Well, after some four months of sitting on the fence about what kind of car to get, we finally bought our Ambi. Her name is "Betty" - short for "betty, betty good, Sir." You can figure it out.
Four months - it's a long time. But the choices are several and, of course, there was the peer pressure of virtually all my colleagues owning India Scorpios - a rather popular 4x4 (well, virtually all of them are 2x4, but that's not what counts). On Indian roads, size counts for alot.
That's what Peter told me when he was giving me advice about the challenges of bicycle riding in New Delhi. "They don't look behind." I didn't quite get it. I heard the words; I thought I understood.
But there is nothing like a first-hand, visceral experience to crystallize the intellectualisms into something pure and understandable - something that you just know. Like "Duh - now I get it!"
This is what happened when I took the wheel for the first time in India. We had been looking for a vehicle to purchase and I had gone for "test rides" as a passenger. But even though the price of taxis is probably as low as it can get anywhere, the desire to get out of the city and drive is starting to catch up with me. Also, taking taxis all the time does have it's drawbacks. Each time a new driver. Will it be "the Zen master" (quite, careful driver, never available); or will it be "grumpy old man" who only speaks Hindi and never knows where anything is; or will it be "Suicide Sanjeeb on Speed and Chew" a young driver who's naturally aggressive driving habits, amplified by lack of sleep and addiction to chewing tobacco, made it so that the taxi company never send him out alone - that is until he became our de facto daily chauffeur.
Alternatively there are other concerns in a driver so important that you may not wish leave to chance. For instance, will the driver have his pants on? This is no joke - it happened. Thank God my daughter still prefers to speak in French. As we were sitting in the back seat of the cab, Laodice piped up and laughed "Regarde maman, le monsieur n'a pas de pantalones!" After living in India for a couple of months you no longer questions these things - kinda like "Oh, of course, today is a no pants day." The reason is believe it or not quite explicable and, viewed from the "India perspective" not unexpected. It lies in the fact that the majority of these fellows live at their respective taxi stand under make-shift lean-tos and on traditional Indian farmer beds. Washing, cleaning and toilet facilities are about as sophisticated as they are in your favorite rustic camp site. And just forget about that "wardrobe space" - just does not exist. So what does a working fellow do when he has to wash his pants?
All this means that, cost of transport apart, there are other considerations that strongly favour (1) having your own vehicle and (2) a good, courteous driver - with a superior command of the English language; and (3) a pair of pants.
We are at step 1: getting the car.
So, our first test drive was on a Mahindra Bolero. A cheap Jeep-like vehicle with high ground clearance and a price tag that won't make you cry when the car gets its first nick, scratch, dent, etc. I say cheap because in addition to being inexpensive, it is cheap. Not luxurious, but all-Indian, easy to repair and supposedly rugged. However, the finishing touches are indeed "cheap"; the a/c only barely adequate and the radio probably not worth it - best to put in one's own. But then these are the reasons to take a test drive.
So off we went to test drive the car. The salesman took a fellow with us and he drove to get some fuel. Just afterwards it was my turn to drive. Now you have to understand that I've never driven on the left-side of the road. But that is really only a minor issue when it comes to driving in Delhi. You see, driving in India is like a dance of mutual adjustment and ego management - Brownian motion in action but not with molecules but with heavy metal vehicles, dancing in the less than perfect Delhi streets along with other vehicles, motor cycles, scooters, bicycles, motor rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, tractors, people, horses, camels, cows, sheep, goats, elephants, donkeys (and I'm just talking about what I've seen in Delhi) - trust me - it gets "better" when you leave the city.
Of course what you can't miss, as a western driver, when you take the wheel is the fact that the side-view mirrors are folded up. This is so they don't get torn off by passing vehicles. Indeed on a "good" traffic day, two lane divided roadway (with a breakdown lane) fits anywhere from 4-6 vehicles across. I now know why the Indian's like the cars with sliding doors - you just can't get out of your car when stopped in average Delhi traffic. If there was enough space, it would be quickly filled with a scooter or motor cycle or whatever vehicle or animal would fit. Hence, the folded side-view mirrors.
The next experience I had was navigating in the flow of traffic. You see, unlike in Europe and North America people tend to stay in their lanes - a concept the Indian's refer to as "lane discipline". In India the concept exists but the practice does not. You find this out quite shortly after driving in the streets. This is where the mutual adjustment comes in - and it is awesome. What I mean to say is that Indian drivers are probably the most responsive and careful that I've seen. I'm not kidding. To be able to drive the way they do (i.e., no "lane discipline") with anything less than major road accidents is nothing short of a miracle. I know that all the cars are banged to hell, but would you expect any less?
Anyway, the point is that either Indian brains are evolutionarily adapted to sophisticated and challenging driving conditions or they are like the rest of us and they make sacrifices elsewhere. I believe the answer lies in the latter - they just do not use the rear-view and side view mirrors like we in the West do. Indeed all their attention is forward and to about 45 degrees to straight ahead. This focus allows them to successfully navigate in the "flow" (a.k.a. chaos) that is Indian road traffic.
As for the Bolero, we found it too "cheap" a car and kept on looking. And looking forward to the next test drive.
