The Rain in India Falls Mainly in…well, India

Bangalore has been experiencing an extraordinary amount of rainfall this month. This morning’s headline in the kitschy The Times of India read, “Bangalore Mumbai-ed.” This is a reference to the flooding that racked Mumbai several weeks back. We suspect we have been monsooned. There have been newspaper articles recounting Bangalore’s annual rainfall of 970 mm being dwarfed by a record setting 1,435 mm. One would need to flip way back in the record book to 1874 to find anything approaching this year’s water accumulation. Schools were closed for four days.

So, what’s the big deal, you ask? The rain falls in Spain on the plain and doesn’t cause much pain. Well, the Spanish plains have not had the same astronomical growth as Bangalore in the past 10 years. Bangalore once had several hundred lakes in its environment, but they've been drained to make way for housing and business development. Building in these low areas is the perfect way to invite flooding. The drain-and-build strategy is only part of the problem.

Roadways are typically constructed without water runoff engineering. Open drainage systems, if constructed, are typically clogged with dirt and trash and are not located next to the street. The raised sidewalks lie between the road and the drains. Roads literally become rivers in the heavy rains. As Helen was returning in a car from a trip to an orphanage on Tuesday, she could feel the water sloshing on the car’s underbody. The water in the roadway was so deep that water pushed though the door seals and two inches accumulated in the foot well of the back seat where she sat.

Jay had a nightmarish walk home from work that evening. His office recently shifted to an upscale technology park called the Embassy Golf Link Tech Park. The technology park was built in a basin 40 to 60 feet below the street level. The net result on Tuesday was vast flooding. He ended up walking through water in some places that was more than ankle deep.

Even our apartment complex had its bit of flooding. We live on the fifth floor…in American-speak that would be the sixth floor, since the ground level is floor zero. So we have no problem in our living space. However, when we went to our health club to workout, we had to walk around a small lake in the lobby and found about two-thirds of the exercise room covered with an inch of water. We mounted our exercise machines that were, fortunately, on a high spot and started sweating to MTV Indian-style. An attendant with a squeegee (who was obviously told to “clean up the exercise room”) worked to push the water into the lobby rather than mop it up, so as we finished our workout we found a dry health club and water all over the lobby floor. Water, water everywhere.

The Market

New York City has its Stock Exchange. Wall Street is filled with the hubbub of wheeling, dealing, trading and commodity movement. Bangalore has Russel Market. Russel Market is a busy mercantile building in the city center and has its own hubbub of wheeling dealing, trading and commodity movement, only at Russel Market men with large meat cleavers whack off chicken heads to conclude a deal. Buy low…sell high and keep your eye on the vulture-like kites (birds of prey) that circle above, waiting to snatch any unwatched goods.

Russel Market is an institution that has long served the city. The surrounding streets are equally filled with the activity of pavement peddlers hawking goods and small shops selling crockery, clothing, foods and more. We entered the sprawling market to the sights, sounds and smells of things strange and familiar. There were potatoes, tomatoes, beans, oranges, cucumbers, pineapples, bananas, eggplant, coconuts, many varieties of peppers, watermelon, apples, cauliflower and other bounty of the earth we did not recognize for sale in cramped stalls. People mingled about, examined the quality of goods, bargained a bit, we suspected, had their selections weighed and then handed over colorful rupee notes. The neatly ordered bins of produce in the Kroger supermarket in Roswell, Georgia seem like a distant memory, half a world away.

Fish was displayed just outside the market building. Tables filled with seafood offered a variety of fish, eel and shrimp. But unlike Harry’s Whole Foods seafood section back home, bring your own ice. None of the seafood was chilled or refrigerated. We have been told that frozen and prepared foods are a relatively new food convenience to Bangalore. Even five years ago, food was purchased from vendors at the market who brought just enough each day to satisfy demand. Buy early.

From fish it was back inside to the mutton stall where whole carcasses of lamb were suspended on hooks from the ceiling, waiting to be rendered into smaller units on wooden chopping blocks. Finally, back outside, we visited the chicken parlours where live fowl sat with trepidation in cramped wire mesh cages waiting for the conclusion of the wheeling dealing, trading and commodity movement about them.

Kroger, however, has a few lessons to learn from Russel Market’s florists. We have been amazed at the beautiful fresh flowers that are everywhere. The first class hotels typically have an abundance of birds-of-paradise on display. A single rose on tables at all types of restaurants is not uncommon. Married women wear jasmine in their hair daily. Equipment and vehicles are decorated for holidays with garlands of flowers. We now know where some of this bounty of flowers is obtained.

