The Auto-podal Tow and Other Phenomena on Indian Roads

Updated 7 Dec 2008: Ashutosh Mehra, my friend from back in college, also blogged about autorickshaw antics in India, and you can see an actual picture of the autopodal tow in action.

After a week on Indian roads, I wonder:

1. That people are actually able to get anywhere at all, and
2. That I actually drove on these roads when I lived here.
   

Many Indian cities now have three lane roads — the right lane meant for use by two-wheelers like motorbikes, the middle lane for cars, and the left lane for trucks. Such traffic rules, of course, are blissfully ignored. In fact, two-wheelers occupy all three lanes of the road, drive on the sidewalks when possible, and squeeze in between larger vehicles at every opportunity. Cars and trucks, on the other hand, tend to straddle the line dividing two lanes.

Two-wheelers always make their way to the front of the traffic light at every intersection, like the vanguard of some randomly assembled army. Somehow, they always know when the light is going to turn green. Ironically, though, two seconds before the light turns green, these modern day cavaliers dash through the intersection, thereby making it a fatal strategy to try and rush through a yellow light in India.

Auto rickshaws, which are, as far as I know, a uniquely Indian mode of transportation, commit so many transgressions on Indian roads that the subject deserves its own library of work. But among the more entertaining of these is what I call the auto-podal tow, wherein the driver of one auto-rickshaw gets behind the rickshaw that needs a tow. He then sticks out his foot and pushes the other rickshaw forward, while driving his own. Significant distances are thus covered. This feat of supreme agility is performed with much nonchalance, while taking up as much width of the road as possible. Often, the drivers of the two auto rickshaws can be found engaged in conversation, oblivious to the honking of the other riders stuck behind their coupled vehicles.

In Chennai, the auto-rickshaws are equipped with fare meters, but not a one of the meters is actually used. Fares are agreed upon by the driver and the passengers beforehand. I read somewhere that auto-rickshaws have less power than a high-end lawnmower. That, by itself, may not seem significant, until you also know that a single auto-rickshaw is regularly used to transport up to five grown men, or a dozen schoolchildren, or the entire livestock of a small village.

Hiking the Sandwich Range in the White Mountains, NH

On Sunday (September 17, 2006), I bagged two peaks in the Sandwich Range: Mt. Whiteface and Mt. Passaconaway. Both are just over 4,000ft. and our loop around the two peaks was about 11.6mi. Here are some pictures:

Sandwich Range

Sep 19, 2006 - 15 Photos

Berkshire Camping Trip

I haven't posted in a while. I have been out most weekends, and last weekend was a particularly sweet one. I was out camping in the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts, and I went tubing for the first time. Tubing is pretty fucking sweet. I also saw the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO) in concert in Tanglewood (Lenox, MA). Check out pictures from the camping trip here:

Berkshire Camping Trip

Aug 8, 2006 - 17 Photos

Adventures with Brian Dean

Brian and I visited his parents' in upstate New York over the weekend. Upstate New York knows - Saratoga Springs in particular - knows how to party, let me tell you. Not many pictures from that time, sorry, since I was pretty hammered myself. But it was also a nice holiday, with a backyard pool, barbecue, and badminton games.

A week before that, I visited Brian's place in New Bedford, where he hosted a party. The next day, over very pleasant rum smoothies, I ripped some music from Brian's unterminably huge CD collection ...

Update: It appears that pictures of Brian that I posted here and on my Tabblo webpage are being misused. So, I am taking down all pictures of Brian and his family that I posted online. Brian, I really apologize for the inconvenience.

Viva la France!

Updated with better layout.

I finally got my fix of France. I visited Paris from May 10 through May 14. I stayed at a youth hostel in the lively Montmartre district. A few blocks from my hostel is the seedy red light district of Pigalle, with the legendary cabaret: Moulin Rouge, and about a thousand sex shops. With some guys I met at the hostel, I ventured out to Pigalle every night of my stay, and took in the sights, smells and sounds, among them a million hookers, and the Museum of the Erotic -- which turned out to simply be a very, very big sex shop, with inhouse hookers. If nothing else, I had some fine pastry in one of the boulangeries, which are inexplicably numerous in Pigalle. Sex and pastry go well together, apparently...

