Here And There And Almost Everywhere

I am happy to be alive, vagaries of the world when possible, responsible(-ish) when needed (as seldom as it can be done), goofy when shy, wrinkled when thoughtful.

I am filling my time with writing, sewing crotches of pants, because I can’t seem to be able to keep any pair of pants un-ripped for long, crocheting my hair, and other minor household activities.

I am smoking. Again. Just as much as ever and enjoying every cigarette of it!

I am a high school philosophy teacher engaged to be married upon my return home for the people who ask the usual, all too foreseeable ‘whereyoufroms’, ‘whatyoudos’ and ‘areyoumarrieds’ around South East Asia. And this usually attracts surprised or doubtful looks (‘You? Teacher?’) and frowns filled with reproach (‘Not married yet?’). Also, I’ve tried being Norwegian but that didn’t turn out so good (as in I’ve been spotted as a fake… the East Eastern-accented English might have given me away).

I am practicing my headstand almost daily.

I am complaining whenever I get the chance, not because I actually have so many reasons to complain, but because I think it’s one of the few womanly traits I can really master.

I am growing old(er) but I’m constantly fighting the tendency to grow up.

I am hiding. Because it’s much easier and I once decreed that through hiding people will not be able to harm me. Consequently, at some point, I started to hide from myself.

I am speaking Hinglish because this way, I get compliments from Indians for my very extensive knowledge and exquisite mastery of the English language. I use lots of ‘r’s.

I’m asking stupid questions because life is full of stupid problems.

I am usually walking with my hands in my pockets, thus giving me more to sew in the evenings, as most fabrics don’t last very long under the continuous pressure they’re exposed to.

I am drinking coffee in the evening.

I am becoming prouder by the minute of my rock solid stomach which doesn’t seem to fail me and meekly accepts whatever I feed it, whether it’s the finest foods or the most spine-chilling chows.

I am enormously happy to have been able to go skiing in Romania the first chance I got, having gone from 30 plus to below zero in a day.

I am trying.

Christmas Post

It's only a few hours 'till Christmas Eve in lovely Bangkok (it being lovely only because it's virtually empty) and, with the non-existence of any type of holiday spirit and a temperature that could boil the dripping snowy mush of your winter boots, my Christmas looks something like this:

Merry Christmas!

Thank You, Romania!

The thing about being Romanian is something of a controversy: the aw-s and oh-s I get from unsuspecting locals whenever I utter the name of my country are pleasing in their own childish way, especially when corroborated with ‘Europe?’ or, my favourite, ‘communist!’. But for this little joy, the troubles I get are mercilessly disproportionate. The latest (and probably most upsetting) episode can be dutifully used as a milepost in this Romanian’s life:

I am not really sure, I thought as I boarded the international bus from Pakse to Bangkok. It’s a VIP bus and looks quite comfortable and it’s only 30 degrees outside so they gave us blankets. I shifted around in my seat trying to find another spot so that my thigh would stop rubbing on the old Thai’s (or was he Lao?) overflowing bottom. We had been moving for about 15 minutes. I could not discover such a position. But the eternal Lao music is on and this seat is the best one I’ve had yet. I was sitting in front with the panoramic view through the front window of the bus and a piercing sunset somewhere beyond. What did I forget? Why does this feel wrong? I didn’t get a chance to change my kip to Thai baht or have a proper meal. Well, still, it’s good that I was able to sell the last of my unused cell phone credit to that not very officious looking girl at the bus ticket counter. And I bought cigarettes so I’m set to be propelled to Thailand.

Only time proved me wrong.

I always try to look inconspicuous whenever I face officials, especially since I know that Romania will, sooner or later, raise some eyebrows and that’s exactly what I did when I was standing face to face with the Thai photo camera and its attached official at the Lao-Thai border.

‘Hmm... Lomaaania...’ Speaking Thai with the other counter attendant. Walking away with my passport clutched closely to his chest.

