Over The Counter Culture

Before we left, despite common warnings of dodgy road behaviour I still wouldn’t have expected that three weeks into our trip Indian driving would still shock, amaze, irritate and draw expletives from us – that it still does so ought to impress on you just how shite, mad and totally idiotic it really gets.

It would be harsh to criticise road surface quality in a country as large, poor and cattle-infested as India, especially when as a group we’ve not always been on the major touristic circuits. And yet, after two days riding on Indian roads, it shocks me that nobody is doing anything about loose gravel left lying around on sharp corners after roadworks. I managed to spin out and deck my pissy little scooter (escaping with barely a scratch, thankfully) going out wide on a blind right-hander for precisely that reason.

Why take it wide? will ask road veterans. You idiot, if you’d taken a ‘racing line’ you’d have been fine! they might protest. Why not keep your speed down? all very valid objections in a country where the Highway Code isn’t rarer in bookstores than tourist-aimed copies of the Kama Sutra. But in India, corners are viewed the same way Lewis Hamilton views corners at Brands Hatch – the perfect overtaking opportunity, especially if you’re not keeping up ‘the pace’.

The same is true of junctions – even if he wants to take the next left, the average Indian driver will still pass whoever is in front of him. This completed, he will proceed to slam on the brakes (causing all traffic behind him to slow to his selected turning-off speed, piling up), honk and veer left. The honk *is* the indicator.

Having not actually gained any time with the overtake (and slowed everyone in the process), you might think this demonstrates totally careless, thoughtless driving. Not so. Indian driving is, I believe, very thought-intensive. It is a an exercise in anticipation, in second guessing, and in deciphering the meaning of the universal, ceaseless and much adored horn honk. Do not forget that road names and directions are so rarely indicated there, that the average Indian driver is necessarily distracted from his driving by having to navigate using sextants and the North Star.

But it’s largely hypocritical of me to chide the Indians on their driving when twice now we’ve rented bikes (150 rupees/day, roughly 1 quid 50 – half the price of a standard UK pint of lager) and thrashed the hell out of them on- and off-road before slinking back to the owner having given them a spitshine, rinsed off the sand, dirt and animal fecal matter, and bent back the metal rollbars, praying for it to bear them on their investigative test ride without the treacherous engine splutter that would betray six hours of mechanical abuse.

That said, nothing beats the feel of water planing off the soles of your feet as you bomb down a remote Goa beach, racing a retreating wave wearing nothing but boardshorts, your still-wet hair adding its drips to the spray kicking up off your overpowered scooter’s puny wheels. Not something I would ever do to any machine I owned, of course – the dune ride down to the beach alone was a punishing, abrasive affair, but let us not even consider what the saltwater-wet sand combo will do to the poor motor!

+ Special props to Katie, who got over her pre-ride anxiety to ride like Rossi and land later in the pub the most vocal of all of us in her requests for a repeat experience!

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This entry was posted on Sunday, September 21st, 2008 at 6:04 pm and is filed under Lifestream. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.