Horn OK Please

Last Friday while on a road trip up north towards Gujarat, I amused myself in the 6 hour long drive taking pictures of 'Horn OK Pleases' on trucks' butts on the express way.

One delightful characteristic of Indian trucks is its colourful paintings and adornments, paintings of Indian animal icons and other motifs - elephants, tortoise, kingfishers, lotus flowers, tristan, the 'Swastika' (not sure what they're called in India. Should find out), Indian national flag, patriotic slogans, and of course the ever delightful variations of 'Horn ok please' at the back.

Pretty trucks and generic cars apart, our car went past lofty mountains, sprawling townships, ducked through well-lit tunnels below the mountains, past bullock carts with high piling hay, past rubber trees, past black and brown cows grazing on the hills, past bald mountains, past abandoned constructions, past Shah Rukh Khan's bungalow on the hill top. A number of tolls, couple of checkpoints, road tax, a fine for not wearing seatbelt and a very righteous officer refusing a bribe ("We Gujaratis don't accept dirty Maharashtrian money!") later, we arrived in Silvassa, an independent union state inbetween Gujarat and Maharastra. My favourite cousins - the cows are in abundance in this town. They laze around in the middle of the busy roads, accustomed to crazy blares of horns and swirling dusts and gravels. What would India be without cows.

The countryside is not too different from the ones in Malaysia, except instead of wooden houses with zinc roofs on stilts, there are mud walls (don't know) and hay rooftops. And I can't get enough of seeing oxens ploughing the land. Antiquated, but nonetheless a rare sight nowadays, back when every drop of rice was cherished for the blood and sweat of the farmer and the toil of the ox under the master's whip, now less valued as emotionless machines take over to churn out massive amounts to our plates.

Small roads, leafy green trees, men and women carrying loads on their heads, walking skillfully alongside our car. We arrived in Daman beach just as darkness prevailed. Having a full round moon above our heads and night setting in, the tide is so low it is not visible even in the horizon. Yes, according to Mr. Suthar, this part of the beach has the highest tide difference in the world.

It is on this beach that I had a camel ride. Camel was there, sitting obediently with a string attached to it, held on the other end by its master. Seeing that night is here, there were few people on the beach. Having a no-supporting-trade-using-animals policy, I was content just getting close to Camel, display my utter compassion for all living beings and hoping it will in turn, be overwhelmed with so much love that it will mouth the words 'thank you', get up and whisk me away in its humps to a secret oasis in the desert. With a bit of apprehension, I extended my hand to touch its neck. When it didn't open its mouth and chew on my hand like a carrot, I went closer, landed on the tiny rough furry skin and it wiggled. Annoyed? Pleasurable? Mr. Suthar and my Chinese clients were encouraging me to go on a ride but I refused.

But then, I got on anyway.

Camel was there for a purpose, and the purpose was to be ridden and paid money to the owners. Had I boycotted it, it will not serve its sole purpose and would remain idle there on the beach. Possibly kneeling down with a string in the tight grasp of its owner for a few hours, it could get a bit of stretch on its legs. And perhaps some extra money on the owner's pocket would make him treat Camel better? This was what I thought.

It stretched its long hind legs, then got up on its front legs. It stood and I was high above the ground. My spectators were anxious about me secure on the seat as you'd have probably heard of the camel's notoriety for its jerky movements getting up. It walked 50 meters forward along the coast, then 50 meters back to the same spot where we started. So much for a good walk for Camel. It was held on a rope tightly and pulled to whichever direction the master wants it to go. In the end, I wasn't feeling that good about this charity to Camel's owner. Perhaps not giving support is still the best option.

Anyway, back to Horn OK Please. It is a driving courtesy, a safety measure, a motif of truck painting, a fun camera-clicking exercise, an example of Indian English, a phrase to say with heads shaking sideways in typical Indian fashion, a name of a restaurant, a title of a film, and also a Wikipedia entry:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horn_OK_Please

So, horn Ok please. Lets create a symphony of honking trucks in the express way. :)

Goat transportation

Mumbai

With regards to the recent carnage in Mumbai and the current slew of attention by the worldwide media, and upon seeing my current physical closeness to the scene tragedy, I thought I'd give my two-cents worth.

