How I learned to drive

When I was just 12, whenever Dad wasn’t looking, I would drive the family chariot a few meters forward and a few meters backward along a dusty country road, while keeping an eye out for maya birds that would swoop down from empty air to feast on the small patch of riceland that we fondly called the family’s hacienda.

Fast-forward to 1995 and I was once again behind the wheel but this time, on a manual transmission Toyota Corolla, which would confound me by sputtering and dying whenever I changed gears. I finally did get to drive around on it—once—for about five kilometers, all the time using just the first gear!

Despite these pathetic attempts, however, to bring me up to bat on the art of driving, I grew up without seeing the need to learn how to drive properly. I didn’t even see the need to drive, period.

You have to understand; where I come from, there is a public transportation system. Yes, it is primitive, unhealthy to mind and body and a veritable Russian roulette when you consider the high probability of getting robbed everyday, but it worked for me and for the millions of other commuters who brave the morning traffic to go to work. All that was required to go from point A to point B was an intrepid spirit, faith in the Almighty God, and a healthy set of lungs to holler, “Stop!”

When my former publisher, John Del Rosario, hired me, he did ask if I knew how to drive. I still thank my lucky stars that it was a long-distance telephone interview. The technological wizardry of satellite communications has not totally gotten rid yet of the static and the ability of telephones to garble spoken language, so my “Er, kinda,” which ended on a questioning and hesitant note, must have sounded like “Oh, yeah!” Talk about the wonders of technology.

So, for all intents and purposes, I knew diddlysquat about driving when I got here on Saipan. Oh, I certainly knew the mechanics of it. I even knew the basic theories of what makes a gasoline engine or a diesel engine work. But mostly, I just knew how to hold a flashlight steady—a knowledge gained while helping Dad fix the car. Apart from handing him a 3/4” boxed wrench or a 1/4” open-ended wrench, which was the only useful mechanical skill I knew.

Yet I had to learn the art sooner or later and the utter humiliation of being ferried around day in and day out finally spurred me to take a shot at it. What finally spurred me to take the leap, so to speak, was something that a fellow reporter, Edith, told me. She said that lakas ng loob (Tagalog for courage) cannot be bought at the local supermarket—all this while blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth while maneuvering her car up Capitol Hill. “You have to take hold of your courage and store it piece by piece, otherwise you’d never learn how to drive,” she said. She had a point.

Another reporter, Mark, did me the honor of being my first driving instructor. I am happy to report that it was a total disaster. Mark’s car is a manual transmission coupe that would never start, however much I tried. I finally did get around to driving it for a few meters but the lessons never really took off—probably because I was so nervous at all the shouting, the swearing and the mini-heart attacks that Mark was exhibiting that I couldn’t stand it anymore and called the whole thing off. So much for the first driving lesson. What I learned was not so much about how to drive but the surprising fact that a totally heterosexual man can actually squeal like a girl, especially when you’re driving on the wrong side of the road.

Edith and another reporter, Marian, finally took pity on me and took charge of the lessons, breaking me in on an automatic transmission Toyota Tercel at the old airport runway in Koblerville where I could be as haphazard as I choose and not hit anyone with the exception of the occasional toad. Despite the incessant backseat instructions and the growing conviction that the two were ganging up on me, I finally got the hang of it, settling in and feeling the exhilaration of 30 miles per hour (Hey, cut me some slack; I’m just starting here, okay?).

The trouble was, after that first driving lesson, everyone at the office thought that that was it, I should already be on my own. It was like, hey, we already showed you the basics, get into car crashes on your own (Talk about a crash course). That’s when it finally dawned on me that what Edith said was actually true—I had to take hold of all the little pieces of courage I have amassed, get behind the wheel and plunge in, so to speak.

On hindsight, I was actually impressed with myself. I mean, for someone who actually comes to a full stop while braking when making a turn, the fact that I survived my first trip to the Legislature up at Capitol Hill without undue incidents made me feel like I could take on anything. It was, by far, one of the more liberating experiences I’ve had had. One has to admit, though, that the exhilaration came later. Chief among the welter of emotions that were bubbling up during the entire trip itself was fear and nerves. I was running like 30 to 35 kph during the whole trip to the foot of Capitol Hill and Marian, who had accompanied me, was of no help either, with her face white as a sheet and her hands desperately holding onto her car seat. I had wondered why she was so strangely quiet during the entire trip but when I finally worked up the courage to take my eyes off the road for a second, I saw her clutching her seat so hard her fingernails were digging into the upholstery.

Since then, life on the road has been on a roll. It’s been months already and driving has become almost automatic, even boring sometimes. Thank God, I have only a few dents to show for it and have only once been pulled over by a cop (for running a red light, if you have to know).

Next up on my list? To go back and learn how to drive manual. That should prove interesting. I’d just need to buy some earplugs to screen out the nonstop squealing that reminds me strangely of a girl.