They say that you are born with a certain amount of empath “in your bones” but that you can develop more in time with “work on yourself”. Lately, I have spent a few days on out National highway, leaving my nerves are as frayed as a thread-bare polycotton sheet and questioning my empath content. I have a compassion – admire – tolerate – hate affair with truck drivers. From the truck que at the Botswana border post which takes them about two too three days to pass through to causing so much dust on our district roads I need my mask just to breath. I vote that any truck who has more than 6 wheels, needs a watering bar (imagine a hose pipe with holes) on the back to try and minimise the dust.
During the recent unrest in KZN the driver of our milk lorry was treated as royalty when he arrived, on more than one occasion he also had frayed nerves from the rioters and harassment at blockades. I also have a deep sense of respect for the guys who drive the big rigs on the muddy roads slip sliding away. In my 4 wheel drive SUV I have to take a good few deep breathes and quickly change into my big girl panties …but this is mainly because the trucks, for fear of sliding off, don’t pull over and drive in the middle of the road so they stick to the middle of the road like a pitbull attached to a steak. Believe me, I have been with the HF when he has been asked to help pull a big truck out of the ditch – definitely PTSD material. And the worst is that many of these big rigs need a couple of tractors to pull them out, reminiscent of the pictures of the great Trek heading down the Drakensberg.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I develop the same feelings towards taxi drivers?
Pink Farm Chick 