I remember this, I thought and memories of almost being stranded into no man’s land after finishing my Cambodian epic (and the included visa) and before passing the border into Thailand clouded the thoughtless sunny summer day of my mind. But they figured it out then so they’ll eventually come to a conclusion this time around.

Only that this time around the conclusion was slightly different. A higher level official came smiling towards me:

‘Sorry ma’am no possible to go in my country. No visa for your country. No visa on arrival. Have to buy visa in Pakse...’

I admit I started sweating considerably but my concerns were not so great because I was still sure that everything would work out. 15 minutes into the conversation I obviously needed a huge towel to dry my ever-expanding perspiration and I needed a good cry, shout and yell to smash my frustrations to smithereens. No possible!

What argument can I use now? I’m really out of choices, damn it! I cursed under my breath; I called them Romanian names that kids should not learn; I tried making a sad face which usually helps but it was hopelessly ignored. What now? And what about my great plan of getting to Bangkok, get the Burmese visa and sleep in the airport? How will this work?

Not even when the Thai officer politely (and, possibly, a little too perky) escorted me to the bus to get my backpack and accompanied me back to Lao territory, smiled brightly, shook my hand and hoped we’d meet again (ha! Like that’s ever going to happen!) did I realize what my country had done to me. Or was it the shitfaced Thai laws that sabotaged me?

I’m sure that if I’d still been a non-smoker (ex smoker) I’d have lit one up right now, my inner demon viciously grinned at my inner, fragile cherub, which curled up in a ball and found a corner to pout in peace. And I lit one up. Several, actually, but that’s beyond the point.

The Lao customs people were nice enough to cancel my departure stamp but I didn’t get any money back although it seems that you have to pay them 10000 kip just to leave the country (and they complain about poverty?). Still, a nice Lao official enlightened me on the multiple choices I am given if I go back to Pakse.

‘You can go to Savannakhet, cross the border there or you can go over the Friendship Bridge in Vientiane...’ Yeah, thanks a lot, I thought while freezing an interested smile on my face. That’s the last thing I want to do; spend more time in Laos after all this.

‘Huh?’ I snapped out of my reverie.

‘Where you from? Aw, Lomaaania...’

‘That’s in Europe.’

‘Ahh, Europe!’ something fairly familiar reached his inner ear and he looked back comprehendingly.

Romanian nationality be damned!

The Day That Announced The Apocalypse or The Loop - Day One

The reason I usually travel alone is because I simply cannot sync with anyone. Every time I try to hook up with someone to travel with on some part of my travels, sooner or later, there’s going to be an elephant in the room very hard to overlook. That precise moment in time when I (and, possibly, every other person involved) am reminded that I’m simply not bred to be around people for too long, as china might break on someone’s head (I constantly end up on the throwing end of the aforementioned china): there’s truly no such feature built in the overall project.

Like I said, the moment when china is visualized and gruesome images of eyes being scratched out with the help of just some fingernails come – unwilling, mind you! – to mind is undoubtedly the time to part ways just like the waters parted by biblical figures, only never to meet again. But when such a moment unveils itself it’s usually too late to perform a clean clear cut of the umbilical cord because by then, some types of actions have been undertaken, such as engaging in a minimum three day-long road trip with rented motorcycles on less beaten tracks in the Lao countryside. That’s just a hypothetical example, but in such an unlikely case, the trigger of an irremediable situation would have to be the fact that the magical hour when the motorcycles set their wheels in motion outside the grand metropolis of Tha Khaek is 4 PM sharp. In the same hypothetical example, the better part of the day was spent (by yours truly) waiting around for the other variable of the equation to start moving and functioning properly, to pack, eat, get a bike, have a shake and, seconds before leaving, remembering that the email must be checked.