Arun (seen here at the Arc de Triomphe), who goes to school close to Stuttgart, kindly flew out to Paris for the duration of my visit, so I had good company. Arun and I went to Versailles, which turned out to be a pretty unremarkable visit.

I was initially a bit intimidated as I had heard of how Parisians are famously derisive of people who don't speak French. Dom had told me of his French experience: he was in Paris for a total of 10 minutes and he managed to get punched in the face by a Frenchman, apparently for cutting a line at the airport. After the first two nights, I was beginning to feel right at home in Paris, riding the Metro like a pro, ordering at restaurants, and using my French vocabulary of about 5 words (fromage, merde, parlay, vous, anglais) with great flourish; it was all cool. Then, I stepped on this guy's toes in a crowded Metro train, and bam--he punched me in the back. So much for the friendliness. Luckily he got off soon enough, and it didn't turn any uglier.

Shashanka (seen here at the Eiffel tower with others from the hostel), who was also in Paris for a conference, connected with us in the evenings. We visited the usual tourist destinations: the Eiffel tower (spectacular), the Arc de Triomphe (imagine Delhi's India Gate, only bigger), the Notre Dame (yet another church), the Louvre (more art than you want, notwithstanding the Mona Lisa), among them. We also tried the local cuisine (French Onion Soup, roast duck, poulet roti etc.), although it was virtually impossible to get any service from the highly incompetent waiters at the cafes in Paris. The lazy bastards know they have crazy job security, and they work as little as possible.

The Eiffel Tower, in black and white. Quite easily the single most spectacular thing I have seen. Courtesy my Canon Powershot S2 IS.

Finally, my hostel. The most favorable thing I can say about it is that it had character. I booked a 3-bed dorm online, but I was assigned to a 6-bed dorm, which was about the size of a matchbox. The shower was basically a hole up in the wall from which water trickled, if it felt like it. The upper bunk beds were so creaky and loosely made that just breathing while lying down on them made them swing like Frankie Manning. Room service lost my towel on the first day. Lesson learned: never take a towel the same color as the hotel towels. In summary, if you are going to stay in Paris, the pompously named le Village is not the best option for you. On the upside, the other 5 occupants of my room were these winsome British girls who didn't think anything of changing in front of me. Not that I complained.

If You're Thinking of Flying (Economy), Think Again

Judging from the last few posts, it seems like my blogging instincts are best triggered when I travel. I am starting to write this on my flight to India. Just a few hours back, I stepped onto the plane in Boston and took one of the cramped seats in economy with no legroom, with armrests that wouldn't move. As I strapped my seat belt on, I had ominous visions of being strapped on to an electric chair. Why, it soon became clear.

I had developed a cold yesterday. Now, this cold was the kind that gives you a running nose: a nose that runs more copiously than the Nile. I purchased three Kleenex packs, and sure enough, by half the flight, I had run through two of them. This cold was also the kind that gives you headaches and body-aches. Add that type of thing when you are trapped in a seat and can barely move, and the results are lethal: in fact, Guantanamo would be a breeze after this. If you want your terrorist to talk, expose him to common cold, strap him onto one of the economy seats on an international flight, and let him fly for, may be, two days. See if he doesn't spill his guts out.

I started feeling feverish after a while. I feared I might have contracted the bird-flu. As I fitfully slept, I had nightmares of waking up and coughing and spraying blood and viruses all over the other passengers, and then being quarantined in Amsterdam. I also realized I had to take a crap. Blame it on my stern upbringing, or call me stuck-up (as it were), but I am one of those squeamish folks who simply can't go in an airplane. So, in addition to my already nightmarish situation, I was now constipated. Just peachy.

