THIS IS a story of two cars, a president and a Nobel Prize-winning author.

President Jose Mujica of Uruguay (pictured), the one-time political prisoner turned enlightened leader, has been radical and successful. He legalised abortion and gay marriage and his investment in green energy has made his country an net exporter of renewables.

His decision to tackle the drugs trade by treating drug use not as a criminal offence but as a medical issue made him a poster boy for evidence-based legislation rather than simply protecting entrenched corporate interests.

But as his tenure comes to an end this spring, news coverage in the West tends to focus on three things that have little to do with his successes.

We are told about a pet dog that happens to have three legs. We are told of how he chose to stay in his ramshackle family homestead rather than move to the presidential palace, which he turned into a homeless persons’ shelter.

And we are told he drives a beaten-up Beetle.

While the first fact could be considered to be a cute eccentricity and the second is idiosyncratic, it is the third fact — his choice of wheels — that reveals a little more about this extraordinary leader. The Beetle is a global icon.

It became an effective way to travel for hippies and workers alike in the 20th century, but it was born in a dark place in a dark time.

Created by fascist Germany, the people’s car became a Third Reich scam to rob the German people of their savings. Deposits were made on the proviso that you’d get a cheap and reliable car. The cars were never delivered — the money was instead used to build arms.

In 1945 the bombed Volkswagen factory was repaired under the guidance of British army soldiers Colonel Charles Radclyffe and Major Ivan Hirst. They saw the factory as a means to help the ruined German economy get back on its feet.

It would quickly become a vital part in doing just that — and then the car’s simple engineering and affordability meant that it became a huge export.

Long after production of the classic Beetle ceased in Europe, central and southern US factories were churning them out. They have provided transport for millions in the developing world.

The other car that had as big an influence as the Beetle on a continent was the Tin Lizzie — Henry Ford’s Model T. It too had a shady beginning but also became a symbol of emancipation.

There are certain things about Ford, a union-busting billionaire, and his Tin Lizzie which have become accepted fact but are actually myths. Ford was attributed with inventing the modern production plant, but the bicycle industry was already using mass-production systems.

He was no friend to the workers who, on his 57-acre Michigan plant, could turn a disparate collection of parts into a fully operational Model T in 93 minutes.

Biographers say that unions were anathema to Ford as he believed he knew what was best for working men. During the Great Depression and the New Deal, Ford’s factories were scenes of unrest. Labourers hoping for fair days’ wages for fair days’ work were ruthlessly attacked by goons wielding weapons.

Yet, as with the Beetle, there is a contradiction between the man at the head of the company and what the product it built achieved.

Forget the Model T being primarily a symbol of US capitalist success. Model Ts were the workhorse for smallholders across the nation, and were laden with possessions during the great migration west at the height of the depression.

Nobel Prize winner John Steinbeck gave the Tin Lizzie a role in one of his best novels, Cannery Row. His hobo heroes, Mack and the Boys, borrow a Model T to go frog-hunting on behalf of the novel’s hero, marine biologist Doc.

They use a converted Model T, owned by shopkeeper Lee Chong but not driven for years. It required only a basic knowledge of mechanics to keep it on the road — something Steinbeck describes in great and joyous detail.

“Someone should write an erudite essay on the moral, physical, and aesthetic effect of the Model T Ford on the American nation,” he claimed.

“Two generations of Americans knew more about the Ford coil than the clitoris, about the planetary system of gears than the solar system of stars.

“With the Model T, part of the concept of private property disappeared. Pliers ceased to be privately owned and a tire pump belonged to the last man who had picked it up. Most of the babies of the period were conceived in Model T Fords and not a few were born in them.”

It is hardly surprising that such a brilliant political leader as Mujica feels comfortable behind the wheel of a Beetle, rather than slumped on a leather seat at the back of a limo. Nor is it surprising the man who was the great chronicler of the New Deal era had such a love for the Tin Lizzie.

Products of oppressive thought, they became symbols of freedom.