I was visiting Mumbai three days before the shootings took place. Then, Mumbai was having another lazy, bright, hot and awfully humid Sunday. In Colaba, the tourist and most expensive district in Mumbai, thousands gathered at the magnificent Gateway of India, a famous monument built to commemorate the arrival of a British General. Thousands flocked the attraction, braving the scroching. It is at this landmark we - Dine, Sarf and I - met up with Cris, intending to spend the day in Mumbai at a leisurely pace. Being the only newbie to Mumbai among the four, Sarf decided I should do some brief touristy sightseeing. I was excited to be among the tourists, clicking away with the camera, trying to avoid Indian sellers pushing balloons and drums at us.

Conveniently located right across, was the grand, glamorous Taj hotel. When it was pointed out to me by Sarf, a faint feeling of awe bobbed as my internal info storage system brought up evidence of having read somewhere, some time, the degree of glamour, affluence and power that the Taj Hotel in Mumbai embodies. When a smartly uniformed hotel staff by the road was wiping its plastic road barricades clean when litters cover pavements on the other side of the road, you know it is India's symbol of the rich and powerful. Eagerly I waded past peddlars and honking taxis and stepped foot on the polished, shining marble steps that led to the entrance of the grand hotel.

We were greeted by security paraphernalias and guards doing their bag-checking rounds and sensoring. This is no surprise as it is common in high-end places like shopping malls, supermarkets and hotels where the rich frequents to insist on security screenings. So there we were, utilising the waiting time at the queue to take pictures - making our presence marked at the hotel. There I was in the picture, at the plaque that would be splashed in blood and holed in bullet marks three days later.

Talk about impermance.

Indeed a porsch interior setting. Not gawkishly extravagant, but every cent invested in taste, class, elegance. I remember pausing in front of the pool and cafe, captured by the dreamlike colonial English decor - bright blue swimming pool surrounded by beautifully manicured bright pink roses that crawled upon white fences, and westerners in bathing suits in sunglasses, lying on white comfortable-looking pool benchers, basking under the sun. An idyllic scene from a film about to undertake a plot twist into the macabre - of gun-shots, shrilling screams, dead bodies splashed into the pool, tainting the blueness of the water with red - a film that will be aired on small screens worldwide. forced onto audiences' eyes.

I remember stopping by the hallway that led to haute cauture shops - LV, Fendi, Armani, gazing through a glass casing that shows a collage of black and white photographs of famous people. The VIPs that had walked into the Taj throughout the century, distinguished rock stars, Hollywood actors and politicians, presumably so famous that captions were unnecessary.






We were there, sitting on a heavy, sturdy antique bench, relishing the ambience exuded by the beautifully varnished mahogany of the walls, at the bottom of a spiral staircase with ornate railings illuminated by soft incandescence of a table lamp. Smiling. Enveloped by the elegance of the interior, frozen and safely preserved forever in the memory card.





We dined a block away from Cafe Leopold, in another similar western cafe which name I did not get hold of, us too hungry to walk the extra steps to the famed cafe. Outside, stalls selling accessories and clothes are lined across the whole stretch of shops, enticing the westerners that walked into the cafes. The food took a while to be served. It's Sunday, we were told, no one is expected to hurry.






Cris, me and Dine.













the Sunday morn scene inside the cafe







The main charm in Colaba lies in the stretches of old heritage buildings, unrenovated, and proudly looking old and even a little shabby. A charm that could only be present with the natural workings of Time, sans the interference of humans. They watched the city change, old buildings demolished while new buildings sprout. And now, they bear sad witness to bomb blasts and attacks, of mayhem and terror happening right across the road. Their grandfatherliness unable to soothe the panic and horror unfolding before their eyes.




