I?ve journeyed through the guerilla-controlled jungles of southern Colombia and trekked across the paramilitary-infested Sierra Nevada in northern Colombia. I?ve traveled up and down the Death Road leading to and from La Paz in Bolivia. I?ve lived and worked in Johannesburg, considered by many to be the Murder Capital of the world. And yet I can say without a whit of hyperbole that the single most dangerous act that I?ve every engaged in is my daily commute between Grand Baie and Port Louis. Never have I seen people conduct themselves with such an utter disregard for their own safety and, more importantly, that of others

Every single day brings the same scenes on the Northern Highway. Cars, minivans, trucks and buses hurtle along with wanton abandon at speeds exceeding100 km/h, often only a few metres from the bumper of the vehicle in front of them. Increasingly, one sees people overtaking blindly in bends, without the slightest consideration for those coming in the opposite direction. All the absurdity of this devil-may-care attitude is brought out by the fact that, more often than not, the vehicles that overtake with jaw-dropping recklessness have to slow down at very next roundabout, thus obviating the time gained by their suicidal tactics. Oh, and it?s not uncommon either to see drivers merrily chatting on their mobile phones. They are both pathetic and selfish.

Anyone who claims to be able to drive well and talk on a mobile phone at the same time is lying. In fact, any boast of competence on the road is a good indication that someone is a terrible driver. It suggests he ? and it probably is a he ? has no idea how hard driving is. To underestimate the challenge is always to be on the brink of suicide or manslaughter. Our bodies have not evolved to move much faster than 20MPH [a little over 32 km/h]. So when we get behind the wheel of a car, stripped of critical faculties and clad in mechanical armour, we become simultaneously more stupid and more powerful.? Thus writes The Observer?s Rafael Behr in his review of Tom Vanderbilt?s latest book, Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (And What It Says About Us).

Lord Beaverbrook, one of Britain?s first press barons, believed in one simple mantra that he expected each and every one of his newspapers to adhere to, ?Get me a murder a day?. It almost seems that those who built the Northern Highway received similar instructions. The stretch of road between Forbach and Pamplemousses seems to suffer from an identity crisis. It?s not too sure whether it?s a two- or four-lane highway. For some obscure reason, it?s actually a three-lane highway, with 1.5 lanes going in each direction (although many automobilists often treat it as if it has six lanes).

The latest episode in the Northern Highway?s dotty history is that several F-shaped advertising structures have been erected just before the Pamplemousses roundabout. The plastic flags show a cyclist lying on the road in front of a car with the slogan, ?Pran kont dime capave ou tour?. They are sm>all and placed at such a height that road-users have to crane their necks to see them. These warnings, or should I say, distractions, are brought to you the Ministry of Public infrastructure and the Traffic management and road safety unit. Enough said!