Action-Man, 4 July, northern India
East now by bus from Delhi, we draw near the mountains. The Himalayas promise to be unlike anything I’ve seen before. Our bus driver is a hoot. Before we took off from Delhi, he wrapped a royal red seat cover around his throne and instructed us in a strained Indian voice. Then, he pulled out his Bedouin bag and fingered through some dusty tapes inside. All the hits, I’m sure. On his tray table he stacked them one by one. From there, he chooses them knowingly and pops them into the deck.
Mammoth-like, our bus rumbles through the streets, packed with people. Frequent ructions break out on board when hawkers climb on without paying. One boy flourishes a pail of cucumbers. Another boy auctions off an anatomy book. A third has fresh coconut slices.
The Indians make the most of their two-lane roads, turning them into three, four, even five lanes. Motorcycles and bicycle rickshaws squeeze through any open holes. Three-wheeled “autotaxis” nose in from intersecting lanes. Holy cows wander aimlessly, untouched.
Our driver has many horns. He uses the standard honk with mopedders and other small fish. Other toots come from buttons and wires below the wheel—general warnings to bigger trucks and jeeps. Sometimes I think he sounds them for fun; no one is near. It’s a kind of game. But then there’s the regal alarm siren. It is saved for passing in the opposite lane. Two oncoming buses bear down on each other, careening closer and closer, each roaring forth in a polyphonic spree. Then they swerve at the last second, clearing each other by centimeters.
We’re passing straw huts and fields of crops now. Shirtless children squat by the roadside. Cows bathe in muddy waters. Big brick kilns rise across the horizon. The hawkers persist.
Drew
Mammoth-like, our bus rumbles through the streets, packed with people. Frequent ructions break out on board when hawkers climb on without paying. One boy flourishes a pail of cucumbers. Another boy auctions off an anatomy book. A third has fresh coconut slices.
The Indians make the most of their two-lane roads, turning them into three, four, even five lanes. Motorcycles and bicycle rickshaws squeeze through any open holes. Three-wheeled “autotaxis” nose in from intersecting lanes. Holy cows wander aimlessly, untouched.
Our driver has many horns. He uses the standard honk with mopedders and other small fish. Other toots come from buttons and wires below the wheel—general warnings to bigger trucks and jeeps. Sometimes I think he sounds them for fun; no one is near. It’s a kind of game. But then there’s the regal alarm siren. It is saved for passing in the opposite lane. Two oncoming buses bear down on each other, careening closer and closer, each roaring forth in a polyphonic spree. Then they swerve at the last second, clearing each other by centimeters.
We’re passing straw huts and fields of crops now. Shirtless children squat by the roadside. Cows bathe in muddy waters. Big brick kilns rise across the horizon. The hawkers persist.
Drew
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