Driving In Noumea Not For The Timid

Press, Volume CVIII, Issue 31724, 6 July 1968, Page 5

Driving In Noumea Not For The Timid

(Specially written for “The Press” by W. H P.)

I have returned from a sojourn in Noumea; and count myself lucky in arriving home in one piece to tell about it; and grateful at not being a nerve - wracked wreck. Because I have made the great discovery . . . that driving in Noumea is not for the nervous.

Here, in this South Pacific outpost of Charles de Gaulle, every volatile son of La Belle France is a Denis Hulme at heart: and most of them are almost as skilful. They took fantastic chances and took years off my life, which helps me make my point, that there's more wear and tear on the greenhorn tourist passenger than there is on the vehicle.

Traffic lights are there aplenty which is one way of bringing these high-speed Jehus to a stop, other than a collision, and I saw enough of the latter to make me wish I could get rich quick in the car repair business. Clanging bumpers, crashing fenders, and the screech of tortured rubber all harmonise in a devil’s orchestration. Here, indeed, is a paradise for panel beaters . . . and retailers of new tyres or retreads. With any luck a set can be “scrubbed” inside 10,060 miles. Contagious Fever This speed fever is contagious. Even the native drivers of those small “Commune” mini-buses, which are Noumea's public transport, go their tortuous ways with gay, Gallic dash and abandon. One character I travelled with found it necessary to take both hands off the wheel on a winding hill road, the better to enjoy an argument with a dusky compatriot sitting be-

hind him . . . and nobody seemed concerned . . . except two other foreigners and myself.

But Sunday is the day of days, when every Frenchman worth the name, and every native who owns a car, takes to the road, and takes his life in his hands. These are the Gallic versions of our Sunday drivers, with this difference. Not for them the slow stooging along the centre line of the highway. Not for them the bumper-to-bumper crawl. Non! Non! These monsieurs drive with a purpose. They’re going soihewhere in New Caledonia and intend to get there fast. So down goes the foot; and round goes the needle to a conservative 60 or 70 m.p.h., which may of course be inci eased at will to vary the monotony with a spot of real speed. Passing on intersections and blind bends is just good, clean sport ... a kind of Russian roulette . . . apparently, is enjoyed the most. I understand there’s a school of thought who believe in the theme, "live dangerously.” A lot of members must live in Noumea. The Cemeteries Among the show places of this fascinating, but slightly grubby, town are the cemeteries. Two of them, the old and the new. The old one of course is now fully occupied, mostly by folks who were lucky enough to die in their comfortable beds: but I’d hazard a guess that, with the advent of new and faster cars in the hand of hot-blooded, daredevil drivers, it won’t be very long before accommodation in the new wing will be increasingly shared between those who die in beds and those who die in cars. Animals and poultry, I should imagine, live every day as if it were their last, as it well could be. Judging by the furred and feathered corpses on out-of-town high-

ways, lucky indeed would be the cat, dog, or chicken who lived long enough to celebrate its coming-of-age. But that’s life, or rather life's risk, in this South Pacific paradise: and if you think you’re an ace driver here, in New Zealand, have a go in Noumea against real competition.