At the Intersection

Well folks, it’s been a long time since we rock n rolled.

I must say I’m embarrassed, not having communicated with you all in such a long time. I have no real excuse, except that, for a while, I really felt like I had nothing new and exciting to write about. My sister remarked the same thing in her last email home from Africa. I know I see a thousand interesting things every day, but after awhile everything becomes commonplace. It’s amazing how fast we adapt to things. Anyway, with this in mind, a few weeks ago, I jotted down everything that happens at a traffic intersection here that would be different at home. I figured this would get right to the root of the problem and force me to write about something I see everyday. So, here we go.

Let’s try to transpose you inside a Honda Civic sedan, sitting in line at a large intersection. The light is red. The first thing you might notice, is that the idea of one car per lane is considered an extreme waste of space. Where we might have three cars abreast, you could safely estimate at least four or five here, with a bunch of motorcycles and a few motor-rickshaws squeezed in. Anytime there is a slight space, cars manoeuvre to squeeze into it.

As you wait, motorcycles will gradually weave their way through to the front where they will have a head start on being overtaken again by the cars behind them… until they get to the next intersection. (The unending cycle of cycles, I like to call it). People here will carry just about anything on a motorcycle. I’ve seen up to five people on one small bike, but admittedly a few were children. I’ve seen computers, lawnmowers, belt-sanders, and large panes of glass, all being carried on motorcycles. Carrying large panes of glass on a motorcycle is actually quite efficient, since normally, to break a pane of glass in a comic fashion, it takes two workers in overalls carrying the glass, and two guys on a motorcycle to crash through it… this cuts out the middlemen.

Next, the environmentally conscious among us will notice the haze. The gathering of all strata of the automotive hierarchy at a large intersection makes the concept of “emission control” seem about as helpful as pissing on a brush fire. Busses belch more smoke than an unemployed fire-eater, and combined with the fact that many vehicles are older than I am, the entire scene often looks like someone has gone over it with a number two pencil.

Traffic circles are very common at large intersections. They are generally known over here as “roundabouts” which is British for “Round-a-bout now, you’d better fend for yourself.” We don’t have many in Canada, but they are certainly necessary here, since there could easily be at least eight roads leading into one intersection. If the roundabout has no traffic lights, then you just enter the circle and generally allow those already in the circle the right of way. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work, often those rights are denied. However, even if there are traffic lights to follow, they are moreso guidelines, kind of like the pirate’s code. For every green light, you have to wait for the last ten cars that tag on to the end of the opposite stream of cars so they can run the red. It’s like living in that old joke where the cab driver justifies running all the red lights because his brother does it, but then stops for the greens because his brother might be coming the other way.

If it’s a long light, you will soon be accosted by any number of, let’s call them intersection entrepreneurs. Believe me, after awhile, you will be nostalgic for squeegee kids back home. The variety of wares being peddled window to window is staggering. You might be offered newspapers, yards of fabric, inflatable toys, balloons, coconut slices or whole bouquets of flowers. Once in a while, you might get a grubby looking guy, with a grubby looking monkey, that will do tricks for you on the hood of your car (the monkey, not the guy). You pay for this entertainment of course, but most consider it a better plan to buy some bananas for the monkey, since who knows where the money goes. One of the strangest schemes involves guys that come along with small birds trapped in a net, which you then pay for the privilege of freeing. I’m told this caters to an element of Islam that states that you will be looked upon favourably in heaven if you free animals from captivity. But this seems a little out of joint if you ask me. Those guys had to capture the birds in the first place, so that you can free them. Cut out the middleman, and you’ve got no bird business. Although, I have also heard that the released birds fly right back to the same tree and are captured again. So this makes it more like renting the bird’s freedom (similar to how it sometimes feels like you are “Renting “the draught beer at a dodgy pub). Nevertheless, I have watched this go on with somewhat disgusted interest for a while, but I still am no closer to discovering why the caged bird sings.

And, of course, we haven’t even come to the beggars yet. Persistency is the name of the game here. Women with their tiny babies walk from car to car, rapping on the window to try to force eye contact. I am usually intensely glad that I have no idea what they are saying. Old men with canes and crutches make their way through the throngs of cars with amazing dexterity. Physical deformities are presumably a blessing to the intersection beggar, because you see any manner of unsettling sights. I won’t go into any efforts to describe them. But there is a man at one intersection that I pass nearly everyday, whose leg is amputated just below the knee, and I’m sorry, but every single time I see him sitting on the sidewalk, for a split second, I think he is dangling his leg through a hole in the pavement. I have adapted the stone-faced forward stare in answer to all supplication, moreso because I can’t bear to look. I’m such a softy. I remember one time in Toronto, I gave some change to a guy, and he was friendly enough, so I asked him why he asked me out of everyone there. He said it was in my eyes; I took to wearing sunglasses.

But to get back to the intersection, interestingly, there is an amber light not just before the red, but also before the green. This allows everyone adequate time to start honking their horns. The noise is quite amazing. You’ve got all the normal horn noises, but some busses and trucks have customized sirens, whistles and even the old Model T type (that can only be expressed onomatopoeically as “Ka-Hoogha”). Add to this, that rickshaw drivers remove their mufflers to save on gas, tanker trucks sit alongside braying donkeys and camels pulling carts, and you’ve got yourself quite a racket.

In general, the only rule of the road that is universally applicable is “proceed with caution.” You never know when a pedestrian will cross the road at random, or when someone will be zipping up beside you, or cutting in front, or slamming on the brakes to avoid ten guys pushing a bus. Then, you also have to watch for manholes with no covers, and other such hazards, which are often conveniently marked by a large cement block. This is helpful, since you can then smash into a huge rock before you drop your axle into a hole. There are plenty of accidents, but they are usually fender-benders. Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of spectacular crashes, but because you can never get up the speed that we maintain on our highways, the accidents seem less severe. So don’t get me to try and wager which system is better. I bet we have more traffic fatalities per car owners in Canada. And I bet when I get back, I’m going to feel plenty restricted following all the rules.

Well, there you have it. A few things that I see every single day, to and from work. Once again, I have run long, but presumably you guys are used to it by now. I have taken a few interesting trips in the last few weeks, so I’ll update you on them soon.

Cheers!

The Davistani