All Dressed Up
and Nowhere to Go

Our intended destination this Sunday was St. Mark’s Church. After a short auto rickshaw ride we arrived at the walled compound of St. Mark’s at 10:05 AM. The service was scheduled to begin at 10:30 am, so we felt that we would be able to socialize a bit before the service. As we approached the church building we put our nametags on and opened ourselves to discovery. We immediately discovered two things. First, St. Mark’s is not a Catholic church, but an Anglican church. We have no experience with Anglican rituals or rites so we looked forward to the forthcoming enlightenment. The second and more important fact we discovered was that there was no 10:30 service. Despite signage confirming its Anglican roots and Sunday service schedule, we had to accept the situation that we were two Unitarian Universalists all dressed on Sunday with nowhere to go.

A bit confused on how to adjust our Sunday worship schedule, we were delivered from this worship conundrum by William. We met William, a native Bangalorean Roman Catholic, inside St. Mark’s compound. We were confused by his presence on the grounds of this Anglican church, but William offered without pause that we should attend the 11:00 service at St. Mary’s Basilica with him and we accepted. William assured us of his accurate knowledge of service schedule at St. Mary’s with a confidence not found in the communicants of St. Mark’s.

As we walked, William shared bits of his life. He had been a cook for 25 years. He had been out of work, however, for two months due to a union strike regarding working hours being raised to 9 hours/day and pay remaining the same. Today was his daughter’s 15th birthday and he had no money for a present for her. He shared his remembrances that Bangalore once had only a handful of cars plying the tree-canopied roads. Transportation for the masses was provided by human powered three-wheeled pedicabs. The din of bus engines drowned out some of what William said as we walked up Center Street, but we caught the intent of most of his conversation.

We arrived to see a throng of people congregating in front of St. Mary’s. The church is an impressive building. Its tall spire evokes a time of 100 years ago when it was built and dominated the skyline as well as people’s imagination of the power of western religion.

We found an interesting ritual being conducted at an elevated statue of Mary in a covered area to the right of the church. People were gathered in a slow moving mob to reach the railing erected in front of the statue. Flower offerings were carried. A church attendant would take the flower strands and place them on the statue’s base. People would then pause before the statue, offer puja (Hindu for worship) and depart. We had seen similar ritual rites of worship at the Hindu temples we visited. We are indeed all God’s children regardless of creed.

We were becoming anxious to find a place inside the church before the start of service. Our scheduling mishap at St. Mark’s would now be absolved at St. Mary’s. We voiced our intentions to William to find seats inside. He then paused to add one more discovery to our day. The service was in Tamil, not English. We opted to play hooky from Sunday service.

We spent the rest of the morning with William visiting Russel Market and viewing other churches and temples in the area. When we departed, Jay gave William 50 rupees for his daughter’s birthday and Helen contributed a pretty bracelet to the gift list. Some Sundays' worship rituals are nothing more than the exchange of friendship and priceless memories. Amen.

West Meets East

The initial confusion associated with our arrival in India five weeks ago has worn off. That is not to say that we are free from bouts of confusion, disbelief or “I didn’t expect that to happen.”

Our latest mystery was how to get our laundry back. (The washing machine broke down.) It took five days, six phone calls and four trips to the basement where the laundry facilities are located for the return of our laundry. Each inquiry Helen made was parried with, “It will be ready at 10 o’clock tomorrow” or “30 minutes, madam,” but those kinds of responses to inquiries are another blog.

One observation is that there is little concern for public space. Litter is ubiquitous in large and small towns. It is common, for example, to see people as they walk the streets to toss wrappers and other unwanted refuse to the ground without hesitation. It makes us uncomfortable. Helen just wants to get in these people’s faces and say in a firm voice, “Hey! Pick that up and don’t do that again!” Of course, we just mind our own business and wince in silence.

Sanitation at the open-air mutton, fish and chicken stands at the Russel Market in the Bangalore city center is equally appalling by US standards, but that’s just the accepted way of doing business here.

