Like most Aussies, the first thing I wanted to do after my sixteenth birthday was get my driving license. I managed to pass the written test and get my 'L'plates easily enough, following which a friend of my mother's offered to teach me to drive. One of the advantages of growing up in the country meant there were lots of empty spaces to practise in, and for my first driving lesson we chose a treeless pasture. Well, not completely treeless. There was one tree. A single, solitary tree in acres of grassland. I hit it. In mum's car. And my driving lessons pretty much ended there.
For the next 20 or so years I made do with public transport. Since I spent most of this time in Sydney, where buses and trains are cheap and reliable, it wasn't really a problem. I never even thought about trying for my driving license again.
Then I moved to Bombay. Or to be exact, the outskirts of Bombay. Most Bombay residents who can afford it have drivers, such are the stresses and dangers of the roads. However our location made it difficult to find someone who was both experienced and didn't charge exorbitant rates. I did most of my traveling around in auto-rickshaws, which are basically three wheeler motorbikes in a thin metal casing which offers about as much protection as a sheet of aluminium foil. Great for short distances. Scary on the highway I do most of my traveling on. And so my husband Ryan decided, with two small kids to ferry around, I needed to learn to drive.
I signed up with a local driving school, and they applied for my 'learners permit' for me. No need to memorise any road rule booklets here. A week later, permit in hand, I was ready for my first lesson. The car I learnt in, belonging to the school, was a severely dented hatchback, with a cracked windscreen and missing side mirrors. Obviously it had seen a fair bit of action in its lifetime. My instructor spoke no English, so my Ryan volunteered to sit in the back and translate. The roads we learnt on were some of the busiest in Bombay, and the first time I pulled out the car it was straight into heavy traffic. Probably the only reason we survived was that the instructor had a duplicate set of controls. The downside of this being that I was never sure when I was driving, and when he was. I'm guessing it was almost always him. He didn't seem particularly suicidal.
Ryan's backseat translation lasted for about a week, after which frayed nerves got the better of him and he decided I'd better go on my own. By this time the instructor had pretty much finished telling me anything apart from 'left' 'right' and 'STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!' anyway. Traffic rules were never really mentioned. There were a few basic 'guidelines' but pretty much anything was okay as long as I could get away with it. That is, as long as I wasn't caught by a cop or caused a major traffic pile up. The only violations the cops are really interested in are ignoring traffic signals, blatantly chatting on mobile phones and not wearing seatbelts, all of which they can extract instant 'fines' for.
When I'd done the required number of driving hours it was time to take the licensing test. The driving school took a group of students, including myself, out to what looked like an abandoned factory in a crumbling industrial area. The 'factory' turned out to be the local Roads and Transport office. I presented an official with my documents including my Indian Permanent Resident's card, known as a PIO. He looked puzzled. I may have been the first foreigner he'd seen applying for an Indian license. 'Is this the correct document?'he asked me. 'I guess so' I said. Satisfied with that, he stamped my application form and I was ready to take my test.
After years of wondering how many Bombay drivers ever got licenses, all suddenly became clear. Accompanied by the examiner I had to drive about four meters, make a u-turn, and pull over. That was it. The examiner turned to me. 'Your driving not good' he said 'but okay you can pass.' One week later, I had my drivers license. A few months later Ryan bought me a car, automatic to reduce my chances of causing an accident, and stuck a red duct tape 'L' on the back window. I was officially a Mumbai driver. My first spin in the new car with Ryan I hit the front gate to our building. Ryan will no longer be a passenger when I'm driving.
So far I have been driving for 9 months. My arms no longer ache from gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I navigate my way around buses, autos, motorbikes, trucks and other cars the way I imagine someone might weave through an asteroid field. Strangely I've come to enjoy the challenge. Although many Mumbai drivers clearly hold their lives cheaply, I am full of admiration for the majority, who not only squeeze through the tightest spots with ease but almost have a sixth sense for upcoming obstacles.
