Excuse me, Mr President…
I still have the car. It’s still a pain in the arse to drive, but bliss to have access to. At least now I have got the hang of wrenching it into first gear and, time being a great healer, I can now more or less drive without the need to take a bag of Kleenex with me. A good thing, because I almost got shunted off the road by the Presidential cavalcade this morning. Or at least I think it was them. It could just as easily have been Brad and Angelina, on their way round to my house for coffee. And I’d have hated to have them see me all blotchy eyed and raving.
This happens quite a lot in Windhoek, as it is a small city. Namibian President Hifikepunya Pohamba likes to travel in large and numerous beflagged and blacked-out limos, escorted by many wailing police cars, his route cleared by frighteningly grim-faced traffic police sporting spotless white gloves and firearms. Whether this is because his wife needs to carry a lot of diamond encrusted shoes on their trips around town, or whether he finds it amusing for people to try to guess which of the 15 limos in the lineup he is actually in, I don’t know. However, this isn’t the first time I’ve happened across their route on an innocent errand in the last two weeks. This time, he had the Botswanan President with him.
Today was actually very scary. I’m a good driver, but sometimes I’m not so observant. They have a system here called the ‘three- or four-way stop’, which means at intersections, the first driver to arrive at the stop sign has the right of way. I have a mysterious blind spot as far as these stop signs are concerned. Sometimes, I just don’t see ‘em. It can be a problem.
I’m ok with traffic lights though, which is why I was so bemused when all the traffic seemed to be running red lights with gay abandon down Hosea Kutako Drive. Of course, I hadn’t noticed the frighteningly grim faced traffic police sporting spotless white gloves and firearms, waving everyone through, which would have tipped me as to the cause of the free for all.
So, caught up in the flow of 4x4s, and shonky taxis, I just ran the red lights with everyone else, and soon, all the traffic around me seemed to melt away. There was only me, and my boss, who for some reason kept saying “Ze President of Botswana is ‘ereâ€, on the road. And rapidly approaching in the rear view mirror was a man on a police motorbike. As he overtook me he appeared to be quite angry, and was gesticulating me rather rudely. I was a bit confused.
I very shortly passed another grim faced, heavily armed traffic policewoman in the middle of the highway, who also seemed overly cross. It was at this point that I realized that if I didn’t get the hell off the road, the double-Presidential cavalcade was going to end up containing a ropey 1997 Opel Corsa hatchback. And their bodyguards might not like it. They might try and shoot at us. I think African Presidents can be a bit touchy about having non-matching cars in their parades, however much we might smile and wave.
So today, for the first, and hopefully the last time in my life, with my boss in the passenger seat saying “Yes, I sink zat now perhaps it would be a good time to get off ze roadâ€, I reversed at full speed down a four-lane highway. I managed to peel off down a side road, just as the whole bang-shoot shot past in a blare of sirens and waving flags.
You can’t say my life here isn’t filled with mystery and excitement.