Hartley Neita

Driving in Jamaica today is no longer the pleasure it was 40 years ago.

It should not be so, of course. Cars are now more comfortable, easier to drive, and give less trouble than those of yesteryear. The roads are wider, smoother, and are less winding.

Yet, I venture out each day knowing it is a war on the roads between those who drive according to a road code which was based on courtesy and respect for other drivers and pedestrians, and a new generation of drivers who regard the roads as their private property and resent others who believe in driving for pleasure and not for turf.

And the new generation I refer to is not a definition based on age but on attitude.

Last week for example, I was crawling in a line of traffic travelling south on Waterloo Road. Suddenly, my car started to throb to the rhythm of a loud pulsing beat, rocking from side to side. At first I thought it was an earthquake until I realised it was a motor car travelling alongside in a parallel lane and playing music.

rocking to the beat

I could not hear my radio. The man driving the car was rocking to the beat, his mouth pursed and twisting from side to side. Traffic came to a stop. I put my gear in park, came out of my car and signalled to the man.

"Good morning," I shouted. "Good morning," I repeated louder. A third good morning as loud as I could shout only elicited a robot twisting of his head from left to right. It was not that he was deaf. It was just that I was daring to interrupt his pleasure.

Later that day I received a telephone call from a friend.

"You"re lucky," he said.

"Why" I asked. "What are you referring to"

"Did I not see you this morning confronting a man because he was playing music in his car loudly""

"Yes," I replied. "But the man did not piss on me."

"Well, he could have," my friend said. "He's my neighbour. We live in a townhouse complex, and he plays music at his home just as loud as he did this morning, day and night. Two of us decided to visit him and asked him to give us a little peace. He never said a word.

"Later about 20 of his friends came to the complex in their Pajeros and Prados. They gathered in the courtyard drinking beer and shouting yards of cloth.

"Then one by one they went to the verge of each house, unzipped their pants and watered the plants. The last to join the ritual was my neighbour.

"Yow!" he shouted. "Next time we not going stand up. We going stoop."