in a uniform decided he needed some extra cash.
So I smiled. I tried to speak Portuguese. I apologized. I told him I didn't see the sign. I told him I was new to Maputo. I told him I wouldn't do it again. But this guy wasn't having any of it. So I gave up.
Me: "How much is the fine?"
Crooked Cop: "How much do you want to pay?"
Me: "Nothing."
CC (clearly getting mad): "You have to pay something. You made an illegal turn. Give me 300 metical."
Me (fumbling in my handbag and only finding two 1000 met bills and two 50 met bills): "I only have 100 metical."
The CC looked annoyed, then clearly decided that accepting 100 met (less than $3) and getting rid of me was better than wasting valuable time watching me rummage through grocery store receipts, loose Tic-Tacs, and various lipsticks.
As I drove away, I'm not sure which one of us felt luckier at that moment. Him for being able to extort a little extra money. Or me for being able to experience something that I had previously dreaded and feared, and walk away only a teensy bit poorer.
We both probably felt that the other one was the sucker. And I'm okay with that.
No comments:
Post a Comment