As night approached, we set about to CST, the famous railway station in India. The pathways that led to the entrance were occupied by makeshift stalls selling cloths and shoes, the atmosphere reminding me of night markets. Huge electronic boards in flashy marathi words direct streams of people into the multiple platforms. Sensors were situated in all entrances. It was exactly the railway scene you would expect of India - throngs of people with their luggages, some sitting idly with eyes roaming about; some lying on the floor, hoping to catch a sleep while waiting to board a train, oblivious to the endless scurrying of people all around them, in all directions, in every speed, Indians and foreigners from all walks of life. The train station simply smelled of people, flavours of innocense and insuspicion that attracted gun-wielders seeking to tear the hearts of the world to pieces and replacing them with fear and terror.




That evening we spent on the beach at Marine Drive, watching Mumbaikars with families and friends spread across the vast sandy beach like a scene from Miami Beach albeit fully clothed. Cooling sea breezes, the setting sun, the pink and purple sky, the timid roll of the waves convey a certain gentleness of nature to the people of Mumbai. The city where flashy lights of buildings and highrises spread across the horizon, the view veiled by a fog that sits, taking over the night.



Never would it expect that miles across the other side of the ocean, vengeful hearts began its sail across, forever marking here their signs of hatred.

Marine Drive

The streams of people towards Haj Ali mosque

Dine and I inside the mosque, amidst crowds of devotees.

One great rip-off adventure

Part of the package of being in India or most developing countries is getting ripped off. And it doesn't help when you are timid like me.

As a foreigner in a developing country like India, rickshaw drivers and street vendors see you as dollar signs. You'd hand in the amount of money asked from you even though you know you're paying way beyond what is worth. But uncertainty holds you back, and at the insistence and goods already dumped and tied in a plastic bag, you feel compulsed to finish this whole process of buying. And the frowning and cursing and display of anger that comes with arguing price isn't very pleasant . Reluctantly you'd hand in the money, and then you hate yourself for not at least bargaining. Sometimes with the cordial manner and smiling face, you're never too sure. Until you see a lower price for the same good in an upper-class supermarket.

The feeling of being cheated, taken advantage of for being unfamiliar to your surroundings and reliant on people who know better. Unpleasant, utterly frustrating. Yet being as meek as a lamb who can only stutter a few baas while the wolf bares its sharp fangs at you, you can only scorn yourself for being so weak and helpless, unable to fend for yourself even if you know you are being robbed right in your face.

Being more well-off than these people, giving a few cents extra wouldn't strip you into poverty. So rather than beating yourself hard for that few cents, why not just shrug it off and take it as generosity on your part?

The annoying thing is, if only matters of principles are that easy.

It's painful not so much because of the few negligible extra cents or the fact of being taken advantage of, but the act of dishonesty and unscrupulousness that I'm perpetuating by giving in to the rip off. With this, they become more sure of themselves to find victims in other foreigners. But the worst thing would be the unfairness to sellers or rickshaw drivers with integrity. By giving in to rip offs, honest sellers and drivers would not have the incentive to maintain their values. Seeing their counterparts earn manifolds while they earn little just for the sake of sticking to principles isn't too encouraging. Charging by the actual price to foreigners would connote dumbness and naivety. In a poverty stricken place, finding a good honest heart is akin to finding gems.

"Metre. Metre" is what my colleagues and I always chant the first thing we approach the rickshaw driver. Some would speed off when the destination isn't worth following the metre. Some would sway their heads sideways to mutter a price to these foreigners who they have the inkling are not fresh out of the plane. We walk off until we find one that agrees to go by the metre.

It hasn't always been so difficult. There was the old thin softspoken driver who safely delivered us to our doorstep with the rate on the metre card. There was the driver that remained patient throughout the crazy peak hour traffic and went by the metre despite many frustrated exchange of horns in the battle of honking. There was the young driver who surprised us by saying 'Metre' as we were scouring in the middle of the night for a reasonable set price rickshaw ride from the train station to our home - a first time for my friend who has always had to pay more for a late night drive.

Toughness. That's what I have to cultivate. Don't be afraid to walk off when the price isn't right. Don't be afraid to put on the face of the fierce-looking Hindu gods.

Come on girl, for the sake of humanity and betterment of the world, put on some fangs and start biting.

Some pictures.

Love the sight of cows.

Healthy, clean looking sacred (?) cows on the steps toward Parvati Hill temple, a Hindu temple built in the 1700s during the Peshwa dynasty.