We are foreigners in this country and wish to be accepting of the culture we have entered. We have drawn the line, as you might expect, on standards in our own living space in this 15-year old complex. Our apartment is spartan but comfortable, and has a marvelous view. It also had an accumulation of dirt and grease in the kitchen, soap scum on the bathroom walls, a leaky toilet and mildew on the bathroom ceilings from leaking plumbing above us. A letter to our building manager got our leaky toilet fixed. The sounds of industry from the apartment upstairs hopefully will re-direct running water into the plumbing system and not to our bathroom ceiling. We got busy and scrubbed the kitchen floor, removed soap scum from the bathroom walls, cleaned the kitchen cabinets and removed a decade or more of dirt from the inner courtyard porch. We still have floors to clean, but as the saying goes, “Home is where your scrub brush is.”

Hampi

The ruined city of Vijayanagar (the City of Victory), now called Hampi, was established in 1343 on the banks of the River Tungabhadra, a location long considered sacred by Hindus. Between the 14th and 16th centuries, this was the most powerful Hindu capital in the Deccan Plateau. Travelers were astonished by its size and wealth, with markets (bazaars) full of silk, horses, spices and precious gems, ornate palaces and joyous festivities. In 1565 the dazzling city was devastated by a six-month Muslim siege. Everything made of wood was burned, and only stone, brick and stucco structures survived.

As we arrived, we were inundated with licensed tour guides who wanted to offer their services to tour the ruins. We settled on Hussein, a knowledgeable young man who spent three hours with us and began with a brief history of the area to set the stage for what we were about to see. There is still one functioning temple dedicated to a local form of Shiva, the Virupaksha temple. Hussein acquainted us with the meanings and stories of many of the pictures carved in the pillars and on the ceilings. One quick picture story: We see the shadows on the moon as the man in the moon; they see a rabbit.

Here are brief descriptions of four impressive, still fairly intact, buildings in Hampi. The 56 stone pillars in the Music Temple were constructed to sound the notes of the musical scale when struck with fingers and they still ring! Some make sounds like drums, others make sounds like stringed instruments, and more. It’s amazing! The pillars are covered with dancing figures.

The beautiful two-story Lotus Mahal (the archways were designed to look like lotus blossoms) was designed for the pleasure of the queen; a place where she could relax. A moat surrounding the building is thought to have provided water-cooled air via tubes (the first A/C!)

There was a separate Queen’s bath, 15 meters square, still intact, and open to the sky. Surrounded by corridors with 24 different domes, women from the royal household would bathe here and umbrellas were placed in shafts in the tank floor to protect them from the sun.


The elephant stable is a series of 11 high-ceilinged, domed chambers, entered through arches. Only the royal elephants were housed there. (This would be the modern-day equivalent of having an 11-bay garage full of Lexuses, Mercedes' and BMWs!) The capped upper level may have been used by the musicians who accompanied the royal elephant processions. All in all, there was so much to see and learn!

Here, as in many places, there is a tier system for admission. To enter the temples, Indian citizens pay five rupees, about 12 cents. All others (and it’s obvious who you are!) pay Rs. 215 ($5), still a deal by American standards for entrance admission fees to museums and historic sites.

Going to Goa: Part II
Walking the streets of Goa has been a long-held dream for Jay. He is a history buff and has read extensively of the exploits of Vasco Da Gama and the gang of Portuguese viceroys that ruled Goa for nearly 400 hundred years. Most people, however, come to Goa for the beaches.

The city of Goa is now called Old Goa. The area used to be an island. Centuries ago the River Mandovi filled up with silt and made the region a peninsula. The river supported trade as well as bringing the many epidemics that plagued the city and forced the Portuguese to move down river to a town called Panjim (or Panaji, in the local Konkani language).

We stayed in Panjim at a beautiful Marriott hotel in a ground level room overlooking the junction point of the Mandovi River and the Arabian Sea. In the evenings we sat on our little patio sipping gin & tonic, watching fishing vessels and large iron ore barges pass by. We also watched and heard the party boats with booming music motor down the river and make sharp u-turns before reaching the “official” line of the Arabian Sea and head back up river.

On our first full day in Panjim we drove around without much success looking for one museum and came upon the Historical Archives. Closed. Hmmmm.

It was then off to the Goa State Museum. Finding this nine-year-old building proved to be another challenge. When we got there we discovered it contained a number of galleries covering pre and post Portuguese history as well as a large number of displays of Christian art. Two things struck us about the museum; it was nearly deserted (more staff than visitors) and the building was in terrible condition. It was a shame to see such an endeavor to preserve history crumbling within a decade of its building. It doesn’t look like there’s much hope for the preservation of these artifacts for future generations.

