If you gotta go

I decide, rather than risking getting back too late for my flight,that I would leave this little corner of french colonial India early, so was awake at 7:00 and on the 7:30 bus  heading back to Chennai. I began to realise that, having listened to the blowing of horns  for several hours, there is yet another Indian language - that used by bus drivers - it’s called “honki”:

A primitive language based on fundamental sounds:

1 short honk     =  I’m behind you and would like to pass

2 short honks    = I’m getting closer and coming through

3 short honks    =  I’m right up your arse and will repeat  this until you shift

3 short honks and 1 long honk =   Just get out the BLOODY WAY
  ( there is a stronger version of this often heard in the Tamil region where the honks     
   are  reversed - it has a similar but more forceful meaning)

2 long honks =  I’m bigger than you and I’m going to knock you off the road

3 long honks =  As for 2 honks but only used as a last resort before deliberate collision

These translations of course only apply to the Bus-driver dialect. There are different dialects for taxis, scooters , trikshaws, and private vehicles, but this should give a basic understanding and provide one with the ability to get byon the roads of India

I’m beginning to ramble. So, these are my last few hours in India as I sit in the airport with plenty of time to write this. Not a typical environment actually - its cool, its quiet, its clean, its not even busy. How did I find India ?

India is a contradiction in itself. It has the ability to be annoying one minute and likeable the next. Its people can be so frustrating and yet so loveable. Sometimes you want to swear ( sometimes you do ) - the nodding head which really means “I don’t know what you’re saying but I will pretend I do” and the smile of shiny white teeth saying ” no problem ” and you stop and think -” No there isn’t really, is there ?”

 The mentality is different - the girl on the beach who could not understand why, even if she lowered her price to one rupee, I just did not want another sarong. The trikshaw cabbie who had never heard of my hotel , whose solution to his lack of knowledge was for me to buy a map, even though I was leaving in a few hours time. And of course our beloved bus-driver who really believes that by continually honking his horn the solid traffic in front of him will just part and let him through.

But on the other hand one thing that amazes me about the Indian culture is the way that, in spite of all the dirt, dust, and debris, they are always so particular about their standard of dress. The women, almost without fail in their beautiful and colourful saris, and even the men in smart pressed shirts.

One memory I will keep is the sight of couples and families strolling or sitting by the sea in the evening sun - very peacefully. This contradicts the scene in the cities where its nothing but organised chaos

So, India? Beautiful it isn’t, but fascinating it certainly is

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