Soundings

Press, Volume CXII, Issue 33095, 9 December 1972, Page 6

Soundings

by

DENIS McCAULEY

There are plenty of people (myself among them) who would like to see cars vanish from our cities, and there are even some brave enough (myself not among them) who remain earless on principle, determined that they, at least, will be able to look future generations squarely in the accusing eye and plead innocence to the charges of pollution by the combustion engine. Judging from my few and relatively short wheel-less periods it’s a thankless, heart-breaking fight they’re fighting. For a start, alternative systems of transport are slowly disintegrating, especially in the towns, where the penalty for cariessness is long, cold, often wet waits for buses that seem to have become extinct, great red dinosaurs that vanished somewhere down the end of Colombo Street never to to be seen again until discovered eons later by parties of puzzled archaeologists. Time leaks away if you have no car at your command. Ten minutes here, 15 minutes there, a late bus that misses you an appointment or gets you to a shop just as it closes. It all serves to whip you into a frenzy of impatience, hating the human race—or at least the part around you with seemingly calm faces—for such mindless resignation.

And having enough money for taxis doesn’t help much. They either tum up ten seconds after you’ve phoned and. just got into a quick bath, or they never tum up at all. Look at all the taxis in town on a fine day. You’d think they had the breeding habits of rabbits. But they strangely vanish after the first two drops of rain, leaving only deserted cab ranks and switchboard operators who cheerfully tell you you’ve got 40 minutes to wait in the rain before they can possibly get a taxi along your way.

But possibly the worst aspect of being wheel-less is the sense of guilt

laid on you by most other people, a sense of being a shameful social pest, not mentioned in polite company. Ask for instructions and your wouldbe guide says: “You have a car, of course?” The implication being that if you haven’t got a car he’s not going to waste his time because you couldn’t possibly get there any way. Without a car, you’re inconveniencing others. You’re a, faint but constantly demanding presence wanting lifts, pick-ups and put-downs, the sort of thing most people care to provide only for their children. Nor is being a passenger in a car a pleasant experience. It’s an exercise in dependency, calling for the sort of patience, resignation and selfeffacement demanded only by a priest at a wedding service. You’re expected to take everything from your driver in sickness and health till death do you part. And that last bit has been pretty close once or twice. You have to put up with drivers who take their hands off the wheel and tum right round to see you as they speak, and appear unmoved by the glassy eyes glued to the unattended windscreen ahead. Drivers who pump their brakes like bike pedals, bouncing you back and forward like a yo-yo, and when you brace your feet against the dashboard they make pointed remarks about just having had the car polished. So, even if they start with the best intentions and firmest resolve, most people give up their principles and clutch some form of motorised transport to their Quisling breasts. And to ease their consciences they tell themselves they must have the benefits of a car. No more being stranded somewhere two hours from the beach on a scorching Sunday; no more trying to drove parcels and children into rare taxis on wet days; no more being condemned to see only the patches of New Zealand bordering railway tracks; and so on. But it’s an uneasy acceptance.