It's a little after 11:00 am on a Sunday morning here in Delhi. I've put on some music to listen to whilst playing cards with the little one. Bébé Lily (one or my daughter's favorites) has been repeating for the last hour or so. As my daughter is now watching Sunday morning cartoons (OK they are 24-sur-24 here on the Cartoon Network). Yet another impact of globalization on our former cultural references... So, I'm now checking updating some photos, checking e-mails and wanting to listen to something different; time for a change...
I start to browse the Squeezebox web menu for the what music we have available. Unfortunately, since I've now got the system setup on a Linux workstation, I've not yet quite figured out how to get the library to be recognized like it was under Window$.
So, that means I have to browse the music folder for the CDs we have. I've organized our CDs by artist - alphabetic order. First page pops up and Captain Beefheart catches my eye. I have Trout Mask Replica. If there was ever a Captain Beefheart album to have, it's this one. Just ask Roger.
Anyway, I put this on and continued reading e-mails and getting photos in order. And then it happened. It slipped out of the air, into my ears and struck my brain. It was clear. If there was ever a place where this music "fit in" (if Captain Beefheart can fit in anywhere) it would be here - in Delhi. I can't explain it. I just know it. Like a philosopher who proves that a concept is innate, a priori, I know Captain Beefheart was made for Delhi.
Kathmandu is a much cooler place than Delhi. Even though it is raining, I'm immediately attracted by the cooler temperature, the more human scale of things (only 3m people vs 16m for Delhi). The buildings are quainter. I have not yet seen one person urinate in public - and I've been here for three days. There appear to be lots of quaint little shops scattered here and there. And... The surrounding mountains (even through largely blocked by clouds) look inviting. Such in the initial impression of Kathmandu.
After three days, I ready to leave. Student protests are planned for the day of departure. We had planned on leaving shortly after noontime; however, our colleagues listening to the radio confirm that the altercations between student groups are heating up and it is decided best to leave for the airport as soon as possible...
We leave the safety of the office compound and we find police at intersections with rifles and canes. We move on further and the road is "blocked" with tires burning in the streets. There are lots of people in the streets - many with bandanas covering their faces; some are menacing passers-by and vehicules with rocks and bottles with an unspecified clear liquid inside.
We're in a convoy of three vehicules heading out of the center of town towards the airport - the most barricaded route. This is the big "au revoir" from Kathmandu.
As I see a rock hurrled at the lead vehicule, I'm hoping that we get out of the city without incident.
I'm also hoping that the flight to Delhi is not cancelled; otherwise we may have to return on the same route back to the hotel in the city-center to stay the night until we can take the next day flight.
At last in the safety of the airport, we wait... Flight delayed... Finally... we board... we take-off...
Being in a new environment gives a certain space for reflection and discovery. After almost two weeks in Delhi and I am now sure of :
1) my deep appreciation of the lady or gentleman who invented toilet paper; 2) I want to buy a 4x4 with good suspension; 3) why Western society is losing its "brain work" to outsourced contracts in India; 4) that 30°C can actually feel cool
Toilet paper. In the Western world we take it for granted; we look at the fine points such as whether it's three ply or four ply or two ply; whether it's scented or unscented; new or recycled. But I can assure you, all of these are moot points when you are faced with a bathroom in an Indian civil service building and a desperate need for Imodium.
Let's just say that I was doing pretty well for the first week or so since arriving in Delhi. But last weekend I became a little more adventurous: I went out to a popular and well reputed restaurant in the Defense Colony market; and, I also started drinking water not out of a bottle but processed through a reverse osmosis machine. Whether it was the restaurant, the machine, or just that I ran out of luck, the infamous "Delhi belly" came on in full form.
That would not have been so bad, in principle, had it not been for the fact that I had a meeting in a ministry office and no more than 15 minutes into the meeting I had to excuse myself. While being escorted to the bathroom I received a somewhat apologetical somewhat informational brief to newcomers -- that the standards of the facilities were indeed subpar.
Now, I don't know about you, but subpar means one ply toilet paper. Subpar means it smells bad. Subpar means means it's dirty. Subpar means it has the dreaded North African/French toilets (i.e. the white porcelain whole in the ground with no seat -- I still not sure how you use one of these especially when you have a business suit on). Subpar is like the outhouse I used during a camping trip in New Mexico. But subpar has nothing to do with what I discovered this morning.
To my surprise, the bathroom was clean, there were sinks with soap. There were urinals on one side and stalls on the other. I went to one of the stalls and open the door and found the toilet, a brush, and a smallish bucket sitting on the floor with a small spigot just above it. What I didn't find was toilet paper. I exited from the stall and went into the one adjacent. Same arrangement, North African toilet though; no TP. So, I went back into the original stall. I need not elaborate further.
I now know why certain cultures only eat with their left hands.
"No person should urinate here". These are the words plastered on a segment of wall leading to the Defense Colony market. Normally, I would've found that kind of kitsch. But at 48°C, urine takes on a different form. It becomes pungent (I do believe it's the first time I've used that word) it becomes noticeable -- very noticeable.
It's the second day of high temperatures and the effects of the heat seemed to be giving me a headache and a good dose of lethargy, so I've decided to try to stay at home most of the day.
Unfortunately, the cable company hasn't changed my subscription yet, so I'm still limited to Star Movies and HBO, CNN or some 10-20 local channels in Hindi, Punjabi or Tamil.
Well, after some four months of sitting on the fence about what kind of car to get, we finally bought our Ambi. Her name is "Betty" - short for "betty, betty good, Sir." You can figure it out.