Later that evening we took a guided tour along with 7 – 8 other people from the hotel. Anthony, our tour guide, was a descendant of the Portuguese colonists. His sense of history was deeply rooted. First we visited an active Hindu temple. There were many women outside the walls selling flowers that are used in their worship. Next we toured the 500 year old blackened Catholic Church of Bom Jesus in Old Goa where the highly preserved body of St. Francis Xavier can be seen in his silver, bejeweled, windowed casket. Finally we stopped at a small market where we purchased a ½ kilo of cashews nuts. Cashew nuts are grown in abundance in Goa. One can also buy a liquor called fenni. Fenni is a super charged, clear, jet fuel alternative that is the cashew nut response to Tennessee white lightning. After sampling our small trial size bottle of fenni, we returned to the safety of our gin & tonic.

Trucks Come Tumblin’ Down

It appears no road trip in India can be complete without witnessing a truck or two or three or four or five lying on its side in the middle of the road. The roads we drove were almost exclusively one lane each way, no shoulder and pocked with crater-sized potholes. The pavement was so uneven in places that the peaks and valleys would make a Nepalese Sherpa wince.

Bangalore is on the southern part of the Deccan Plateau so on our drive to the coast we had to negotiate steep mountain road grades. Trucks carrying enormous loads use these roads extensively. They lumber slowly up the hills with their loads shifting to new centers of gravity as they navigate the sharp turns on the horribly rutted roadways. Not every turn is navigated successfully. Our first witnessed mishap was a load of large teak logs scattered on the side of road. Not more than 200 meters later, another truck was lying on its side in the roadway. Oh my…

The trucks are not the containerized type of vehicles we see in the States. They have wooden, if any, siding and are typically overfilled with sacks of onions (saw one of those flipped over), iron ore, marble or granite blocks headed to the shipping terminal at Karwar. Many trucks right now carry huge bundles of leaves, hidden by tightly tied canvas coverings, going to cigarette manufacturing sites.

We came upon one accident where a small car had a mishap with a truck carrying large granite blocks. We think the driver of the car was killed. We also witnessed the remains of a head on collision of two tour buses. The fronts of the buses were completed destroyed. We are sure the drivers met their demise as well. Since the roads allow only one lane of traffic each way, drivers frequently pass slower vehicles with only a loud horn blast and a hope in the gods that the venture concludes safely. Nothing impedes the passing process; not a blind curve, obstructed vision or meanderings of the many cows and dogs that lazily walk the roadways. Oh my….

Hindu Temples: First Understanding

We have come to a land that is rich in religious history and practice. Hinduism is most prevalent. The scattered presence of Islam is seen by men wearing white skullcaps, women dressed in black burkas and mosques with their minarets from which the muezzin cries the summons to prayer. Occasionally, we will see Sikhs in their colorful turbans. Buddhist priests in their saffron robes have not been seen at all. Christian churches are common in Bangalore and plentiful in Goa. It is with Hindus, however, that we have the most contact. We have opted to let bite-sized pieces of understanding enter us as we pursue our adventure here.

Worship for Hindus is called “doing puja.” There is a trinity of main gods worshiped: Brahma, the creator of the universe; Vishnu, the preserver of life; and Shiva, the destroyer of evil and ignorance. Temples to Brahma are not seen, but Vishnu and Shiva temples abound. There are hundreds of lesser gods.

In Mangalore we stopped at a large Shiva temple built in remembrance of Sri Rajiv Gandhi, the son of Indira Gandhi, who, like his mother, was assassinated while in office. The temple grounds were very spacious with many buildings surrounding the main temple and a huge bull statue. We ventured barefooted into the temple with our driver Manjunatha and watched as he and others did their puja. We witnessed a great reverence as people stood before the idol of Shiva housed deep in the inner sanctum sanctorum, slowly waved their right hand over an open lamp flame and immediately moved this hand over their head to bring the purifying essence of the flame into their body. They offered a few rupees to the bare-chested priests who are the only ones who can pass into the inner sanctum sanctorum. The priests then gave worshipers a small spoonful of holy water in their right hand that the people sipped and then applied the remainder to their heads with the same reverence with which they applied the essences of the flame. Prayers are offered in silence. Fresh flowers, usually marigolds, are frequently offered as well.

Our own observance of puja is deep in our American roots where religious rituals were made relevant and familiar by childhood contact, then matured to adulthood belief. As Unitarian Universalists, we find ourselves fortunate to be exposed to a new religious source that can expand our own spiritual growth and understanding. May it be so. Amen.

