Traffic

Day one hundred and twenty-seven, Georgia. Batumi certainly has its good corners. It is the second city, it sits on the Black Sea, and in the last five years the tower blocks have come up out of the ground like mushrooms after rain.

Staying alive in the traffic is an art form.

The people here are the most committed drivers I have met anywhere. No bend is too tight to overtake on and no pothole deep enough to be worth slowing for. In town there appear to be no rules except the red light, and the red light is under review.

Oddly, this is fine. Georgians pay attention, and they respect a small car with a trailer doing forty on a country road. I think they perceive me as scenery — an object that has always been there and is not worth indicating for. They simply flow around me.

Every country has its own arrangement. Greeks are friendly and reserved until they see a safe gap. Bosnians drive to the last centimetre and know exactly where it is.

I have been an object in five traffic systems now and I am still here.