There have been other episodes in my life when my patience was ruthlessly put to the test and I was as surprised as anyone that my nerves kept their steely quality and didn’t give in. Yet the leaving at that ungodly hour of the afternoon got my blood boiling and my teeth grinding the biggest millstone in existence. It would be good to mention that the hypothetical country in which this hypothetical situation is taking place literally turns off the lights (the sun, to be exact) at 6 PM give or take a few minutes. And this makes driving and visiting the handy caves and swimming spots a little more difficult, not to mention the orientation skills and actual pinpointing the relative position of the drivers on the road and its (unseen) surroundings; which complicates the driving per se as the flat tire that stands like a deflated cherry on top of this whole absurd play only gets my blood boiling again and my Lao speaking abilities gushing like a true geyser. It stands to reason that something like this was bound to happen but it happened earlier than I ever expected and, to top it off, it happened to my bike, the one I so carefully handpicked and was absolutely sure it would stand the test. Well, it kind of did, but only for a couple of hours.

New, very important phrase learned in Lao: yang hua – flat tire! Say this with the heartbroken look you’d get when realizing that you’re forever stranded on a deserted island and your only hope is a passing raft that’s far enough for you to panic and pleadingly holler for help.

Having the flat tire fixed but the morale somewhere at underground level, this particular hypothetical situation continues with some more confused night-time driving which snowballs to other unwelcomed events, which, in turn, creates more confusion and the last remaining strands of contained irritation of not being able to find a guesthouse and relish in its services (mainly water and a place to sleep) surface aggressively. Sadly, this doesn’t help at all and only gets the drivers to retrace their steps. Twice.

Eventually, a guesthouse is found, frowns are directed all around and businesses are taken care of individually. Against all odds, I choose to go to the bar that blasts bad karaoke in all directions and stubbornly order a beer. I have some options to ponder: I could turn back to Tha Khaek, I could go to sleep (reluctantly, as I’d have to share the bed with the current enemy – the guesthouse people assumed we would need a double bed but it would have been far too complicated to even start explaining) or I could just up and go, take my stuff and disappear into the (untimely) night. Well, two of three choices involved some more dubious driving so I did what any sane person would have done: I listened to karaoke while being able to tackle the drunken Lao that insisted on talking to me and sharing my beer. Moreover, I ordered and got some meatless overpriced food from people who don’t even conceive any other language except for their beloved karaoke-singing Lao. And only after that did I retire to the comfort of my minuscule side of the bed, further appreciating its horizontal-ness.

Through Laos

‘What do you mean there’s no bus to Vieng Xai today? The Lonely Planet says there should still be one...’ I was getting fidgety but not really that surprised.

‘If no one go to Vieng Xai then sometime no bus...’ the information officer said smiling regretfully, as if the sawngthaew drivers who ripped off tourists with 150000 kip fares for the 30 kilometres from Sam Neua to Vieng Xai were under his direct command. ‘Tomorrow morning 7.30 first bus, but if you want to rent a private sawngthaew...’

‘No way, man!’ a distressed Mike shouted at his normal decibel mode.

‘No, no, thank you’, I echoed Mike. I was upset, totally outraged by the blasphemous things the Lonely Planet advised: sawngthaew to Vieng Xai leave five times daily, currently at 8 am, 10am, 11am, 2.30pm and 4pm. Why would it have so bluntly lied to us? Why would it make us spend the night in Sam Neua? What would we do with our time there? It’s not like it’s a place where there’s anything to do. And then there’s the cold... The sheer late autumn rainy dark weather that depresses Swedish people and makes them commit unthinkable deeds (in the case of Mike, it’s just talking gibberish but, then again, that’s his everyday behaviour). We relented, found the cheapest room in town and proceeded to take turns in surviving the lukewarm shower ingeniously positioned in the two-in-one bathroom and toilet so that you’d have to stand right under the open hole in the wall, through which gusts of ice-cold winds tumbled in. The hole might have once doubled as a window but now it was just an overlooked mishap with a real cold inflicting potential.

We tried to find a place to buy some stuff, mainly munchies for the next day but the concept of a general store eludes east Laos: they only have markets, morning and night ones but even the night market was, by then closing up, as it was as late as 7 PM. Damn, I thought; we’ll just have to do nothing, not even drinking a beer, as it’s way too cold to have one right now. Also, the prospect of waking up in the morning to get the earliest bus is as unappealing as taking one more shower (just out of boredom)...