Going to Goa Part I - Mangalore

Schools and offices were closed to celebrate the Hindu festival of Navaratri on Oct. 11 and 12, so we decided to take a couple extra days to enjoy our first sojourn out of Bangalore and head to Goa. We opted to travel the six days by car, which came with a driver, so we could see the countryside. We soon discovered that the roads are generally in terrible condition. In addition to enormous trucks and buses which crumble the asphalt, we shared the road with people, ox carts and the occasional herd of water buffalo or goats. We learned that the larger vehicle has the right of way, no matter what side of the road you're on. We ended up on the shoulder of the road twice when one truck passed another and couldn't get by quickly enough to get back in its lane by the time it reached us.

Along the way we stopped at our driver’s home just outside of Hassan. Manjunatha’s wife and children (home for the holidays) greeted us with hospitality and curiosity. Manjunatha owns several coconut trees and invited us to drink the sweet water that fills the young coconut. Vendors are found in all the cities with stacks of young coconuts, waiting for buyers to put down their Rs. 6 (about 10 cents) for a chance to quench their thirst. Once Jay pulled out the camera to capture the coconut consumption episode, the children gathered about to have their “snap” taken. Jay filled the memory card of the digital camera and then downloaded the results on the laptop to everyone’s delight. We will send them printed copies of their “snaps.”

It was then back on the road. Our guide book noted that “many visitors only come to Managlore on their way to somewhere else.” In the sixth century, Managlore was major source of pepper. In the 1400’s Managlore was a “frontier town” of the Vijayanagar Empire (more later on the Vijayanagar Empire), which prompted the Portuguese to capture this port town in 1529. For us, Managlore was just a rest stop on our way to somewhere else. We had wonderful hotel accommodations at the Taj Manjarun Hotel, and enjoyed a pool side Chinese dinner buffet with KennyG Christmas music. Dinner was great, the weather wonderful and KennyG never sounded better among the swaying stands of bamboo.

Built by Hand

When you hear the phrase “built by hand,” the image of fine craftsmanship comes to mind. We have come to understand, however, that built by hand is just the norm for creating just about anything here. Whether its massive 14th century palaces and temples in Hampi or roads and flyovers (overpasses) in modern Bangalore, people with hand tools are the main machines at work.

We live on Airport Road, which is a major east – west artery in the city. Traffic on this roadway is a constant flow of trucks, cars, buses, autorickshaws and two wheelers (motor bikes). Stirred by complaints registered primarily by the Information Technology (IT) giants that have been driving Bangalore’s meteoric growth, infrastructure projects in Bangalore have been moved to the fast lane.

About two weeks ago a crew was given the task to widen Airport Road. Equipped with nothing more than hand tools, they conducted themselves with zeal in the demolition of anything that stood in the way of the soon-to-be expanded road surface. The concrete curbing was broken with hand-held sledge hammers. Earth and debris was moved with short handled shovels to small metal pans or large leather bags. They were then hoisted by hand to a small flatbed trailer pulled by a farm tractor. The 20 ft. long covered bus stand lasted only 1 ½ days under this onslaught. A small sign indicating the bus stop had been relocated to Kodiholli goes unnoticed as people continue to gather in the dirt and mud where the Airport Road bus stand once stood.

This first burst of infrastructure energy has now given way to a pause, we suspect, on what to do with all the underground infrastructure of water pipes, sewage conduits, telephone cables and fiber optics bundles now exposed. It is a bit ironic that the fiber optic arteries on which the IT industry depends are now helplessly exposed in the dirt and mud for all to walk over or stand upon as they wait for the bus to Kodahalli. Go configure.

Sunday Service

Back in the States, we both looked forward to attending Sunday service either at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Atlanta or Northwest Unitarian Universalist Congregation. We have not found a UU fellowship or church here in Bangalore so we decided to use our Sundays to embark on an Indian religion tour and visit as many diverse houses of worship as we could.

We opted on our first worship pilgrimage to attend a Sunday service of the International Church. The Yellow pages offered an array of choices from the A.G. Worship House to the Yesukrupalaya Church. We had no clue from the Yellow pages what to expect from those houses of worship or how to find them.

