Autos, Attention and Dog Gang Warfare

It's been a while and we should probably have a catch up. Fancy a chat?

Two years it’s been. With promises made in earnest of regular output on these pages, it’s been a full two years since I even logged in to my Substack account, but it feels much, much longer.

Work keeping me from it really isn’t an excuse either. It’s not like my nose hasn’t been six inches from this screen for the majority of my time away from here. 80% of my working day and quite often my downtime, has been spent here. It’s more to do with a lack of headspace rather than setting aside space in my calendar to enable the physical act of putting my feelings down in words. I still write down everything that’s relevant to my day. But that’s more of an admin thing than an Adrian Mole thing. If the itch ever becomes too much, a pen and one of my many notebooks are usually the metaphorical ruler that slides down the back of my shirt to search it out, chasing it across my back as it tries to evade its edge.

But like a book you put down after 50 pages, it’s just another loose end dangling in a draught.

Where have I been, you ask? Well, I’ve been to India. Of all places. Not that it’s been a secret of course, but as always when I’m working, the need for self-promotion is lessened. there has still been the occasional acknowledgement of my existence. The odd video of a cow strolling down the street, unaware of the mayhem surrounding it. An action shot of me striking a ball during a warm-up somewhere, sweating profusely in the heat and humidity of a city that until recently was know as something else. Or maybe photo of my youngest child, Gerry. the Cockapoo, I’d been sent from home. But writing and the freelance requirement to stand on your tiptoes, waving both hands in the air to catch everyone’s attention, takes a back seat.

But it has been two years nonetheless. what it actually feels like, is as if I’ve been living on another planet. Back home, I often have one of the rolling news channels on in the background as I potter around the house. Over there, I barely watched a news bulletin at all. Occasionally catching the madness of the world from the screen of my phone, but still feeling far enough removed from the world as is possible. Reading that back makes me laugh. Considering the madness of life in Bangalore, Mumbai and the other various megapolis of South Asia.

It’s a different madness though. It’s own madness. The crowds. The cars. The horns. The fireworks. God, the fireworks. If I haven’t developed PTSD from those late night explosions right outside my window, it can only be a miracle of the gods they’re celebrating. Oh, and the dogs. I forgot the dogs. By day, docile and friendly. Guarding their streets, looking only for shade, shut-eye and the leftover from breakfast and lunch. By night though, they prowling the streets like a canine version of The Wanderers, looking for trouble and often finding it. And when they stray into another’s territory, the barking begins and the fur flies. The next morning, the only evidence of the midnight disturbances and the bags under your eyes and odd wound being licked as they lay, convalescing until the whole cycle to start over again.

The horns you get used to. You soon realise it’s the language of the road. I’m behind you, speed up, watch where you’re going, I’m overtaking or just a simple I’m here. The drivers couldn’t stop doing it anyway. It’s a habit. A compulsion. Even in the dead of night, when the load of the roads it’s least, it can’t be avoided. Even if there’s nobody else on the roads to communicate with, they do it anyway. There are signs forbidding the use of them in places, but they are applicable as any other rule of the roads. By which I mean they are not applied. The Highway Code is a mere suggestion. A polite request that falls on deaf ears. Yet, it all works.

Crossroads without signals mostly run fluidly. If the fluid is tar or lava. But they do run regardless. Whoever gains the available inch claims right of way. Mostly, without disagreement or bursts of anger. Of course there are flare-ups, but probably the result of years of pent up anger that eventually spill over. Even more surprisingly, very few crashes considering the chaos. And whenever there is, as long as there is no irreparable damage, everyone just drives off and gets on with their day. What isn’t a good idea is to increase the risk of causing such accidents and ask your auto/tuk tuk driver to beat the one in front carrying your fellow coaches to your destination for a larger tip. Two wheels are quicker than three when going round sharp bends apparently. Still, it’s cheaper than Alton Towers.

That’s it for now. I don’t want to ramble too long for now but there’s much more to put down here from the past two years. I tend choose the experience as much as I do the work (and to pay the bills) and only time will tell if it was all worth spending so long 5000 miles away from my family. Without giving it much thought, it feels 50/50. Anyway, this is mostly for me to get a few things off my chest and out of my head and move on, whilst still recovering from the drama of the last few weeks of my time in Mumbai. And there’s plenty I need shifting, but will have to wait until after the 30th of this month.

Thanks for listening, as much as reading.