Sipping a passion juice, whilst sitting in a quiet little café the other morning on the Coast road, in Mombasa, casually watching the crows scavenging the litter, I nearly had a heart attack. I sat bolt upright and knocked my drink over. Blood rushed to my head and everything went fuzzy.
My wife Laura grabbed my arm. "What"s the matter?' she shrieked, full of concern and probably wondering if my life insurance was up to date.
"Did you hear that?" I said after a minute or two of heavy breathing.
She looked blank and felt my pulse.
"That…that Driving School lorry actually changed up a gear," I said, pointing across the road.
She looked and listened. "Don"t be silly,' she said. "It"s unheard of.'
"I just heard it," I said, I'm sure I did.'
Jacky, my daughter, who had come to Kenya on a quick visit from England looked at both of us in turn and must have inwardly put our freaky condition down to sun stroke.
The three of us sat and listened and watched as four or five Driving School lorries trundled up and down their favourite training road at their normal six kms an hour. Sometimes stopping, sometimes changing drivers and nearly always chocking the road with thick black exhaust smoke. But not once did one go up a gear.
"You must have been dreaming," Laura said, "lets get you home and I"ll give you an aspirin.'
"What on earth are you two going on about?" said a very bemused Jacky, as I was helped into the car.
"It"s a well known fact,' I said, as Laura drove home, "That East African Driving Schools take all the gears out of their Driving school lorries, apart from first and reverse of course and flog "em. I'm told there's a big market in Uganda for them.'
"What about driving school cars?" asked a very befuddled Jacky?
"Bit different," I said, as we weaved through a herd of goats in Haile Selassie Avenue, "They take out the passenger seat and fit one that swivels,"
She laughed, "Whatever for?"
"So the instructor can steer the car with one hand and change gear with the other. Apparently there were a lot of instructors going off sick with dislocated shoulders and what have you, before they cane up with the swivel seat."
"What absolute rubbish," Jacky exclaimed.
I pointed at a Toyota Starlet belonging to a well known Driving School. The Instructor was in his usual position, sitting at right angles to the driver and wrestling with the steering wheels while his pupil, intent on driving into a barrow full of mangoes, was fighting back. "Case in point," I said as the pupil won.
As we gently manoeuvred around the debacle, which had now turned into a mango throwing contest, I noticed a sticker on the rear window of the car; it proclaimed that "Jehovah was his witness". "Wont need us then, I said.
"Ready for deep breaths,' said Laura as we reached the famous Saba Saba intersection, a famous no man's land for the locals, certain death for the unwary foreigner. We waited as we always did for a lorry to pull up along side us to protect at least one side of the car before attempting to run the gauntlet across a dual carriageway full of weaving, overloaded and screaming matatus (mini bus taxis) buses, lorries and other cars driven by drivers with their eyes closed in deep prayer.
"Brilliant," I cried, as we came out on the other side unscathed.
"I wonder," said Jacky, as we approached Nyali bridge, "Do the Driving Instructors have to pass a special driving test. I mean are they given a certificate or something?"
"They do indeed," I said. "It"s very rigorous, at least one in every thousand fail. But it's the preliminary requirements for even taking the Instructors qualification that catches a lot of them out. For a start they have to prove they've been driving a matatu for two years. They have to prove their hearing is impaired by the constant base drumming that blows the windows out. This makes them impervious to screams, horn blowing and general abuse hurled at them on a day to day basis by other matatu drivers. Then they have to prove without a shadow of doubt that they have lost all semblance of regard for other road users and the ability to tell left from right.'
"Like him," said Laura, pointing at a Driving School lorry that was just passing a sign on the Nyali bridge telling all lorries to keep in the left lane.
We watched as the driver put his left indicator on and proceeded to steer onto the right hand lane at a speed governed by his one forward gear.
"Exactly, "I said, "and another thing they have to prove, I"m told, is to have the ability to roll themselves into a ball. This is that in the event of an irate motorist actually getting out of his car to pass the time of day, the Instructor can squeeze himself under the dashboard and all but make himself invisible.'
"They"ve got a quaint technique with hand signals as well,' Laura told Jacky.
"Oh yes," I said, "It"s a very secret society, a bit like the Masons. The Instructors pass it on to their pupils for a small fee, For instance, a quick flapping of the hand means he is getting rid of the crumbs from a samosa he's just eaten. A circular movement means he's flexing his finger muscles for an attempt to wrestle the steering wheel from his pupil and a gentle extended finger movement indicates a need to relieve himself.'
We approached the end of the bridge and indicated a right turn towards our home in Nyali. I noticed a Driving School car stopped with a puncture and surrounded by interested onlookers. The car hadn't pulled into, what can loosely be called the curb, but stopped where it was in the outside lane, creating all manner of mayhem.
"That"s another thing,' I said, "To be an Instructor you also have to prove to the Testing Authority that you are able to apply a complete lack of logical thought."
"All that, added Larissa," and about five hundred shillings bribery will get your certificate.'
"Most important that," I said, as we drove through the massed ranks of Matutus and made our way towards Ratner Square.'
"Shall we stop for a coffee?" Larissa said.
"Good idea," said Jacky, "Just put the right indicator on and then everybody will know we"re turning left.'
