Well. That YouTube Premium subscription was worth the money.

If you have not enjoyed the full Katherine McGreevy Experience, then you haven’t been keeping tabs on Facebook’s Ecuador expat community. Katherine is one of a cohort of YouTube “celebrities” who think our lives are made better by their content. Or maybe it’s their lives that are made better by our attention. Either works.

This is a funny thing for the guy with the blog to write. I also admit that I may have posted one or two links to my stories on Fecesbook over the years. The difference is nobody reads.

I draw your attention to Katherine’s precious comedic stylings for one reason. The finger wagging is probably muy divertido in tonier Quito neighbourhoods. But it in no way describes what it’s like to maneuver your vehicle in a country where two-thirds of its drivers bought their licensias from a friend.

This is true. I know three people, personally, who could not bear to face a Spanish-language driver theory test. Even if it’s multiple choice and they give you the answers in advance. (Some proctors, like one in Bahia, will whisper the correct responses during your exam. Not that I needed help.) Before the police cracked down, licenses cost $500 on the black market. Now I think the price is a fine and roadside seizure. Possible jail time for recidivists.

Not that this stops anyone. The policia setup roadblocks to check for license authenticity. Outgoing traffic blinks its high beams to let inbound drivers know. The ones with Cracker Jack permits turn around and hasten away. Like leaves on the wind.

If someone were to hand out trophies for reckless driving, Ecuador would be, by far, the all-time Heisman winner. I say this as the clearly troubled individual who drove, on a lark, through Istanbul, Paris, and New York City. I learned stick in downtown Montreal. During rush hour. My nerves are Type 304 stainless steel.

Ecuadorian tailgaters are world-class. They can pull up to within a hair of your rear bumper and linger there, fearlessly, at high speed, until a spot opens directly in front of you. This usually occurs before a switchback or at the top of a hill. If they can’t see oncoming traffic, then there is no oncoming traffic. That’s when you get your first pansy-ass Canadian taste of the Ecuadorian suicide lane.

My compatriots back home will puzzle over this concept. In our country, it’s good form to attempt to murder any driver who performs a triple axel, shit-for-brains maneuver in your general vicinity. Even if you misjudge the distance of an approaching vehicle during a legal pass, both buddy coming at you and the wild-eyed nutjob beside you will speed up to make a point. Montrealers, especially, would rather die than cede the right of way. Some actually have.

In Ecuador, a third lane magically appears. You find yourself staring into the headlights of an onrushing Jesus bus. Maybe you weren’t paying attention. Maybe you overestimated your cheetah-like reflexes. Whatever. That bus is taking its corner on two wheels, and you’ve just shit yourself. On cue, everyone moves right – and suddenly there’s room enough to overtake without causing a mass casualty event.

Why would they do this, you may ask. Because trying to kill people with your car is insane. Got that, Toronto?

In Ecuador, turn signals don’t necessarily mean what you think they should mean. This, of course, depends on where in the country you drive.

On the coast, as in most other rules-based civilizations, drivers signal to indicate the direction in which they wish to go. Not so in the Sierra.

There, drivers signal to let others know they can pass on that side. Let me give you an example. A trucker on the road from Otavalo to Cayambe starts to feel a wee peckish, so he turns right at the Fritadas Rosita parking lot. (I highly recommend Fritadas Rosita.) Naturally, Señor Camionero signals left, so the driver behind him knows how to safely overtake. It makes sense, in a parallel universe sort of way.

Question: How do they signal at intersections? Answer: They don’t.

Especially irksome are folks from the Sierra who drive on the coast. At that point, it’s anyone’s guess how your encounter will turn out. Best of luck to you.

A muro is a speed bump. Muro literally means wall, and in many cases this is literally true. Some muros are gentle reminders to reduce your velocity. Others will launch you into orbit.

Anyone who wishes to do so may lay down a muro in front of their home or establishment. Small businesses do this to force you into the clutches of their roadside hawkers. Households build muros, often from fishing rope as thick as a fist, to keep the insanely careening motorcyclists at a more reasonable pitch.

In the kilometre-and-a-half from downtown San Clemente to our condo at Punta Bikini, we must traverse six muros of varying destructive capability. There’s always one I forget, just before Andrew and Carol’s place. It isn’t marked and there is no reason for it to be there. Even at a stately twenty kilometres per hour, that diabolical lump can reduce my automotive suspension system to tears.

Muros are the great highway equalizers. These are where you get around slower-moving heavy transports, called pesados, and sluggish Frankencars: automobiles so grotesquely MacGyvered, it’s impossible to tell their original make and model. It is not uncommon to have three, four, even six vehicles vying for first place beyond the muro. After that, it’s a free-for-all. Whoever has the most horsepower wins the open road.

For a while, at least. Ecuadorian drivers are not best known for their forward thinking. Which makes them like us.

Of course Ecuadorians honk on the green. Municipalities install traffic signals directly above the stop line. Other drivers are letting the guy in front know that the light has changed.