Trial & Error

Well, here goes. My mighty confession.

I failed my driver's license test.

I had it booked on the day of my birthday and it was supposed to be the perfect present for my 19th. I was going to step gracefully into adulthood. I imagined myself cruising through Sandton, not giving way to the incorrigible taxis and finally, finally, going faster than the torturous speed of 40 kilometres per hour. I had taken enough lessons, more than the norm, actually. I had done so much parallel parking, alley docking and three point turns, I was doing it in my dreams. I had driven on the freeway. My car, a blue corolla, responded to my wishes and handled comfortably. I balanced the clutch with my Levi high-tops, did the five-point observations until my neck felt like it would crack, and accelerated with the utmost gentleness (Ok, that bit is not really true, I always rev with a bit more enthusiasm than needed). Subhanallah, I felt so confident.

So, on the day of my test, I have an hour of practice booked with the boss of my driving school, who says that he is convinced of my driving. He says that my Mom will send me off to buy milk and bread, as soon as I get home. Even though I was feeling racked with nervousness just a moment before, with the claws of doom and failure wrapped around my neck, this statement manages to make me feel a tad bit more relaxed. We arrive at Langlaagte Testing Station, in the South of Johannesburg, where rows of testing cars with their scary stripes of orange and blue, smirk at me, taunting and teasing. The weather is bitingly cold, but the icy winds help to keep me focused and steady. Or so I thought.

After doing my eye test with the dancing E's, I sign not on the dotted line, but the examiner’s laptop screen. We then go to the car, where I start doing the embarrassingly silly car inspection. "There is no obstruction under my car..." Bend down and check. "My door opens and closes..." Open and close the door. "My tyre pressure is fine..." Kick the tyre with my sneakers. "My headlights are not cracked..." The examiner seems bored, and ushers me into the car. Here, I put my pillow on the seat (this is because I am rather short, so, in order to see where to stop the car, I have to sit on a pillow), and on the windscreen wipers and switch on the indicator. So far, so good. Alhamdulilah.

Here I falter. I suppose, here I fail. When I switch on the car, it doesn’t feel like a car, it feels like a sort of fake. Its very light, and the clutch that I have finally gotten the hang of on the other car, is totally different here. I drive to the steep hill, which I conquer without much fuss. I do the three point turn rather sweetly. Then I go to my first parallel parking, reversing to the right, and as I reverse and begin to lock the steering wheel, the examiner informs me that I have rolled forward. I look at him in utter shock. "You've failed" he says, and I am not even fifteen minutes into the test. "I rolled where?! I so did not" I say, I might as well, if I have gone and blown the entire thing. I want to cry, but I beg and plead. "Please sir, please, give me another chance." He yawns; as if he's had many a hundred other teenagers do the same thing and now informs me that the car and the training grounds are full of cameras, with police officials scrutinising my every movement. I envision myself on YouTube in an hour, promoting corruption with crocodile tears. I trail back, and kick the fine pressure tyre once more for good measure.

Even if you have to wait another few months, I’d say, try to go to a testing station where you can take the car you feel comfortable with. These cars are filled with motion sensors, waiting to bite you if you make the slightest mistake. I am rather scared of going again now, fearing it will end as horribly as the first test did. That, however, is all in Almighty Allah’s power.