My mother asked me one morning how I cope when my neighbour‘s son owns the loudest broken car known to humanity. And this after staying over for one night.
Agreed, there are certain universal alarm clocks: roosters, church bells, babies. And then there is my neighbour’s son’s car.
It does not merely start. It announces itself. Every morning at 4am sharp, I am woken by the sound of what can only be described as a wounded tractor being strangled by a leaf blower.
This is followed by shouting. Not angry shouting. Encouraging shouting. “Okay! Let’s try again! Push! Push faster!” You guessed it.
The car must be push-started. Daily. At 4am. By at least two half-awake humans who seem to believe physics works better before sunrise.
Once the car starts, it enters phase two: the exhaust solo. There is a huge hole somewhere in that exhaust system and the sound it produces is hair raising.
I’m fairly certain tectonic plates shift slightly when he revs the engine. Birds evacuate trees. Somewhere, blocks away, a dog files a noise complaint.
Coping, I have learned, is about acceptance and strategy. “Maybe he won’t work tomorrow,” I whispered hopefully, after a few such mornings.
This phase didn’t last, because he always worked. Every day of the week.
Phase two bred anger. I imagined myself calmly explaining decibel levels to him while holding a slipper with intent.
Next came bargaining. “If I survive this week,” I promised the universe, “I will never complain about load shedding again.”
Eventually, I reached the only sustainable option: adaptation. I now set my alarm for 3.55am, five minutes before the automotive apocalypse.
This way, I wake up on my terms. I make coffee. I brace myself. When the noise pollution starts, I sip my brew slowly, like someone watching fireworks they did not ask for.
I have also developed background stories to cope emotionally. Perhaps the car is a rare vintage model.
Perhaps the exhaust hole is intentional; perhaps a warning system for nearby towns. Perhaps this young man is training for the Olympics in push-starting.
On particularly bad mornings, I rate the performance. “Strong push today,” I mutter. “Good teamwork. Exhaust still needs work.”
The key, I’ve learned, is humour. Because if you don’t laugh at a 4am push-started car with a hole in the exhaust, you might just push yourself into madness.