From Helen’s Overseas Women’s Club booklet we selected instead the International Church that met at the Taj Gateway Hotel. Once we arrived we discovered that the International Church was the Bangalore International Christian Fellowship. We are all God’s children and we are on a world religion tour. Our greeting by Daphne Bastion (pictured above) was friendly and warm as were the other greetings offered. To Helen’s delight, one of the acquaintances she had made at the Oversees Women’s Club, Jean Kingery, was an active member. Jean led the service, sang songs and introduced Rev. Joseph Stanley who delivered the Message. Originally from the US, Jean has been in India for 20 years helping people who are physically challenged.

Afterwards we shared very strong coffee mixed with hot milk or hot tea and the birthday cake of one of the older members of the Fellowship. We spoke with a young couple with three small children who had been in Nepal since 1995 helping to translate the Bible. Their religious dedication was to be admired.

My Fish Can Beat Up Your Fish…

Despite the great distance from our home in Atlanta, Georgia, we have followed the story of the soon to open Atlanta Aquarium. Yes, we learned that the Atlanta Aquarium is boasting to be 12 ½ times larger than Chattanooga’s fish tank, sparking something of a “fish war” in the Deep South. We have also followed the story of $22 USD tickets to attend the Atlanta Aquarium. Rather than be spectators in these times of “my aquarium is bigger than yours,” we took a trip to Cubbon Park to visit our own Bangalore Aquarium. After all, we are living in a city twice the size of Atlanta. Our aquarium should be able to hold its own admirably.

Our bragging rights, however, were put on hold for at least another weekend. When we arrived, it was closed. A guide book we purchased in the States indicated that the aquarium was opened Tuesday – Sunday and had an entrance fee of Rs 5 (11 cents). We will try again another weekend to become friends of the fish. We think, however, that our bragging rights may need some fisherman-like adjusting. The guidebook went on to describe the Government Aquarium as containing “a few murky tanks downstairs and some more visible tropical fish upstairs.”

Cubbon Park

In the 1800’s, Bangalore’s gentle climate, broad streets and green public parks earned it the title of the “Garden City.” Bangalore today is as much the “Garden City” as New Jersey is the “Garden State.” Buses, cars, and other vehicles propelled by ill-tuned gasoline engines give Bangalore a far less idyllic image than it had 200 years ago. Yet, all is not gone from that garden image.

Cubbon Park sits on the western edge of the old central city. Entering the park, one is greeted by an imposing statue of Queen Victoria, which reminds one of the long legacy between the British and India. The park has several enormous stands of bamboo that tower loftily. Ground squirrels (chipmunks) are numerous as are children who come to the spacious play areas. Along the southern edge of the park are several museums and our Bangalore aquarium.

The grounds of the park are not overly lush and much of it is unkempt. Refreshingly absent is the roar and whine of gasoline engines, which makes walking though the park a pleasant experience.

We’ll Catch a Cab….

We are becoming more skilled at arranging taxi services. So when we arranged for a taxi to attend an Overseas Women’s Club social event that included husbands, we approached the 20 km trip with a sense of confidence. Helen arranged for a taxi to arrive at 7:15 pm that would allow us to arrive by 8:00 pm at the Windsor. When 7:40 came and went but we had not, Helen checked with taxi company. ”Oh, your driver has already arrived.” Hmmmm. The protocol is for the driver to call one’s mobile or house phone upon arrival. No problem; a fashionably late entrance would be our style this evening.

After a little difficulty communicating our destination, we were on our way….or so we thought. After 10 minutes we found the taxi slowing down and our driver pulling to the curbside. The engine stopped. Many attempts at starting the engine resulted in nothing more than a drained battery. Stuck-inside-a-taxi blues.

As we sat in the taxi, we noticed that we were not alone in our troubles.

Across the median, a white car was stopped in the center lane of the heavy stop and go traffic. An enormous bus attempted to pass the stalled car on the right. Inching forward, the bus driver found himself wedged between the foot-high road median and the stalled car. Two thirds of the roadway was now blocked. On the other third, two cows were ambling slowly forward. The perfect Traffic Storm. What a sight and you should have heard the HONKING!

Thirty minutes after we stopped, two of the driver’s colleagues appeared with a two liter plastic Coke bottle filled with petrol. Re-fueled, but without battery, the taxi was now pushed by our driver’s colleagues to jump start the engine. We get out after the first attempt. More attempts; some driving about in a parking lot to fill the fuel lines. We got back into the taxi and drove on to the Windsor Manor. We weren’t the last ones to arrive, either!