Brightly clad female students adding colours to the old and drab temple grounds.

Took this mural for its childlike depiction of the Hindu Lord Kartikeya...and also the fact that it's in English...

To view more pictures visit my Facebook! :)

This student who thought we were from China (student:"are you from China?" mom out of laziness to explain: "yes") wanted a picture with my mom while I volunteered myself in.

It was exam period and there were students studying in corners of the temple. ..to seek higher help I guess. Else it's the cool, serene atmosphere.

An Indian Chinese restaurant. The menu is quite chinese: fried wantons, spring rolls, hakka noodles, yangchou fried rice....and some

with added Indian elements: Szechuan paneers, Manchurian fried rice (where does that come from??). The decor is cliched-ly Chinese: red, chinese horoscopes, chinese paintings, chinese lanterns, chinese paper-cutting...you name it.

Toot goes the Rickshaw

Perpetual sounds of honking provides rhythm to flying dusts, launched into the air by the grazing of car tyres, autorickshaws, worn-out bikes, motorcars and pedestrians against the unpaved roads. Honking, roars of engines, and roadside chatters form a cacophony that greets the outsider every she goes. Stretches of shops, schools, offices, houses lined along the roads, looking run-down and unkempt, paint peeling off the walls and fading with its day-long exposure to the sun, thick with dusts. Slums lie along parts of the road, little rows of tiny huts inhabited by sari-clad mothers with babies, and dusty children sitting on the footpath, giving a wave to the visitor who stares curiously at them, forgetting all forms of civilised manners, wondering if she is seeing herself a feature of what the media and the world have always addressed about India - street children. She waves back. Not far ahead billboards, vivid advertisements, fancy modern shopping malls, hotels, multinational petrol kiosks flash their newness. Uniformed security guards unproficient in giving directions (in English, to be fair) stands outside buildings and malls, sophisticated ladies walk confidently about in expensive-looking sunglasses, clad in traditional dresses. Next to her, autorickshaws drive about in frenzy, snaking through Toyotas and lorris, honking at whatever objects that get in their way; while bicyclists pedal right next to them, leisurely in their own pace .

In smaller streets, cows stroll lazily by the roads, oblivious to the irritated motorists trying to squeeze past one another in narrow streets; little feral goats frolic about, scavenging by the roadside stalls, nibbling on food strewn on the ground, infested with flies, as well as finding food in little plants inbetween cracks of the shop walls. Right next to the road workers stand by the food shop, feasting on delicious-looking Indian food while their eyes dart about the scene around them, which at the moment rests curiously on the two fairer-skinned foreigners finding their ways around the uneven pavement, carefully trying to avoid stepping on cow dung, litters and spits dotted along the way. In main streets students in uniforms walk abreast on their way to school (or back?), girls in pigtails, blue chiffons and dark blue pinafores, knee-high socks; boys playing by the roadside, stopping while the two odd-looking yellow skinned ladies walk past them. Sellers push their carts at the side of the traffic, displaying their wares: clothes, fruits, older ladies walk in saris, carrying baskets of vegetables; occasionally the sidewalk is obstructed by a roadside stall, selling snacks that looks delightfully appetising to the foreign looker, but too afraid for her fragile stomach.

Three hours southwest of Mumbai, the cultural capital of Maharashtra, 'Oxford of the East'. This is Pune for me and my mom's first couple of days. A city nonchalant about its run-down, dusty state, and chaotic traffic, but proud of itself. Roadside litters, skinny stray dogs with swollen suckling nipples, dirty beggars, unscrupulous rickshaw drivers...

Unsightly it may be, poverty it may suggest, developing country it may exemplify. But we see poor only when we are used to the rich, we feel unsightly and uncivilised because we are too used to beauty and order. But if we don't and judgements don't exist, perhaps these does not matter. Perhaps these can be charm in its own right. As long as people are content and have no self-judgement of their own state as we interpret, life is interesting and fascinating.

Kacang putih (mixed nuts)...ah! The good old days in primary school

Cycle Society...the neighbourhood where I live

Our flat on the 2nd floor

The autorickshaw

kacang putih!!! Oh, those were the days in primary school