Where it matters, men and women are the same. But driving needs special treatment. By and large, the topic introduces the matter of the being on top of, or inside of, something which takes us from here to there.
Where do you want to go, today?
We were generally warned to stay away from townships; which is just to say, die Swaart Gevaar was nie uit die Engelsman se woordebook uitgelos. Going there on a balmy day in paradise to see for myself, instead of swallowing the curated histories of my own country that are fit for nothing but wilfully ignorant tourists, the lack of aggression on the roads was striking.
The older generation said categorically that women drivers are the worst: in my experience this applies to aggression. But my generation learnt that to speak ill of women drivers carried the kind of penalty that sends a boy into a township in the middle of the night.
In my experience, which includes that of having a small motorbike driven into from the back, which seemed to be a follow-up from a dozen years previously, when I only had to make sure not to slow down round the corners to prevent it happening, subconscious communication has much to do with the difference between men and women on the roads.
It is to be remembered that we are talking about something that was a ridiculous idea to start with, which can reasonably be blamed on the Socialist bus driver problem. The Capitalist bus driver, in this country, seems acutely aware of the borders of townships: in a township, roads are yet public spaces; everywhere else, the road belongs to drivers.
With the erosion of our rights comes the effacement of our enjoyment of simple things.
But if I grumble any more I'm going to sound like a lost lover. Outright racism has always made me feel ill. But my non-racist friends found their way out the country. And I thus find myself at the beginning again, for having some evidence that women can doubt their memory just as easily as men.