6.30 AM and I was awake. Even if I had slept enough I was longing for the sweet morning slumber, especially since the new day promised the same enchanting weather as the previous one. Why do I travel in Southeast Asia when I can have this kind of weather back home, I moodily asked myself while towing my backpack down the stairs.

Conveniently, a city the size of Sam Neua (14000 people) has not one, but two bus stations so, together with two German girls and a Dutch one we shared a slightly less greedy tuc-tuc to the other bus station and, by 7 AM we were waiting for the minivan to depart. Of course, this new ‘bus’ was only supposed to leave at 8 (in spite of what the guy at the Information Office told us) so we had a whole hour to shiver mildly in the cold morning air while watching the locals heave bags and motorbikes on top of other buses, impressed by their technique of getting anything on top of the bus.

‘I think it’s bes to lent a bicycle, so it’s easieh to get flom one cave to the otheh’. Hmm, I thought; bicycle? Really? But I hate cycling, even if it’s just around the block on a downward slope. And look at the sky: what if it starts raining again? But I gave in. It surely was the best way to see the caves in which the leaders of the anti-French invasion movement Pathet Lao hid and lived for nine years, all the while being bombed by US aircrafts in their ‘Secret War’ against Vietnam, which dutifully imparted bombs and landmines, even if it was in the wrong country. So we did what the tourist officer said and rented bikes. As the only other tourists – a Thai couple – did the same, we were blessed with a guide to show us around (on his own bike) and complement the audio guide we received from the tourist office. I guess that for locals five people peacefully cycling around their houses while, apparently, intently listening to music in their oversized headphones is a normal sight and they didn’t seem distressed by it; on the contrary: completely ignoring the headphones, the concentrated faces and the impossibility of waving, holding on the handlebar and balancing the audio guide at the same time while negotiating curves and potholes, the kids insisted on ‘sabai dee’-ing us with grinning mugs happily waving their arms at us and, probably, feeling a little hurt when we didn’t respond. But we were on a mission. To see the caves in which the political head figures of Lao lived for a decade. Not completely without comfort, mind you! As soon as they felt safe (roughly nine years after the bombing started), they moved outside the caves, carrying on living there for another couple of years. The caves themselves hold little to remind us of the difficulties people had during that period but it’s still impressive to see how they managed, having to walk to the school cave or the hospital cave, mostly by night or through passage ways carved out of the sides of the mountains.

‘Okay, now that that’s over with, what’s next?’

‘Well, it’s either finding a place to sleep here or go back to Sam Neua. But did you hear what the guy at the tourist office told us?’ and, for that matter, everybody we’ve met so far: ‘There are no buses if there are not enough people who want to go back. But, if the Thai couple wants to return to Sam Neua, maybe they know something we don’t. Let’s follow them.’ And with that in mind, we shadowed the Thais from afar and, once we got to the bus station, we started exploring our options. There were, in fact, no buses back, or, better yet, no affordable buses, as the only guy around wanted even more than a night’s accommodation’s worth for taking us back. ‘No problem’, I say; ‘We can walk back and I’m sure we’ll hitch a ride at some point. People around here seem nice enough and, hopefully, they’ll take us with them’. If only there were any nice people around but, contrary to what I’d hoped, not many cars drove by. And the ones that did seemed to think we only wanted to wave at them.

‘Are you doing this right?’ Mike asked, slightly getting uncharacteristically concerned.

‘Well, I’m trying to wave them down. It used to work... at least in Europe. But, then again, I’m not sure they know the international wave of hitch-hiking. But I’m also waving like I need some help and maybe that’s why everybody seems to just wave back.’ In fact, more than one driver held up an open hand, just holding them back in the air, maybe saying hello or maybe explaining that their cars are full. ‘It’s all in the expression. So, I’ll stop trying to look un-menacing and friendly and start looking distressed. It might work better.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re a girl so I hope it works...’

