Charles Hyatt
I HAVE always been proud of the fact that I am a good driver. What's more, I like driving. One of my younger ambitions was to drive an articulated truck right across America, from east to west. Although I have not achieved that adventure to date, I have driven long distances in America and Britain, albeit in cars or vans.
In Jamaica and in England I have driven trucks. I have even driven in a car chase in a movie, Every Nigger is a Star, and outmanoeuvred the 'good guy' in the scene.
I have held and still hold driver's licences for different states in America, Britain and Jamaica, and have driven all over in the Caribbean and Bermuda.
All this I have been able to do without taking a single driving lesson. My learning was acquired through paying attention when I was being driven. Even as a child I would watch my father, listen to the sound of the car's engine and know what he was going to do next and what position the gear lever was going to be in when he did it.
THE CODES
One thing I have done is study the road codes of America and Britain. In America it varies from state to state, but in Britain and Jamaica it is the same, except for climatic conditions. In saying all of the above, I also need to state that I have had what I consider to be my fair share of bang ups and crashes, but none since I have come to appreciate what defensive driving is all about. I am never interested in having an accident when it is not my fault. That I see as a waste of my time. That doesn't mean that I am a timid soul on the road, but neither am I a road hog.
My good friend and mentor once said to me, after hearing details of my latest 'near miss', "It is so reassuring to know that whenever I hear of you having an accident I will know that it wasn't your fault." That statement had its desired effect on me immediately. What does it matter whose fault it is? An accident is an accident. That person was Baba Motto, jazz musician, whose Hillman Minx I had borrowed to go for my driving test in Spanish Town and got my first licence, although I was admonished for not having a licensed driver accompany me.
When I returned to Jamaica for Independence in 1962 and was being driven in the Half-Way Tree area during afternoon rush hour, I was astonished to hear the person with whom I was driving, someone for whom I had great respect and love, say "Driving in Jamaica nowadays has become a most competitive exercise." Those days the more prestigious cars on the road were the large left hand drive American sedans. We were in a Studebaker.
After living and driving in England for the better part of two years, a statement like that sounded to me to be irresponsible. Competitive driving only belonged on the racetracks. I had forgotten my days of souped-up engine cars that I used to propel along our roads. Then I had considered myself skilful.
Skilfulness you kept to yourself when driving in the mother country. One not only had the condition of the road in different and differing weather to contend with, but as a person of colour, there was also the condition of the minds of the police.
TIME FOR A CHANGE
In England at that time, one was allowed to drive legally on an 'international' driver's licence, acquired in any colony, for a year, after that, one was required to take a British test for a British licence. My international licence had just about expired just before my 1962 return, so I got myself a renewed 'international' when I was going back. At that time, the length of time I intended to stay in Britain was still an 'iffy' situation. By the time that the second 'international' was due to expire things had become more certain. I was settled in a nice apartment and was getting known in the right theatrical circles, getting work and had bought myself a car, the Green Line -ESM398.
I was beginning to live British, parking my car in the same spot on the street beside my apartment and getting up every Sunday morning to give it a wash and polish right there in the street. It was time to get a British driver's licence.
THE TEST
I only needed to make an appointment and go for my test, I didn't need to be accompanied. My appointment was in Harrow, a suburb of London to the north. On my way I practised obeying every road sign, used my hand signals and never broke the speed limit. The car was functioning perfectly, for part of the test, I was told, was a properly functioning vehicle. I was also told that most examiners were sticklers for learners to have had 'British driving school' lessons. Well, I was no learner and I probably could drive better than some of their instructors.
On my way up the lonely Harrow Road, not far from the depot, I approached a pedestrian crossing where there were two elderly ladies standing on the pavement waiting to cross the street. I changed down, made my stopping hand signal and indicated to the ladies that they should cross. They stood there gazing in wonderment, not at me but away in the distance beyond me.
When I took a glance in my rear-view mirror, I was horrified to see a Triumph motorcar looming large at full speed behind me. Within the next split second there was the most violent impact that sent the little Green Line literally flying over the crossing, off the ground.
The car was a wreck from behind. The back seat was resting against the driver's seat, and the trunk was where the back seat used to be. The exhaust broke away from the manifold and all the items that were in the compartment under the dashboard were in the trunk.
The ladies negotiated the crossing between the steaming front end of the Triumph and the smoking rear of the Morris Ten, whose engine was still ticking over, without saying a word.
So there I was, being cautious and defensive, and where did it get me? A lost driving test appointment and the end of my 'Green Line'.
