A few months ago, a friend was in London for a dinner party. Leaving late at night, she was stopped by the police for driving in a suspiciously wobbly manner. A test revealed that she was over the legal limit of one drink, and her driving license was suspended for a year. If you live deep in the country, this is close to a death sentence, as there is no public transport available for miles.

Friends are fond of saying that if you can drive in Pakistan, you can drive anywhere. I’m afraid this cliché is just not true. Our driving habits are so appalling that most Pakistanis have a hard time adjusting to orderly traffic that mostly abides by the rules. Here, it’s everybody for themselves, with drivers muscling in to get ahead; so if you follow the rules, you are in for a long wait. In this chaotic jungle, those with strong nerves and quick reflexes get to their destinations relatively unscathed. Most cars bear dents and nicks that are testimony to the gauntlet we run on the roads of Pakistan.

In the UK, a points system is in place to keep drivers on the straight and narrow. You start off with 12 points, and three points are docked for minor infringements like exceeding the speed limit. If you drop to zero, you’re off the road for a year, and then start again with 12 points. But now, your infractions are on the insurance company database, and your premium goes up. So people tend to be careful, especially in the cities that are now bristling with CCTV cameras. Often, your speeding ticket arrives with a photograph that indicates your speed as recorded on radar. While you can challenge the charge, you risk paying a steeper penalty.

But a lot of drivers are careful from a sense of consideration, and not just a fear of fines. Often, as I am waiting to cross the road with our Puffin on a lead, a car will stop, and we will be waved across. When drivers behave with this kind of politeness, they expect to be thanked with a wave. Often, visitors are unaware of this small courtesy, and cross the road as though it was their right. This often earns a muttered ‘Bloody foreigner!’ from annoyed drivers.

It is rare in big cities like London for somebody to stop unless he has to, given the heavy traffic. But apart from traffic lights, everybody comes to a dead stop at a zebra crossing if a pedestrian has placed a foot on it. In fact, you have to be especially vigilant when approaching a pedestrian crossing because some dopey characters suddenly decide to cross at the very last moment as your car is a few yards away. Some people amble across, taking their time, and you are tempted to nudge them gently with your car bumper. 

A few years ago, a Londoner totally lost his cool, and beat up a pedestrian with a tyre-changing tool for failing to thank him for letting him cross. In Paris years ago, another driver was much more polished, and probably more effective, when a woman rammed into his car while it had stopped at a red light. Getting out to examine the damage, he strolled over to the woman driver and said: ‘Madam, may I ask how you normally stop when I am not parked ahead of you?’

In the countryside, different, albeit unwritten, rules
apply. As the roads and lanes are usually narrow, you exercise great care and slow down while driving past pedestrians, especially if they are walking with children or dogs. If somebody is riding, you make sure the horse has enough space on the side of the road, and the rider acknowledges this courtesy by raising his or her crop.

While cutting into another lane is frowned upon, if you need to change lanes, you make your intention clear, and almost invariably, the driver behind will let you in. You then thank him by waving a hand in his direction. In Pakistan, of course, it constitutes a loss of face if you make life easier for another driver. In Devizes, when we drive out of our lane to join the main road, we are invariably waved in by a driver who stops his car when he sees us waiting for a gap in the traffic.

It must be said that compared to most of Europe, driving in England is a much less stressful affair. In Paris, you take your life into your hands when you step on to a zebra crossing. Indeed, the stripes seem to be painted on the road to designate a pedestrian as a sitting duck for motorists who seem to accelerate, rather than slow down, as they bear down on their hapless victims. Italians hurtle around bends as though they were front-runners at a Grand Prix race.

Ultimately, I suppose driving styles in different countries must reflect the national temperament. In Pakistan, we all think it is somehow beneath our dignity to queue. Thus, when a railway crossing gate opens, for example, vehicles on both sides dash forward to be the first ones across. The result is a logjam that delays everybody. Years ago, a friend recounted how a car behind him kept hooting as he waited for the traffic signal to turn green from red. When he drove forward, the impatient driver behind him forced him to stop and subjected him to a barrage of invective, and demanded to know why he had stopped at the signal. When my friend said the law required him to stop at a red light, the man demanded: ‘Are you a government toady (chamcha) that you have to stop?’

One reason why traffic rules, like all others, are flouted across Pakistan is that those in authority think nothing of breaking them. Lesser mortals inevitably follow suit. In Britain, nobody gets away with driving through a red light, or speeding if he is caught. The same set of laws apply to everybody, and are therefore obeyed. Here, if a driver with connections is stopped by a traffic cop, the opening line often is: ‘The Inspector General of Police is a friend of mine.’ In Britain, even if you actually are Gordon Brown’s brother, you still have to pay the speeding fine.