And it did work, after we’d been walking for some kilometres. A small battered pick-up truck stopped and three ear-to-ear grins were directed at us. They signalled us to get in and explained they can only take us some kilometres but it was better than nothing. We got down further and started walking until an actual local bus picked us up and took us to the city. But we did get to do some light hiking to prepare for our huge plan for the next day: hiking to Hintang.

A new early wake-up call made me shiver with dread and cold. But we had a new bus to catch and, hopefully, leave the cold behind for some better weather and some sunshine. But first to find the right bus that would take us 50 kilometres away and leave us at the main road from where only 6 kilometres stood between us and an archaeological site, where huge slabs of stones were arranged by some Lao forefathers for no apparent reason, except for sacred rituals that have lost their meaning for contemporary Lao people or researchers. This is going to be a nice ride, I thought while jumping a little off my seat on the Lao roads; we’re going to get off at Hintang, pleasantly walk there and be back in time for the evening bus. I smiled, feeling really good with my plans. And then I jumped some more.

In ancient times Laos was inhabited by the Kha Yeui. Their Chief, Ba Hat, was a great giant possessing amazing powers, to whom the gods also gave three magical objects: a double-headed drum – one face struck to make enemies disappear and the other to call help from the gods; an enormous awl which pierced the stoniest ground and made water gush out; and an axe which could cut hard rock like wood.

Ba Hat felt himself no less strong than the Luang Prabang Kingdom thanks to these marvellous instruments, so he decided the Kha Yeui were no longer subjects of the King, who soon declared war. But the victory went to Ba Hat. Later, believing the enemy king intended to return, Ba Hat called on the help of the gods. The chief of the gods descended in person and on seeing no enemies anywhere, he flew into a rage and seized back the magical drum.

Ba Hat still had the two other tools given him by the gods. With the magical axe, he set his people out to cut blocks of stone along Nam Peun, and bear them to the top of San Ang ridge to build the new city of Kong Phanh. This aroused the King of Luang Prabang’s fears and he decided upon a ruse to keep that city from ever being founded. He succeeded in marrying his son to Ba Hat’s daughter. Misplacing their confidence in the Prince, the Kha Yeui were induced to lay the magical awl and axe onto a white-hot brazier. The two instruments immediately lost all magic power.

So the Kha Yeui had to abandon their project and they just left the stones where they had been raised up along the crest. These later on became the menhir fields of San Kong Panh and the neighbouring countryside.

That’s what greeted us at the small site, where some stone slabs erectly stood around some other round, tabletop-like stones with mysterious, unknown uses. I was heaving groans of happiness after ‘pleasantly walking’ what seemed like 60 kilometres but which, I’m sure, was less than the six promised. Still, my back was damp and aching. Fortunately, the way back would be easier on my back (‘pleasantly walking’ downwards) but what will my knees think? Uf, there’s never an easy way to travel...

In all fairness, it took us about two hours to walk the whole six kilometres on a dusty dirt road, more upwards than otherwise and, having to carry the backpack all the way, I seriously started to list all the stuff I had with me: do I really need all my panties with me? Could I get rid of some? What about soap... do I really need a whole bar of it...? Fortunately, despite the red colour of my face nicely assorted to my beloved pants, and the overall sweatiness of my person, this quest was also fulfilled and we got back to the main road in time to wait around for another bus (a minivan this time) to take us to Phonsavan. And this was the part that consolidated my faith in the amount of luck I carry around, as the minivan – the only one leaving for Phonsavan that day – had exactly two seats available. And so we proudly filled them and smoothly rode to Phonsavan. 

How To Miss A Bus In Laos. More Than Once

Laos is not your typical active dynamic country so, other than gazing at mountains, rivers and some fantastic scenery, there’s not much to do. Well, if you’re into straining yourself beyond reason and subjecting yourself to some muddy mountain trekking in the hazy, foggy, chilly morning and the most atrocious heat of midday (greatly enhanced by the lush vegetation engulfing every sizzling atom of oxygen like a Lao soup simmering the overcooked grains of rice), then you’ve got something to do (or look forward to stop doing). Needless to say you’d have to be borderline insane or a masochist to do so. But if you’ve had one too many Beerlaos by noon, you’ll spare yourself such ‘treats’ and do the more sensible thing of shuffling on the only street in Nong Khiaw from one overpriced restaurant to the next in search of comfy mattresses or hammocks to be used as home base for the next beer and the cheapest meals available.

