It began as a short journey to make a routine driver’s license renewal and ended in a drive up.
A naive Scotsman caught in the wrong place at the most inopportune time.
The unwitting outsider lucky to emerge unhurt after straying haphazardly into the territory of unforgiving rival gangs.
Caught in the crossfire of the Bloods and Crips after a navigation fault led the innocent Glaswegian into a no-go area, an innocent bystander turned petrified witness in a deadly feud.
The reality is far more mundane – excuse the facetious tone – but it’s a scenario that somehow played out in my head when entering a notorious Californian city.
Compton. A seemingly fearsome place immortalized by N.W.A and their infamously successful track “Straight Outta Compton” from the album of the same name. The incredible lyrics depicted an uninhabitable gun fuelled world of crazy mofos, punks being smoked and brothers smothering mothers.
For impressionable youngsters across the pond, it was both unimaginable and ridiculous, and tarred a city in the glorious Golden State with a reputation for bloody violence.
I was utterly clueless about a place that Dr. Dre, Ice Cube and Eazy-E made out to be so glamorously dangerous, justified or not.
There were a few areas in my home city of Glasgow which could also be described – often inaccurately and unfairly – as war zones.
Yet this was something entirely different, an improbably crime ridden place where only the baddest and coolest survived, and it was in America, not some ned infested buckfast ridden local dive.
Images of a snarling, intimidating Ice Cube entering my mind on the night before the short drive into uncharted waters. Despite the passing of more than three decades the tune of DJ Quik’s “Jus Lyke Compton” – in which the potty mouthed rapper compares other cities in this great nation to the cesspit of California – also filtered through my creaking brain.
I only had myself to blame for a quick trip into the hood as it was the only Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) location that wasn’t fully booked. Unsurprisingly no one would pick Compton over Long Beach, Fullerton, or Bellflower.
Before detailing the rather drab outing into the ghetto it’s necessary to take a detour into the absolute madness of the roads in America’s most populous state.
Driving is something else here, like being shoved into a potentially deadly game where no one explains any of the real rules.
A severe lack of proper and reliable public transport – the homeless, undesirables and the psychologically affected often use the bus and metro system which makes any journey quite an experience – means everyone is forced onto the roads.
It’s also usually too hot and unsafe to walk on the streets as cars tend to either view pedestrians as invisible or an obstacle to go through rather than be avoided.
Moving from the left-hand side of the road to the right proved far more challenging than I anticipated. It took a while to position myself away from the kerb rather than driving close to it.
Nothing is straightforward. Letting people pull out is practically a crime, almost everyone drives over aggressively and far too close to each other. It’s like a pathetic non-existent race to each traffic light. Then there’s the signal syndrome. A large swathe of drivers don’t indicate at all and move in and out of lanes without thinking about anyone else.
Thankfully, I passed my driving test on the first try – I’m very grateful to the truly kind and patient instructor in Bellflower – but it wasn’t much of a challenge. No parallel parking or three-point turn, just a short reverse on a residential street and a few laps round busier areas. No roundabouts (or traffic circles as they’re called here) to navigate or steep hills.
The real test occurs on the terrifying freeways. While dozens of journeys up and down the death trap of the A9 between Perth and Inverness filled me with dread when I was working as a sports reporter, nothing can really prepare you for 10 lanes of madness.
You need eyes on the back and sides of your head to fully comprehend the lawless nonsense of the great 405. Freeways are so essential to getting around, and so notorious, that they are referred to as if they are entities of their own.
My daily commute to work between Long Beach and Irvine – not the Ayrshire town and pronounced very differently – amounts to a rather perilous guessing game.
Of course, there are very meticulous road rules, and the system generally works, but on the freeway anything goes. The highway patrol is present but there are just far too many vehicles to properly monitor. I haven’t spotted many speed cameras either.
It is estimated that close to 400,000 cars use the 405 every day. I’m only in competition for inches of space with a few hundred of them but it feels like more. Even a few minutes of stop-start traffic – stop-and-go traffic in the good old USA – would drive anyone to delirium.
Yet when other people constantly speed right up your backside before switching lanes it’s a deeply frustrating and irritating part of the daily grind. That’s if they can even stay in their lanes, another baffling but routine problem.
Perhaps it’s just a pointless gesture but I have attempted to buck the trend by letting people who indicate move ahead of me. Especially those that have multiple passengers that need to travel in the diamond or high occupancy vehicle (hov) lanes. Rarely anyone acknowledges it, only a few have raised their hand in recognition. It won’t stop me continuing to show a little politeness, maybe others will catch on, although it appears unlikely. Even though it’s necessary to take a few calculated risks, I won’t copy the people that swerve at breakneck speed at the last minute to exit the freeway. Equally I’m not going to copy the tailgate maniacs that make getting behind the wheel a miserable experience.
The rules of the road are clearly and helpfully illustrated in the comprehensive Californian DMV handbook – I pored over it a few times before passing the practical test at the third and final attempt – it’s just a pity most drivers completely disregard them.
It’s not all bad, although the things I do enjoy like the town and city signs which feature population and elevation statistics are miniscule and almost unnoticeable.
Back in Compton I couldn’t help but think the absolute worst on the mercifully short journey to renew my license.
No mofos hanging about the streets waiting to take me out, no smothering mothers either.
It’s become a well-established joke to make fun of the long wait times at the DMV. Even those that have never stepped foot in the States know about it from Saturday Night Live and The Simpsons among many other shows and movies.
There is a big queue if you don’t make an appointment. However, the process of booking an appointment online is so simple that you wonder why there’s still dozens of people that show up on the day and hope for the best.
I tried not to make eye contact with anyone in the non-appointment line. There were a couple of rugged looking characters but no more than you would observe on a brief walk through Glasgow city centre.
It only took around 15 minutes for the extremely courteous and professional lady at the counter to issue the renewal and offer some especially useful advice. They took my picture quickly and then it was straight out of Compton.
On quick reflection it was some of the best customer service I have encountered anywhere in the world and proves that you shouldn’t believe everything – or indeed anything – you hear in song lyrics or see depicted in television or movies.
That being said, this particular brother from a fabulous mother won’t be heading back to Compton in a hurry.
@skasiewicz.bsky.social
Stephen Kasiewicz 