Friday, 28th May, 2010

A tourist’s guide to the Indian jungle.

Some say that Indian society has turned into a jungle since the British left in 1947. It’s a monkey eat monkey world. Well most tourists who stay briefly might not get enough of an insight to find out whether that is true or not, but they shouldn’t be disappointed, as there is a jungle in India that every visitor will discover immediately on arrival. The Indian road. Now there are 5 main species of animal in this jungle – the big 5 - that every traveller should be aware of before coming to India.

Let’s start with the langur monkeys. These are the taxi drivers who work for hotels and are the creatures that most tourists are likely to come across first. They’re the weary traveller’s ‘free transfer’ to and from the airport, and so have to work at all times of the day and night. The problem there is that they aren’t nocturnal and don’t appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. So be warned if you’ve got an early morning flight to catch. They’re liable to arrive late for a job that’s before 7am, if at all, as they appear to do as they please and all this seems even less acceptable when they turn up looking like they’ve slept in the car anyway. And if the car is their bed, then it’s a logical progression to have the side of the road as the bathroom. Therefore when nature calls, this species of taxi driver will just stop, get out and relieve themselves. They won’t even walk out of view or into the bushes. They’ll just do it right there, in front of you.

The langur monkey driver likes a drink, and has been known to turn up drunk if he’s picking you up after 10pm. At these times, when questioned on whether he’s fit to drive or not, he’ll put a hand on your shoulder, possibly to steady himself, look into one of your four eyes - usually the one in the middle of your nose - and tell you through breath that makes your head spin, that he’s only had a couple, my friend. He gets away with this behaviour because after 10pm, a remote small Indian town, with its dirty handed beggars crowding round you pulling at your t-shirt while dogs on heat encircle you, can be slightly daunting.

Consequently, unless your taxi driver’s lying in the middle of the street, chanting some Hindi song extremely loudly with a bottle of strong homemade Mahua in one hand, and a wine soaked piece of paper with your name scrawled on it in the other, then you’re very likely to get into his car with no complaints just to hightail it out of there as quickly as possible.

What’s characteristic about this type of monkey is that it has big balls. So even after he’s turned up drunk to pick you up, don’t be surprised if he tries to get you to hire him for the day with the promise of taking you round all the sights at a very cheap price.

The taxi drivers that swing from street to street waiting for tourists to hire them are the macaques of the road jungle. Be careful around these mammals because they’re known for their nasty bite. This can come in the form of an extortionate price that you need to haggle down to an eighth of the one they’re suggesting. Or fleas. These fleas jump out from the clothes of the gentleman sleeping in the back of their cab, who they shoo out when they get a job. Another reason to be wary around the macaque taxi driver is that he isn’t afraid to f*** you up the ass. Be prepared to resist his price of 5,000 rupees for taking you 5 minutes down the road.

What’s particular to this species is that they’ve learnt English, and use their bilingual skills to emotionally blackmail you into giving them a big tip. They’ll look at you sadly with their big brown eyes and tell you how little money they receive as a macaque taxi driver, yet need to feed their family of 6 children, 1 wife and 2 mothers. Their rehearsed conversation usually starts with a ‘So which country are you from?’ knowing full well that you’re, English, American or Australian. When you answer, ‘England, London’, they pounce on you and chatter excitedly about how rich a ‘country’ London is.

Higher up the food chain are the drivers of the air-conditioned people carriers that you can book through the many local and independent Indian travel agents online. They’re the ones who take you miles and miles across the Indian highways, up-down-and-almost-sideways, and no-ways, to reach remote places that haven’t been made part of the railway network yet. These are the tigers. Majestic at the wheel and unfazed by anything, the tiger makes light work of the harshest terrain on the planet, that is, the Indian road. He’s the king of it, devouring anything that gets in his way and deftly avoiding danger such as potholes, sliding into ditches and unexplained traffic jams.

He’s quietly aggressive when the road becomes menacing, never emitting as much as a low growl when faced with a fallen down bridge or an oncoming lorry on a single lane of tarmac, tyre puncturing rocks and stones on either side. He remains totally focused on the road ahead, his eyes fixed, shining in the dark. This means he never speaks or makes conversation, but doesn’t mind listening to a bit of music - as long as it’s Hindi. In fact, this species of driver doesn’t speak much English at all, yet curiously, when driving through the bandit country of Bihar, he’ll surprise you with the well-spoken command of ‘Lock your doors.’ So although in the wussy-powered people-carrier there may be no tiger in the tank, there’s definitely one behind the wheel.

Now we come to the most infamous inhabitant of the Indian road jungle. The tuk tuk driver. He’s the hyena, hanging out in a pack, scavenging for tourists around every station, sight and ‘5 star’ hotel. Or simply curb crawling down the street after you. He has no shame, and uses this to his advantage when telling you his price to take you to B, which is in fact, only a few metres away. But because he drives around the block a couple of times before dropping you off, you’re none the wiser and pay him his laughable price. Therefore before taking a ride with one of these hyenas, make sure you’ve got a map with you indicating how far away B actually is. Although on the positive side, he’s a bit of a coward, and when challenged he’ll completely back down and take you where you want to go for practically nothing.

He loves to talk about himself and emits a high-pitched laugh at most things he says, if only to ingratiate himself to you. Always foraging for a tip, he’ll almost kill himself and you to get a good one. So never say you’re in a hurry to get to the station, because he really will put his foot down on that accelerator with a haunting laugh that you’ll never forget, if you get to live to remember it.

Then, at the bottom of the food chain and budget scale is the bicycle rickshaw driver. He’s the buffalo of the road jungle, but doesn’t look like one at first glance. No, his appearance is more of a scrawny, fragile gazelle. This means when he tries to undercut the tuk tuk guy with his, ‘I’ll take you all for 3 rupees!’ you look at his staring, vacant eyes with pity and politely decline. Yet when you see one pulling three obese Americans and all their oversized luggage up the hill without breaking a sweat, you gain a great deal of respect for this humble creature.

So remember to have your wits about you as soon as you leave the airport, as the Indian road jungle is awaiting you, with all its weird and wonderful creatures, who’ll try and tear as much flesh off you as possible, so they gain enough energy to get the hell out of there themselves.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

When I worked from home on Tuesday, I entered an altered state. I was half in the world of work, and half in holidayland. But actually in neither. I was in limbo. A place where my mind could float. Like a ghost that belongs nowhere, so can just drift aimlessly as it waits to be summoned to God’s office for its appraisal. Here in this limbo, I was susceptible to idle thoughts, ones out of the office and which no one could catch on my mobile or Blackberry.

I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.

The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.

Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.

Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.

From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.