The Luang Prabang bus to Sam Neua via Nong Khiaw is your immediate goal as you eagerly want to spend some 10 to 14 hours getting to the east, but even the buses are ‘laid back’, ‘sleepy’ and ‘relaxed’ (as the Lonely Planet people describe everything in this country) so there’s virtually no fixed schedule. There’s a rumour going around that the bus should pass through Nong Khiaw sometime around 9 or 10 PM and, if you’re fit and watchful enough, you just raise your hand and it will stop in front of your guesthouse but, under no circumstances will it stop at the bus station. Hurray for the guesthouse people, which make good business with tourists that just hang around their place and, to chase away the boredom, will do the only thing they can, this being consuming tourist-priced goods. The guesthouse people will be nice enough to wait for the bus with you, mainly because they can’t go to sleep while you’re just sitting there and because the Swedish dude who’s waiting with you (hey, Mike!) and who’s ‘naturally loud’ (his words) has successfully gotten himself enormously drunk on lao lao (and, eventually, passed out on the mattresses in the guesthouse’s sitting area/restaurant).

Basic math:

• estimated time of bus arrival: 9 – 10 PM;
• expected time of bus arrival (from personal experience): estimated time + 2 hours = 11 PM – 12 AM;
• probable time of giving up waiting (mostly because the guesthouse people retired under their mosquito nets preparing for sleep, Mike started snoring like an neglected punctured car muffler, and some of your own toes have gone numb from the cold): expected time + 1 or 2 hours = 1 AM.

You retire to a bamboo-thatched room like a retreating dog, tail low between his legs, only to make another attempt the next day. Upon greeting the guesthouse guy the next morning, he’ll tell you that a mere 20 minutes after you’ve gone to sleep the bus tumbled down the road through the city and this little piece of news only adds wood to the fire of humiliation burning inside. Still, you must try again, this time with the bus scheduled at noon, so you post yourself, Mike and the bags on tiny bamboo chairs in front of the guesthouse and fail to acknowledge the passing ‘bus’ (which, coincidentally, is just around 30 minutes late) because you normally picture a bus as being this big square container on many wheels which can hold up to 50 people (or, in the case of Laos, using the small plastic chairs neatly arranged on the aisle so that any kind of movement is considerably diminished, at least 10 more). The last thing you’d expect is what looks like a private minivan smoothly driving by with a short honk and not even a glance back: that's the VIP bus around these parts!

With jaw dropping awe you stare at one of the guesthouse people, who, by now, has run into the street only to see the rear end of the minivan cruising away and who now tells you your chance of leaving Nong Khiaw that day has effectively slipped between your un-waving fingers. You take a minute to count to 10, to 20, to 5633, but the anger is somehow not withdrawing, in spite of Mike’s reassuring ‘that’s travelling for you’s. You resign yourself – better yet, you stubbornly refuse – to doing nothing this whole new sunny day and you pledge to the world that you’ll get the next bus with whatever costs, if it means throwing yourself in front of it or just sleeping on the asphalt so that the bus cannot avoid stopping! You then restart your usual routine of migrating from one restaurant to the other, Mike and the beloved laptop in toll and you cheer yourself up with some Indian cuisine, giving up your ongoing quest of trying to figure out how some south Indian people ended up in that godforsaken place, just going through the motions of another hard day of fierce travelling.

