PUSHKAR, India (Sept. 6, 2008) -- Not talking about how horns are used while driving in this country would be like discussing sailing without a mention of the sails.
The horn is used here in three main ways. The first is too hold it down when you want someone to get out of the way. The second is to blare the horn as a signal to the vehicle you are passing to let them know that you are coming along the side and they should not drift over and send you crashing into a cow. The third is my favorite. This blasting of the horn is employed when two cars are heading toward each other at a high rate of speed on the highway. The horn is basically saying, "One of us better mover or we're both dead."
Of course, both cars are using their horn at the same time. On the back of most of the large "Tata trucks" that are the equivalent of semi-trucks in America are painted signs saying "Horn Please." Meaning blow your horn when passing so I know you are there.
A rascal with a can of spray paint and lots of time could make the roads of India much more humorous with a carefully placed y, a comma between the words and then a question mark at the end.
Yes, I've spent too much time driving around India. But I've also spent the rest of the time trying to keep hawkers off me. These guys usually have a service like being a guide or they are trying to sell books or trinkets. To keep things entertaining for me, I've started answering their standard questions (where you from? what's your name?) with fake answers. "I'm from Borneo," I told a guy at one shop. He was obviously confused. "Ah, Borneo. Nice country."
For names, I've so far employed the names used by the group Outkast, including Lucious Leftfoot, Andre 3000 and Billy Ocean. They don't seem to get the joke, but it puts smile on my face.
One of the stranger run-ins I've had with a native happened in the Amber Palace in Jaipur. I was wandering around this maze of rooms, enjoying the tales I was imagining that explained rooms in the palace since I'm sick of paying for guides who I'm pretty sure are doing the same thing. Also, I can barely understand them.
So I walk into one room and there's this Indian women in a blood red sari standing there in the doorway. She has a large bowl filled with dirt balancing on her head since she is one of the women working on renovations to the palace. She motions for me to take her picture. I know she's going to ask for money afterward, but I've been trying to get a shot of one of these mysterious women in full dress for days now.
I take the picture and hand her 10 rupees. Not a lot, but for the work involved I thought it was fair."Fifty rupees," she whispers harshly. She has a wicked smile on her face. "Fifty rupees."
I suddenly think about this poem -- maybe by Kipling -- about how British soldiers back in the day in Afghanistan would shoot themselves dead when they were injured and the Afghan women would come shuffling over, ready to make their last moments not fun at all.
"That's all I have," I say to her. I then walk out of the room. She follows along for a minute and I'm realizing how lost I am in this maze of a palace and how all the tourists have disappeared. In a panic, I turnaround when she's behind a wall head quickly for the exit.
Things, I should say, have improved since leaving Delhi and Agra a few days ago. I've a new strategy for being stern with the touts and a mentality that assumes that everyone is lying to me until I find otherwise. Like my driver Kula said, "No friends in India. Only money."
This was quite a change from my mentality while traveling around Europe where I was focused on being the humble American and open to most of the people I met.
But I suppose that's why travel makes a person find news ways of thinking. That said, it'll be nice to go back to the normal way of thinking once this adventure is finished.
Finally, an update. I was in Bundi for several enjoyable days that were partly filled with playing Indian Jones in the Temple of Doom movie as me and a guide hiked around a couple of abandoned palaces that overlook the town which is mostly painted blue. We both had these long staffs for beating on the ground to warn the hundreds of monkeys on the hill that we were coming and also, worst case scenario, fend off the moneys. We only used them for the first purpose, thankfully. And then I was in Jaipur for two days.
The much lauded Pink City was less than stellar; basically it was like the rest of the city and the rest of the large cities in India, only with light orange paint slapped on the buildings. The City Palace was cool, however.
Ok, I just arrived here and am off to do some exploring. From here it's on to Ajmer where I leave the driver (or he leaves me?) and I continue on my route via train. I'll be heading down to Udaipur, then over to Jaisalmer for an overnight camel trek, then a stop in Bikaner before it's back to smelly Delhi where my beloved Air France plane will be waiting to take me back home.
I will write again in a few days. Hope all is well with everyone. Have a good weekend and take care,
Brett
