Letter from a Trini motorist to whom it may concern

Paolo Kernahan

AS A REGULAR user of the nation’s roads and highways, I’m writing to you today to bring some matters to your attention that have either escaped your awareness or reside beyond the limited perimeter of your interest. I must confess I’m at a disadvantage as I’m not entirely sure to whom this gaggle of grouses should be directed. Much of our crumbling infrastructure is vehemently disavowed by the Ministry of Works and Transport.

Rohan Sinanan, who is all MOWT, is usually quick to pass the buck to regional corporations, saying this road or that bridge falls under local government. As an aside, mothers of the nation, please do not send your daughters to school with ribbons in their hair. The minister has been so short on ribbon-cutting ceremonies that he’s liable to descend upon your children and reduce those intricate bow arrangements to confetti.

Regional corporations, for their part, never seem to have funds to do anything other than pay wages for spectral labour. As the saying goes, success has many fathers but failure is an orphan. I’m writing today about those orphans (and a few bastards worth mentioning) which appear more numerous than successes. For the motoring public trying to navigate infrastructure is a frustrating, costly, and even dangerous slice of an already oppressive existence on this island.

In retrospect, the driving test to which all aspirant motorists must submit themselves grossly under-represents real-world conditions. To ensure the test more accurately reflects the prevailing motoring environment, the test circuit should include pedestrians randomly crossing the street with children in tow, preferably crossing the street on a diagonal and oblivious to cars around them.

These human obstacles must be on their phones while crossing the street to ratchet up the anxiety factor. This aspect of the driver’s practical examination must be repeated at night on dimly lit streets with the jaywalkers dressed like they’re en route to a burglary.

The driver’s test course should also be strewn with roadkill in varying states of dismemberment and decomposition. Do you swerve on the driver next to you? Do you plough through and just take the car by a Venezuelan-powered car wash later? These are the critical split-second decisions drivers must make on the road.

Another addition to the driver’s test should be the highway sprinter. This individual should be wearing three-quarter pants halfway off their a– and a pair of worn-out slippers ready to fall apart if called upon to do anything more than shuffle aimlessly. The highway sprinter should be positioned on the shoulder leaning forward as if awaiting a starter’s pistol. Alternatively, the sprinter should be poised on the median, ideally carrying some heavy articles to slow them down.

The test-taker must do some quick calculations: At my current velocity and given the height of my vehicle, will the highway sprinter go up and over the windshield sparing me the most costly repair, or will they be processed along with their personal items beneath the undercarriage?

For all the overpasses and pedestrian crossings constructed at considerable expense, citizens are still crossing major highways endangering the lives of motorists. Is this another one of those, “That’s just how it is, yes” features of life on the island?

Errant pedestrians are just one of the innumerable hazards and pressures confronting motorists. Many of our roads now have so many gaping potholes they look like the Israeli Defense Force found Hamas hiding beneath them. With no one responsible for their maintenance in some areas, community operatives have taken matters into their own hands, forming pothole-patching squads.

I know they mean well, but the road to purposely perforated tyres is paved with good intentions. Invariably these potholes are filled with detritus from construction sites. This often includes pulverised red bricks, smashed sharp-edged tile fragments, hidden nails, screws and metal shards. It’s time to retire these amateur civil engineers.

I’ve had to swap out more tyres in a month than Formula One does in an entire race season. On each occasion the story is the same; in fact, I have a collection of keepsakes extracted from my tyres by the fine folks at the tyre shop.

Writing this letter won’t inspire any activity in those responsible; excuses for inaction are always nearer to hand than the will to do better. If I could give up driving altogether I would, but I can’t find a single unbroken pavement to get me to where I need to go.

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