By 9 PM you’ve plopped yourself in front of the guesthouse again, beer-less, sober and determined to not spend another night in Nong Khiaw ever again! And, sometime around 11.30 PM your persistence, hysterical sudden jerks out of the chair at the tiniest sound of anything remotely similar to a bus passing, and incessant waving finally pay off and the bus comes to a shrieking stop next to you. The guesthouse person who’s kept a vigilant eye on you and on the road shovels your stuff unto the bus, probably feeling relieved and released from the menacing new night of having to deal with you. And, while you make yourself as comfortable as possible on the crammed bus, you think: third time’s always a charm!

How To Ditch Indian Cops

One of the Indian musts is to run away from the cops. And there are several ways you can succeed in this adventurous endeavor, one of them by being a westerner. Policemen in India resemble policemen anywhere in the world, which means they usually have a nose for good and/or bad business. And, being a westerner, the only good business for policemen is leaving them be; or imprisoning them for using illegal substances. In the case of the former, foreigners can basically do whatever their hearts desire and blatantly get away with it.

The Indians, however, have a harder time with the cops, which – again – like in most (underdeveloped) countries around the world, will require some off the record incentives to let some things slide. As you might have guessed, Indians have something resembling a phobia when it comes to wearing helmets on motorcycles, because it’s simply not part of the local practice; the only time Indians might wear something on their heads is either when being Sikh, or when they are cold – yes, the first thing they will try to warm up and keep warm is their heads. Well, the helmet issue only concerns the drivers (passengers are spared the painful task or safety measure of wearing a helmet) and it only becomes a problem when the police seem more inclined to get some more money on the side of the normal payroll and start stopping and questioning motorbike riders about their – obviously inexistent – helmets.

Riding (helmetless, of course) on the back of an Indian-driven motorcycle, I was only partly aware of this whole situation and I had really abandoned myself to being taken somewhere in Bikaner on a locally-driven motorbike (my newest friend, a 25 year-old Muslim Indian, Salim, had taken it upon himself to show me the beauties of the old town havelis, while faintly hoping that I would start some form of textile export business somewhere – anywhere - in Europe and he’d get in on the deal). Once we started driving on the overly crowded narrow alleys through the old town, I got to enjoy the charming houses and the local animals (obviously, during any ride longer than 100 meters or 10 minutes, you’ll have to avoid at least three dogs, five animal-originated droppings and, if you’re lucky, only two holy cows), but, once on the main roads, things got Indianly hectic: cars, rickshaws and motorcycles (not to mention bicycles and pedestrians) were all engaged into their latest fights for urban jungle survival, coming and going in every (and any) direction, blissfully oblivious of any other traffic partakers.

Being a good passenger, I didn’t move a lot, even if I only had the pleasure of seeing Salim’s back exclusively. But, the second he tensed, I realized something was not even Indianlly all right and I noticed two (presumably holy) young bulls picking a fight right when we passed them. Salim accelerated in an instant and easily skidded through the chaos of frightened people and tumbling rows of scooters, just like falling domino tiles; an impressive scene enhanced by the yelling, panicking crowds and the powerless gestures and screams unfolded on a 50 meter area, but it was best to be far away from the spectacle.

Driving on, Salim tried his best to make me forget about the incident and was intently talking (although only partially understood), when, all of a sudden, he changed to Hindi and violently jerked the bike sideways as if avoiding a roadblock. Seconds later, the bloated face of a screaming policeman entered my vision but disappeared just as fast in the sea of motorbikes and cars: we’d just escaped the long – seemingly sluggish – arm of the law; we ditched some cops and we (well, mostly Salim, the driver) didn’t seem too concerned or remorseful about it. He then proceeded to explain how the cops saw him not wearing a helmet, called on him to stop to be identified and fined respectively, but he loudly stated that he’s with a Westerner, and so, took it upon himself to excuse himself for the unlawful deed and playfully drive on. And it worked: no sign of policemen in sight, we carried on to our proposed destination, him feeling proud and, possibly, relieved, to be with a westerner, me feeling lucky for being one and not having to be frisked (even though I was paranoid the whole day afterwards and constantly looked over my shoulder expecting to find some angry, hell-bent policemen advancing towards me). Then again, this is The Indian Way!