My Fear of Failure - An Albatross

The deadweight of the rotting Albatross I was lugging around was weighing me down.

Day and night, I was consumed by fear, uncertainty and doubt. Knowing I had no choice, I accepted that my fate was sealed. The reality: Butch's sight is compromised. If we keep believing our retirement dream is to travel as far as our Honey Badger and budget can take us, I had to get my heavy-duty, code 10 driver’s licence. That’s the bottom line.

COVID-19 gave me a reprieve, and a measure of amnesia followed as I spent months walking the perimeter of our building, baking bread and cakes, and preparing spicy Moroccan tagines and fluffy couscous. Thoughts of reversing into a dock evaporated like a summer breeze. During this time, I learned to let go of my fears for a while, which helped me build the courage to face them again later. 

At last, our status changed, and we could resume our lives. Winter had set in. Dark storm clouds, rain, and snow left me depressed. Then one day Butch asked: “Have you made your appointment yet?” Could the world swallow me? I wished. Mr Visagie, the previous examiner, had spat me out. How would I survive the mortification? Every smirking traffic officer remembers my legs, shaking uncontrollably. At the time, my only thought was to slam on the brakes and fling myself melodramatically from the truck I was driving.

I had no choice. One spoon at a time, I’d eat humble pie. I would resume driving lessons, my only option. I had until 27 November to get sorted. On my fingers, I ticked off the months, July to November, four months. 

I felt nauseous, but I pressed the digits to call Kalla, my driving instructor. He just laughed and said, “Fine!” I knew I had to face my fear, so I focused on each step and reminded myself that mastery came with persistence. Twice a week, I’d make my way to the instruction grounds, and by Jove, I’d do it. Somehow, I’d master reversing. I’d engage all my faculties to remember the blind spot, mirror, mirror, mirror, and blind spot, even if it killed me.

Each time the hour drew near, a gigantic UFO would settle above my head; I was like a kid hoping the school had burnt down over the weekend. Dragging my feet, I’d procrastinate until the last minute, stalling my departure for the lessons. I’m so busy, I’d tell myself. Only my commitment to the classes and Kalla kept me going.

Six weeks of lessons, and then, out of the blue, Kalla asked: “Have you made an appointment yet?” That was my cue to head to the traffic department. But forewarned is forearmed, and this time I was ready. I had COVID-19 photographs taken: no make-up, no lipstick, bushy grey eyebrows, and greying hair tied back severely. I posed ramrod straight, chin up and out. These photos symbolised my readiness to face the challenge head-on and inspired others to prepare and present their authentic selves with confidence.

At 9h00 on a sunny Tuesday morning, I stepped into the queue; 47 people were waiting. In single file, we stood 1.5m apart, masks on. A book in my handbag. Furtively scanning behind me, I slipped the book out and began to read. By 10h30, we’d not moved. The day was heating up, and we were like lambs to the slaughter. Docile.

Most people wore caps and turned them to shield their faces. Some of us slithered to the ground and sat down. One or two older folks moved into the shade of an oleander bush. I called Butch, who was busy fitting rims to the Honey Badger, and asked him to bring my hat and a bottle of water—both lifesavers. Heat radiated from the face-brick walls.

At 11h00, a fashionably dressed lady arrived; she took one look at us and went straight to the front of the line. Authoritatively, she demanded to know, “What the hell was going on here?” She was told to hold her horses and get back in line. The diminutive disinfectant sprayer had none of it; she had her hands full, filling in forms and admitting us.

Then it was tea time, and the slow trickle of cashiers, traffic officers, and receptionists flowed out, chittering. Cigarettes appeared from pockets and handbags as others stretched their legs. As clouds of smoke billowed and dispersed, the queue’s conversations turned to the purchase of illegal cigarettes and the government. This was the cue for smokers to light up and take long, satisfying drags on their acrid ciggies.

The sexy lady’s feet began to swell in her hot-pink stilettos, which pushed up her blood pressure and made her cheeks flush. “What the hell do they think they’re doing in there?” Flinging her arms akimbo, she exclaimed, “The whole bloody lot are useless and incompetent, taking tea breaks when they’ve not even started working yet.” The floodgates had opened, and there was no stopping her. She fanned her face with a rolled-up Die Son tabloid newspaper and readjusted her sling bag onto her drooping shoulders.

At 11h45, we shuffled forward like condemned men. I wished I hadn’t worn a spencer, Viyella shirt and cardigan as I slipped out of my jacket and tied it around my waist. No one knew how long we would be there. I had to sip sparingly from my water, taking only meagre sips to wet my parched lips. I lost interest in my book but kept it open as a shield in case a riot broke out. One never knows who has the tear gas these days.

