The Driver in Lima
by Becky Clark
July 2024
The traffic jam, like his ambition, is endless.
The Driver in Lima is a man possessed of an ambition. The man driving a car, a truck, any kind of private vehicle, has only one goal in mind: he must, by any means, arrive as soon as possible. Today our Driver needs to take his precious cargo—The Author—to our destination, without embarrassment or delay.
(There must be women drivers, of course, but they appear only rarely and The Author has no knowledge of them.)
Our Driver in Lima considers not moving when others are moving as a particular torture. He sees movement out the corner of his eye. The next lane creeps forward by a metre but he—failure of a man, failure of a human—sits motionless? It cannot be. That metre gap will be forced open, his vehicle pushed into it to a chorus of horns. He can breathe once more, but not for long. The traffic jam, like his ambition, is endless.
Our Driver deploys his own horn. Those others used their merely to try and thwart him, but he uses his correctly. The horn, when played from a few vehicles back from traffic lights, means only one thing. It indicates to all who care to listen that the owner of the horn is much more worthy of being at the front of the queue than the current incumbent who, it is clear to all, has fucked it up royally for everyone.
Cars and trucks weave amongst each other in a constantly moving tapestry of fug. Yet there are rarely scrapes, each driver watching the others jealously, possessive of his own advantage. Ground is given only reluctantly, whilst the gaining of ground from another is not acknowledged, merely banked in the driver's mind as a rightful achievement. Lanes are ideas, not restrictions.
Pedestrians are not part of this game. Our Driver will not target them. They might be his old mother, his young wife, his sweet son, or some future version of these. They are expected to get themselves out of harm's way but no real driver would put them at risk. No, this is a game for vehicles.
Other drivers are in play. Our Driver does not see them as enemies—does not despise them, wishes them no ill. Rather, they are competitors. They might, unless he pays attention, win his crown and arrive wherever they are going before he can. But other drivers are also our Driver's community. They alone understand what is at stake here. They may give him some of what he needs—not too much, he needs no charity. But he knows that they share a mind with him. There is respect, even cameraderie. The system works because everyone within it knows its ways.
Our Driver never stops, unless perforce, keeps on shifting gears, creeping into tiny spaces. Does not yield on roundabouts, is ready to move at speed the second the light turns green. An oncoming car when turning left is an indicator to speed up, not give way. Indicators themselves are the sign of true weakness and must not be used except when stopped somewhere not intended to be stopped in. Then they become the signal of immunity from the anger of other drivers.
And all the time, motorbikes wend bonelessly amongst the lines. They do not, cannot, be counted as competitors. They are a different species.
Occasionally, uniformed performers join the game. They hold glowing sticks to indicate which part of the traffic should move. Are they listened to? The Author cannot tell, it is not something that can be understood by an outside observer. The rules, which certainly exist, can be understood only through doing. The uniforms play their part, but they do not decrease the number of drivers, or the noise of the roads.
The traffic never ceases, although it may ease in the early hours. There is no single rush hour when all hours contain the possibility of needing to be elsewhere. The Driver has delivered The Author successfully. He leaves his car for now, destination achieved, but he knows that this arrival is not the end, merely a rest on his way back to somewhere else. The city must move.