Flying to India is like the journey of Moses and his people to the land of Canaan. Its long, arduous, and a great test of resilience. The Jews at least had their manna from heaven. All I got was undercooked schezuan chicken. My flight schedule looked like this: 8-hr flight to Amsterdam from Boston, 3-hr stopover; an 8-hr flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, and then a stopover for 6.5-hrs; finally, a 2-hr flight to Bangalore. That's over 26 hours in transit.

Having reached Amsterdam without actually dying, or killing other people with my bird-flu virus, I was feeling a tiny bit better. Optimistic even, that with the worst behind me, I would make it. But my heart sank to the floor as I entered the KLM flight to Mumbai. The legions of seats were even more cramped than those on my earlier flight, if that were possible. It's like KLM decided to treat people flying to India (which translates to: Indians, mostly) a bit differently on their flights. The earlier flight at least had individual TV screens. The "in-flight entertainment" on this plane, however, consisted of images beamed onto the wall in front of the first rows of seats from a projector. What are we, in the 70's? Why this disparity, I ask the airlines.

I was feeling slighted (by the conditions on the plane), and debilitated (by the cold). Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, my ear, which was acting up because of the cold, started hurting as the plane changed altitudes. This was not the dull, throbbing pain I very rarely get when I have problems with air pressure at higher altitudes. This was like someone took a screwdriver and inserted it into my right ear to see how far it would go. Within minutes, involuntary tears were running down my face. I felt this urge to unbuckle myself, and storm out of the plane. Just as I reached the limits of my tolerance to pain, the hurting stopped. I collapsed, as much as that was possible, back into my seat, and almost passed out. I then slept -- long and hard. I woke up and was deaf in the right ear. As I write this, hearing has still not returned to my right ear.

As we approached Mumbai, I suddenly started feeling a sense of camaraderie with my fellow travelers: we had made it together! Then, I realized: it was not all over yet. I had the return journey in a couple of weeks. Best not to think of it until I had to experience yet. If I have my way, I will never again fly. At least, not economy.

Oh, Canada

Its been a while since I last blogged. Not that I have a dedicated readership that's waiting with bated breath for my next post. It seems like my posting frequency has somehow found a happy equilibrium: a post a month. That suits me fine.

I am currently sitting at Boston's Logan International Airport, waiting to go to Ottawa, Canada, where I have my visa interview on Monday. The plan is to hang in Montreal, Canada over the weekend. By all accounts, Montreal is the bomb. An airline attendant at Logan said its a "Paris of sorts... except for the Eiffel Tower". Well, I'm going to find out first hand. I am looking forward to have fun in Montreal, but the weather up there is not exactly balmy. Its going to stay around -18C all through my stay.

If you have been following the news at all, you have heard about Muslims getting up in arms about cartoons that don't exactly depict the Prophet Muhammed as the Messaiah. Now, being an atheist who hates religions in general, that doesn't bother me in the slightest bit. The way I see it, free speech means exactly that: Freedom to criticize another religion. This criticism can be expressed in any manner: satire, performance art, or whatever else, as long as you don't hurt another person physically.

I read that Tony Blair (and other world readers) is (are) considering outlawing the criticism of all religions. Not only is that a kneejerk reaction, it is also plain wrong. What about people like me who are not only not religious, but also hate religion? I'd rather like to see people escape the clutches of what Karl Marx called the "opiate of the masses", what Rob Heinlein called an "outdated concept" (that's religion, for the slower ones among you). With this in mind, I fully support the Danish cartoonists' right to create those cartoons, although I might not agree with the content of those cartoons.

Religion is something I have always strongly felt about. I continue to be amazed by the irrationality of a mankind that believes in a concept that is utterly unprovable. Its quite a remarkable feat for religious institutions to have sustained, and even enhanced the power and influence of the god-machine. In my most virulent mood, I'd say that God is a weight tied around your neck, a ghost from the fog of ancient history, a bogeyman, if you will. In its existence, the burgeoning institution of religion has produced more book-burning Savonarolas ¹ than Mendels; more Crusades and Inquisitions than Renaissances.

