Baby, You Can Drive My Car

"I shouldn't be allowed to do this, " I thought as I tentatively drove out of the rental car lot. "Nobody tested me. Nobody gave me instruction. Nobody even asked me if I've ever driven on the left before!" I thought, alarmed. (Remember stay left.) Yet there I was, about to pull out into city traffic (stay left, stay left), sitting on the opposite side of the car, about to be drawn into a parellel universe where everything I knew about driving had to be flipped. Deborah in Wanderland has gone through the Looking Glass.

Fortunately, all I had to do was get the car (stay left, left, left!) safely to the airport to pick up friend Jenny who has left-handed driving experience and an attitude to get her through even if she hadn't done it before. So for the next two weeks, without any further discussion, Jenny drove William. (so named because the license plate started with WM and that was the only way I could identify the car. I even have to memorize the license plates of my car at home because there is always a danger of getting into the wrong car. I have understood this about myself ever since the ill-fated pick-up attempt when I suavely started a conversation with a cutie standing near my car -- errr -- what I thought was my car. There is no recovery from putting your key in the wrong cardoor lock.

So as Jenny Andretti drove at speeds that pinned my ears back, I cowered in the passenger seat importantly reading maps and guidebooks and fiddling with the temperature controls so I wouldn't have to suck in my breath every few kilometers. Meanwhile, Jenny informed me of the passing scenery by making the appropriate accompanying noises -- baaaaa, moooo (we never could decide what sound deer make).

Then Jenny left and it was me and William once again at an airport, except this time I was to drive -- alone! -- for the next six days. The possibilities for mishap were too numerous to even consider. And then -- you're expecting the worst, aren't you? -- and then, I drove on the left without incident! (Well, there is always that turn signal/wiper reversal problem so that whenever you want to signal a left turn, you end up with your wipers going. This is how you know where the other Americans are.) Not only did I drive in town, but out of Queenstown on that scary cliff-hugging by-the-lake road! And then I passed a car! I passed a truck towing a car! And in a masterful display of bravado, I passed a tandem tractor trailer (aaaaaahhhhh)! I was moving and grooving. Of course, it helped that the South Island where I was is notoriously unpopulated and thus there were very few cars on the road. But to seek proper acknowledgement of this feat, let me point out a few things about New Zealand roads:

1. Except outside of the major cities, there are no freeways. All roads north and south, east and west, are two lanes -- one in each direction. Sometimes, you don't even get that much; roads often narrow to one and a half lanes or less with the understanding that you'll work it out amongst yourselves.



2. And please don't expect shoulders on the sides of the roads or guardrails on the many curvy cliff-hangers, although we can provide you with a false sense of security by lining the road with flimsy livestock fences.



3. or not, because the livestock will be in the road. In New Zealand, stock have as much a right to be on the road as do vehicles.
   



4. Gravel roads are common and it is very hard to remember to stay left, stay left on these since they are obviously unmarked (and usually narrow!) They are also tricky to drive on; I'd never experienced a skid on a gravel road before -- scary!



5. New Zealand's frugality is further demonstrated by the heavy use of one-lane bridges. It's as if the government is saying, "There aren't enough of you that two cars are likely to want to cross the river at the same time, so no point in wasting money on a second lane. Besides, if you do get there at the same time, you'll work it out." A lot of NZ driving seems to be based on the drivers working it out.
   




6. Because these two-laned roads are the main highways, vehicles of all types and going all speeds travel them. At some point -- unless you want to collect retirement while you're behind a tractor -- you're going to have to pass. Thus NZ has declared most every spot on the road a passing zone. In addition to straight-aways, I have seen dashed lines on mountain curves and up hills without long sightlines. There is a general relaxed code about passing -- sort of a "my lane is your lane" mentality. Large, slow vehicles, who can see farther than you can, put on their right blinkers (presumably not their wipers) to let you know that it is OK to pass and so you seize blind faith by the neck and go. Note that I did not say safe to pass. In a country known for its thrill-seeking activities, I'd saying driving has brought me the biggest shot of adrenaline -- yesterday I passed two trucks together, one a tandem (aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!). Some slower cars will ride the edge of the road to let you by and every now and then you'll be blessed with a passing lane for a few hundred meters.

The point at which this frugality went too far, however, was the Homer Tunnel on the only road to Milford Sound. This was a driving experience that even unnerved the indomitable Jenny. We entered the tunnel from bright sunlight, so it took awhile for our eyes to adjust; when they did we saw that we were in a tunnel without lighting, without lines on the road, and that was completely raw rock on the sides and overhead. The steepness of the tunnel road became apparent when we looked down -- way down -- into the lights of the on-coming cars. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. The lack of lines on the road was as much a statement about learning to share as it was frugality. And when one of the many, many tour busses -- needing the height of the middle of the tunnel -- passed, you hugged the raw rock wall, no questions asked. At one point Jenny said, "Deborah, look behind us." As I turned and saw total blackness I let out an involuntary, anguished "aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!", no doubt triggering a primal stuck-in-the-birth-canal memory. Finally we emerged, delighting in the survival of the traverse until we remembered we had to return that way -- "aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!" This is probably how NZ keeps workers at the out-of-the-way Sound; no one wants to go back through that tunnel.

The roadsigns in NZ can sometimes be confusing. I once didn't enter a street because I was sure a sign indicated Do Not Enter. I later learned it meant No Parking, explaining the confused look on the drivers near me as I executed a three-point turn. I saw one sign that was a simple white circle with a simple black line through it. I still don't know what it means, but I promise not to do it. My favorite roadsigns are the ones that simply have a very large exclamation point. Sometimes they are accompanied with words such as "cattle stop" or "diggers ahead." But the enormity of this piece of punctuation undoubtably gets your attention as it yells out, "Hey you! Yes, you!"

So successful was my driving experience that I rented a second car; meet Lucy at Waipiro Bay on the East Cape of the North Island.

So I've mastered this fear; I am no longer afraid of driving on the left. However, snakes, tight spaces, and making a commitment are another matter altogether.