Ode to chrome.
A love letter to my car.
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I vaguely remember a chat I had with my uncle when I was seventeen. He came over to our house for lunch, very unusual for a weekday. After we ate, he sat at the kitchen table cupping a steaming mug of instant coffee and asked my mom and I lots of strangely specific questions about cars. Did I have my learner’s license? And when were my parents planning on getting me a car? And what kind of car were they thinking of? I specifically remember him speaking about older cars, asking if I had the confidence to ‘rock an old hatchback’. The questioning didn’t arouse much suspicion, my uncle is a big dreamer and I am often amongst the first to be invited into his ideas. He might suggest that he and I go on a month long road trip throughout South Africa and then suddenly lose interest, or he may say he wants to fly me to London and within the week my tickets will be booked. In any case, a month or so later we celebrated his daughter’s birthday at their home. As we all sat in the lounge, chattering away and waiting for dinner, my uncle tossed me a set of keys and asked if I’d like to take my car to fetch the pizza. Shocked faces all round; my mom was in sheer disbelief (I’m sure my dad was too, but she made more of a fuss). On the front lawn sat a white 1993 Mazda 323. My uncle deflated a little when I broke the news that, yes, I had my learner’s license, but I had no clue how to actually drive yet. He drove my car to the pizza restaurant while I kept him company in the passenger seat. There was a small hole in the exhaust that amplified the gurgle of the engine, and he took great joy in revving my Mazda at every stop street.
I can’t remember the first time I drove my Mazda. It would have been with my mom or dad in the passenger seat while I was still learning what a clutch was or how to shift into first gear. I got it wrong quite a lot. My dad used to take me to a housing development down the road from our house, they had built the roads but hadn’t started the houses yet, it was the perfect spot for an anxious learner driver with even more anxious parents. Once, my dad found a few hay bales and used them to make a simple obstacle course: around this one, around that one. I remember reversing through them very confidently until I hit one. Luckily, hay doesn’t dent. Poles do, I’m afraid. I’ve had unfortunate reversing accidents twice in my poor old hatchback. The first was about a week after I got my license. I popped into the shops after work, I think I was in a rush. As I hesitantly reversed, I became very aware of all of the other cars in the parking lot. I tried my best not to be an inconvenience to them, but in doing so I turned my car too sharply. I cracked the translucent plastic headlight but managed to stop in time to prevent any real damage to the bodywork or actual lamps. I still haven’t fixed the crack. My second accident was a touch more dramatic. I dropped my girlfriend off at the airport after she visited me for a week, I would have to wait more than two months before seeing her again. Once she was in the air, I decided it was time to leave the airport. As I reversed, I hit a pole and dented a side panel just in front of my door. Somehow the metal was bent enough that the driver’s door couldn’t properly open. For five months I had to suck my stomach in to get into my seat. That, thankfully, has since been repaired.
The first time I broke down I was on my way to university. Less than a kilometre away from my usual parking spot, I shifted into second gear and my engine suddenly began cutting out. I managed to turn, jerking and sputtering, into a different parking lot, where my engine died completely. I got my backpack out of the boot and headed to class, trying to ignore the difficult afternoon that lay ahead of me. When my lecture finished I attempted starting my car again to no avail. My dad ended up fetching me and my car was towed. My neighbour is a mechanic and he kindly fixed my hatchback up. The second time I broke down was outside of a Toyota repair shop, where my best friend had just dropped off his car. We came to a screeching, embarrassing stop on the main road in our university town. My aunt, who lived close by, came to our rescue. My car was towed again and my friend and I had tea and biscuits at my aunt’s house before she dropped us off at university. After that incident, my mechanic neighbour taught me how to breathe life back into my Mazda’s engine when it acted up. I have broken down many, many, many, many times since. But a little engine grease on my fingers and a shirt or two did me good. It taught me how to adjust to difficult, often stressful situations; I learned how to think on my feet; my skin got a little thicker. I grew accustomed to break downs. Unfortunately, I then had my first break in. There was a new building site opposite my university parking lot, which meant a huge increase in foot traffic. Being thirty years old, my car doesn’t have many security features; you could break into it with a screwdriver and a good work ethic. Someone did just that. They only took some money, my grandpa knew how easy it would be to break into my car (I never asked how he knew this) and insisted that I buy a steering wheel lock. Good call grandpa.
This may sound daft, but I want to thank my little, old car. I turn my uncle’s words over in my mind, and I’m still not sure if I have the confidence to rock an old hatchback. I try my best, but I suspect that my car is a bit cooler than I am. Thank you, Mazda, for looking after me whenever I left home, as I explored what it meant to be independent, to be an adult. Thank you for keeping me safe. Thanks for breaking down so much, you taught me that I am capable of fixing things and that many things are worth fixing. And thank you for breaking down less often whenever my mom borrowed you. I’m sorry for all the backhanded compliments and thinly veiled insults my friends, my family and I uttered, both while we drove you and while we were in their cars. Sorry for learning how to change gears on your gear box. Thank you for keeping my taste in music secret. Thank you for being a champ on the day I dropped my girlfriend off at the airport, drove another three hours to fetch my best friend and his fiancé, and then went back to the airport to fly away with them. Thanks for being a safe place to cry and sing and laugh and talk. I’m sorry I dented you. Thank you for doing your best, it was good enough. I changed your tyres, your taillights, your battery (twice), your spark plugs, carpeting, radio, and in turn, you changed me a little. Thank you for being a part of my life for a big chunk of yours. I’m sure that you’ll change your next owner, too. Goodbye Mazda.
It’s okay if you’re a little misty eyed, too. And I didn’t expect it, either. If you enjoyed this journal, please share it with someone you love.
Loved it Jem x