A latecomer in uniform stepped out and was accosted by a gentleman associated with the Stiletto lady, who, after he’d given his account of the appalling situation, beckoned her over-enthusiastically. The cop took one look at her, sized up the case, threw his cigarette down on the sparse, wilting lawn, and made a dash for the door, grinding the smouldering butt underfoot. A cloud of dust camouflaged his polished boots. He beat a hasty retreat. We grew despondent and debated whether to return the next day. I promised I’d be back, clad in a red overall.

At 12h45, I stood in front of the cashier with my money, a smile and a friendly greeting. She responded wearily and offered me the next available slot for a driving test in November. Impossible, I told her; I needed one sooner. Something must’ve clicked as she looked at my desperation and said, “Ok Gogo, tomorrow at 14h30.” For a few moments we glared at one another; she relented and said she’d talk to her supervisor. In a moment of clarity, I spat out, “I’ll take it!” She said, “Gogo, do it; tomorrow’s your lucky day; I know it.” Her eyes belied her true feelings.

This time, I wasn’t going to let my nerves get the better of me. I had an arsenal of tranquilisers and GenPain to ease my anxieties. I’d done a guinea-pig test and found myself chilled and calm. Relaxed, but not doped.

At 6h00 the next morning, I swallowed my first tranquilliser. Google said it was fine. At 12h00, I popped two Gen Pains for my stiff neck, and at 13h00, I slipped another tranquilliser nonchalantly between my teeth. Puff Adder mode. Chilled, but ready to strike. I massaged a good dollop of Voltaren into my stiff muscles.

To test my skills, I went to the driving school and did a few reverses in my platkar (sedan). It’s an automatic, so I pulled into the bay but didn’t knock over the cones—thumbs up.

At the traffic dept. The queue was centipeding sluggishly to the door.  I couldn’t afford to be late, so I jumped the queue and reported to the Disinfector.  She told me to wait, waving her spray bottle dismissively.

My instructor and I walked the course, and he explained all the obstacles again. This time, I understood and made mental notes. Crossing my fingers, I hoped I wasn’t too tranquil. Back in the queue, my leg started to shake slightly as the clock struck the appointed time. All good. I wasn’t stoned.

Eventually, a young man in civvies stopped in front of me, introduced himself as Mr White, and said he’d be my examiner. I couldn’t resist telling him my maiden name was Knight. I wouldn’t forget him. EVER. He smiled at that. Good start. 

Determined to get this 100% right, I focused, listened intently, and followed his instructions to the T. Still anxious about the Dock reverse (I had watched the YouTube clip a 1000X too many times), I proceeded. I confess I wobbled a few times, but didn’t stall the truck, kept going when I thought I’d had my chips, and, in a flat spin, perspiration soaking my back, I parked that baby perfectly. One could say I rocked that truck… literally.

On the open road, I thought I would nail it. The meds were kicking in now. But, as luck would have it, just a few metres from the police station, an inebriated man, arms flailing, stepped precariously off the pavement, swaying like the Michelin Man in a strong breeze. In the nick of time, he pirouetted, and I missed him. Poor Mr White got the fright of his life and exclaimed, “Be careful, you’re going to hit him”, his voice rising an octave or two. I’m sure he realised I had nerves of steel and could handle the situation perfectly… or I'd cooked my goose and would be back in November.

We made it back to the traffic department just before closing. This time I didn’t mind waiting. The cashier beamed when she saw me, saying, “Gogo, you made it. I told you this is your lucky day!” She has a good memory and remembers I’d told her we’re going on holiday in October, and she promised she’d “mark my application for a licence as a 'priority' and fast-track it!” Next week I’ll enquire whether it’s ready and take a cake for tea.

I still wake in a cold sweat at night, momentarily thinking it’s a dream and that the nightmare isn’t over yet. To reassure myself, I open my wallet. I whip out the pale green temporary licence and promise myself I’ll have it framed soon. The fearless Spidermen in my life inspire me.

Now I can proudly say, "I’m a trucker!" Last week, I was in the driver’s seat; all the ladies on the farm waved, beaming. I waved back. A few kilometres later, I passed a staff vehicle on the Brandwacht road, driven by a female truck driver. We rock.

I hope Butch remembers the bottle of Moët for toasting my success as the sun sets over the Kalahari.

I’ve mastered the Garmin Overlander GPS; we’re just waiting to link it to my website so our families can follow our journey. Every new skill we learn and master empowers us, and we should celebrate that we’re still able to do so. Sometimes we’ll fail; that’s all right too.