India, Day 8 - A Race.
I've written before about Indian traffic, an ongoing and constant phenomenon that would initiate wetting of the pants in most Western drivers. Lest you think that the highways in India always operates on a basis of "just the way it is," think again. Our driver, simply called "Driver" by my host, has been driving for twenty years. He is good. Very, very good. He can nudge cattle out of the way with a fender with less effort than it takes for most US drivers to coax sparks out of their cigarette lighters. Every now and again he would execute a particularly daring lane change and throw a grin in my direction, just to let me know that he drove to impress. Even in our language-barriered relationship, we became friends with a few common gestures and the phrase "no problem." And, at the end of this afternoon, I discovered that he takes it very personally when he is not allowed to rule the road uncontested.
We were on our way home, passing all other vehicles as per the norm, when a motorcyclist stubbornly refused to let Driver pass. Driver's eyes narrowed into a determined squint, and it was on like Donkey Kong. The Bolero revved, my host laughed in the backseat, and our afternoon turned into a Bollywood remake of Bullitt. Driver attempted pass after pass, but the canny motorcyclist cut him off every time, his purple plaid shirt flapping in the wind around his slender frame. A hint of peevishness played over Driver's face, but it was obvious that he was enjoying the race immensely.
I pride myself on my ability to relax in Indian traffic. I mean, when you're not the one driving, what can you do? Indian roads are best driven by resident Indians, and if I spend all my time second-guessing their every move, I would be wrinkled and gray-haired long before my time. However, as the race escalated and we roared through tiny villages, careening around women, children and animals in a series of closer and closer calls, I was forced to confront the true bounds of my comfort zone. I decided to remain silent and see if Driver was as good as he always seemed to be. And, to his credit, Driver may have caused a few people to drive out of the way, but he didn't hurt a soul. He still ranks as the only person I've ever seen who could drive 40km through a crowded street market without causing any damage to person or property.
Driver never did overtake the motorcycling son'v'gun. The cyclist drove on past our own final destination, and Driver was forced to pull up to a sharp stop. If he hadn't been a consummate professional under a verbal agreement to stop at the appointed coordinates, we might have chased the motorcycle until the Bolero coughed on its last fume of petrol and ground to a halt in the grey space between somewhere and nowhere.
India, Day 7 - Onward, through corn and potholes.
After the youth meeting in the morning, we went back to the flat and ate lunch. With us for the meal was my next host, who had driven in to pick me up. We had met once before, two years prior, so we spent the meal breaking ice and getting re-aquainted. He would take me back to his home in one of India's poorest regions, and I would assist him in his projects for the next week. I bid a grateful farewell to my hosts, and we were off. The drive south was a learning experience of its own. I saw something I had yet to see in my previous trips to India: the use of the highway as a threshing floor. Dry ground is a hot commodity during monsoon season, and when the sun is shining, the highway becomes the most convenient way to quickly dry and separate corn. I entertained myself during the drive by leaning out the window, garnering curious looks as I took snapshots of the laborers we passed throughout our drive.
As interesting as the scenes in the images might be from a standpoint of simple cultural differences, this was an introduction (of a sort) to one of the aspects of India which I see as a slight negative, and that is the population concentration. There are so many people in India, and they are grouped in such massive clusters, that even in the open spaces of rice country, there is often a feeling of exposure--like it is impossible to be completely alone at any time, because there always seems to be children in the bushes.
I began to form this opinion as we whizzed past the farmers using the highway as a drying platform for their harvest of corn. Technically, such a practice is unlawful, but it is tolerated because utilization of any and all available space is necessary for farmers in certain regions to make their living, however meager it is.
On a separate note, I was also reintroduced to the close-quarter, wheel-borne jiu-jitsu match that is Indian traffic. The cars pass literally close enough to touch, and the relatively minimal number of accidents that occur, given the number of cars on the roads, and the poor quality of the roads themselves, it's fairly amazing. Check out the photos to see what I mean.