Update #1: I am at the Montreal train station, waiting to get back to Ottawa. I now realize why the airline attendant in Boston who I mentioned earlier called Montreal a "Paris of sorts". Its because everybody speaks French, and French only. Its like I was in fucking Europe. Which I don't mind so much, as the language barrier. And the Cold. Man, was it cold! After 10 min. out in -15 C, my finger tips went numb beneath the new gloves which I paid CAD $12 for. After half an hour, I couldn't feel my nose. My legs were frigid under my jeans long since.

Luckily, old Montreal had an underground "city" of sorts. There are shopping complexes, restaurants, and even a fountain that shoots up a spout of water 50 feet high, all underground. Pretty cool. I'd take any respite from the cold. The fountain was a bonus. And the girls were real pretty.

I am a bit tense about the visa interview tomorrow. Pretty much everyone I know has had no problems with it, and I have the required documentation. I even bought a pair of pants from Kenneth Cole for CAD $100. But if by any chance I don't get the visa, I can't get back to the US. I will have to return to India, book another interview, and enter the US only if that interview is successful. So, that's a bit heavy.

Update # 2: The visa interview turned out to be a fucking anticlimax. I got the visa, no problem. I am finally on my way back to the US, after what turned into a mini-vacation in Canada. While in Ottawa, I did another thing that I can add to a very short list of achievements I am proud of: I ice-skated on the world's longest ice-rink. This is an 8 km monster of an ice-rink right in the center of the city. I wanted to do some downhill skiing/snowboarding here, but with the recent snowstorm in Boston and the rest of the Northeast, I shouldn't have a problem doing it once I reach home. Yep, this weekend is for that. Come rain, snow or sunshine. Actually, sunshine would be good.

Update #3: I'm chilling at home.

The Orwellian Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, had the balls to exhort people to use non-traditional media to fight terror. This, from a man who doesn't even use email. America, good luck with the already dubious "war" on terror, with this guy in charge.

¹Regular readers note my obsession with Savonarola.

On Florida. And some currents.

My words of wisdom to my cousin, who bought his first Macintosh, the 14" iBook: "Once you go Mac, you never go back".

My cousin and I are strolling down this seaside mall/entertainment center in Tampa, and we see a couple of men of Latino descent hauling a big stereo system by hand, across the road. What do we do? We get all suspicious that they stole it. And what do we call it? 'Stereo'-typing.

Later, I am waiting for my return flight to Boston from Tampa. I am pleasantly surprised to see Tampa International offer free wireless access to waiting passengers who otherwise sit in their multitudes at airports across the world, staring vacantly into space, like they're on a big hit.

But then, the homepage for Tampa International Airport opens up, and prominently displays the highly Orwellian Homeland Security threat level, which has constantly been set at Elevated -- like a pressure cooker that is on the edge of blowing up, but doesn't.

On the plane, I have the window seat. A lady from Madrid, Spain, is sitting next to me. She talks non-stop with me all through the flight -- 3 hours. By itself, this wouldn't be so bad (she was around 30, but kinda hot), if she wasn't also married, and if her husband wasn't also sitting in the middle row across the aisle. Said husband is worried I am making a move on the wife (I'd have tried to, if she wasn't married, or if the husband wasn't on the plane), so he keeps looking back at us every five minutes, making me uncomfortable. The wife is oblivious to this. Oh, and she is loud.

Our plane is flown by Captain Carlos. That cracks me up for some reason. Captain Carlos!

My two latest...

TV Shows	Scrubs (NBC), Season 1
	Entourage (HBO), Season 2
Books	Silmarillion (Tolkien)
	Tales of Discworld (Pratchett)
Songs	Hey Nineteen (Steely Dan)
	New York, New York (Frank Sinatra)
Movies	Bonnie & Clyde (1967)
	Brokeback Mountain (2005)