Pick up in 6 minutes. 5, 4, 3, 5, 6, 5, 4, 3, 4, 3, 2, 1 … oh, our Uber’s gone without us. Black clouds brood over the mountains and threaten a drenching. Francisco, why have you forsaken us?

We watched the waggle dance of the little car icon on the app for 10 of the 6 minutes waiting time before it proudly declared we’d been picked up. Curious, we messaged ‘Onde está?’ – Where are you? – from the kerbside where we still stood. Another handful of minutes later the green Dacia pulled up.

‘Me desculpe, eu me perdi.’

Francisco had apparently got lost. No worries, we were in a bit of a one-way system – trucks and roadworks often block these narrower streets. But, then he didn’t know what direction our destination, Monte, was in. This was more worrying. Not only is it one of Funchal’s most famous districts, it literally translates as ‘Mountain’. Why did he want to head downhill towards the sea?

Now, one of the few things you should know about Francisco is that he speaks no English. Which is totally fair, just not useful when he’s stopped in the middle of Funchal’s main 4-lane road asking us for directions. After prodding wildly at his dashboard-mounted phone, he’s given up on directions. Maybe he speaks Spanish? Yes, he claims. So, I begin barking commands at him in Spanish:

‘Izquierda, izquierda y sube la colina!’

This gets us heading in the right direction, but the early stages of panic have Francisco now. His grasp of Spanish fades as multitasking is discarded as a distraction by his frazzled brain. Good, best he concentrates on driving. Cheryl gets Google Maps up on her phone, and we start to steady the ship.

But, despite 5 minutes ago never having heard of Monte, Francisco’s not convinced we’re going the right way. We spend 10 minutes battling with him to take the correct turns using an on-the-fly mix of English, Portuñol, Portuguese, Spanish, Spanglish and Google. By this point, full panic has set in, and Francisco is reduced to gibbering ‘Deus Santo, Deus Santo‘ while worrying his hair.

‘Was that light red?’ I ask calmly as we speed past a line of cones, around a blind corner, sheer drop alongside, and headlong into an oncoming bus thundering down the hill. It’s terrifying how loud the screech of rubber is and how quickly the windscreen fills with Horários yellow.

Francisco’s brain is now in full shutdown. Reversing proves too much, and a simple back-up manoeuvre becomes a cringeworthy 7-point disaster under the baleful glare of the bus driver who’s only just sat back down.

I think it’s fair to say Francisco’s performance under pressure is another thing you should know about him. Now in shock we have to comfort the poor fella, and Cheryl gently mothers him all the way home like she’s leading a toddler to the loo. Still, as first days on the job go, at least he had a memorable one.