Elitist road hog.

Currently, I'm not far from the locale that boasts the highest rainfall in the world. Cherrapunji, cops an average of forty feet of rainfall, per year.

Moist ehhh?

Darjeeling's not too far off the pace, and we are mid monsoon. The rainfall here is what they meant when they penned the word torrential.

Yesterday, in the usual manic flurry that precedes departure, from any where, we discovered, on our guest house wall, a small sign.

Actually, a very small sign.

In a dark alcove.

Covered in spiderweb.

Saying, "10% service charge, on food, and accommodation."

We only found this cunning little sign, after being in residence four days. We also found the tax grossly unjust. We are, after all, but poor back packers…

Well, they can jam it. We didn't come all the way to India, to pay tax. Refusal to pay, was our only option.
Why not, it is India.

So, battle plans were drawn up. Unfortunately, amid this escape strategy session, a widow maker of a joint, went around the room. Soon, my tactical nerve, was shot.

So I nominated myself, to head down the market, to arrange our tactical escape jeep. Every good escape, needs a get away car.

This was my task.

As it was pissing down, in a most monsoonal manner, there was no argument. While the boys locked horns with the forces of evil, over the tyrannical tax terms, I would slink away, returning with a vehicle to whisk us to freedom.

I had already grown weary of the constant rupee melee, that ensues, every time you leave, anywhere in india.
So I grabbed my umbrella, and headed off for the market.

Bit like a fairytale, isn't it?
"If you, go down to the woods today..........."

The moment I stepped out the door, I realized how stoned I was. Like, the sort of stoned that sees you get hopelessly lost, for hours, in your own house. Dajeeling, is a fucking rabbits warren of streets, alleys, and ludicrously steep stairways, all perched precariously, on the side of a mountain (the Himalayas, actually). So I knew immediately, I was doomed, to wander, for many moons, in search of the elusive escape jeep.

What I hadn't counted on, was the weird, and wonderful world, of Indian umbrella etiquette. It's like hard core pedestrian road rules. And, to break them is to feel raw subcontinental wrath and scorn…

And so off I set, with my umbrella over my head, like a satellite dish. Initially alone, on an isolated lane way, my only worry, was the cant, on which to hold the umbrella. What priority for dryness, front, or back. This, had assumed a massive allegorical significance for me.

After one hundred metres or so, I'd settled on what I thought was a fairly jaunty angle, an integral fusion of function, and fashion.

Figured I was lookin good.......

And then, traffic.

At first, the odd umbrella driver spun by, and I figured, by just keepin left, I should be safe as houses.
But then, an intersection. Four or five drivers converging at once, no hand signals, no obvious display of intent. "Jesus mate, I'm not a fucking mind reader...."

My form, was appalling. While other drivers ducked and weaved with stylish elan, I stalled, then got rammed from behind. Taking off, totally flustered, I missed a gear in my panic, and clipped a young girl.

"Get it together man, you're only walking down a laneway", I mentally admonished my self. A brief respite emerged, I pulled over to the left, and gathered my senses. Basically, it must, to all intents, and purposes, be the same as walking down a street, in sunlight. Except, you have to allow for the five feet of overhang, above your scone.
Sweet. I mean, I was never going to be an expert straight off. How many of my Aussie compatriots, have been in an umbrella traffic snarl lately? Bugger all, I'll bet.

So, studiously factoring in my umbrella overhang, I pulled out into very intermittent traffic. And carefully observed incoming umbrellas.

Which was sweet, until I almost fell down an open drain...

It was touch, and go; and totally shattered my newfound confidence. Once again, I pulled over and tried to mentally regroup. The new strategy had to be, total awareness, of everything from the ground, to eight feet in the air. Which involves much neck movement, and shiftiness of the eyes. I was now proceeding down the lane way, fairly safely.
I also looked like an insanely paranoid fugitive. Or, a totally stoned idiot.

Man, I had to get a look of even vague nonchalance, or I would surely be arrested. What followed, were the moves of a bumbling stoned umbrella virgin, frantically trying to look cool. Growing increasingly desperate, I even tried whistling...

Tragic.

I was at a loss, and was convinced everyone was staring at me. What to do? Trying the standard stoned approach of keeping my head down, and avoiding eye contact, was fraught with danger, as I couldn't see where I was going, beyond being able to negotiate my way around incoming traffic, judged only by the shoe size of the incoming vehicle. Plenty of other motorists seem to be able to zoom along in this manner. When I tried, I was inevitably overtaken, with glares of contemptuous scorn. Speeding up was perilously unsafe, without increased visibility. I needed to at least fake, a look of competence.

Fortunately, all these image technicalities were erased from my mind, as I reached the end of the lane way, and struck, traffic.

Not just traffic, no, this was the mad, swirling vortex of umbrella peak hour. It was still pissing down, and before me lay more active umbrellas than I had ever seen in my life.

There seemed to be thousands of them roaring along, a river of colour and chaos.

Dumbstruck, I stood, petrified, until I was rammed from behind, by two umbrellas at once, and sent reeling into the maelstrom.

Jeeeeesus…. It was madness. I felt like a drunkard, lurching blindly into oncoming traffic. People cursed me and my ineptitude; then, my first accident. One of the tips of my umbrella snagged into a multicoloured unit, and we were stuck. A young Nepalese man popped out from his estranged vehicle, to see who had hooked him.
And there stood I, in a state of total paranoid confusion. He smiled broadly, untangled our vehicles, and with a wink, was on his way.

This snapped me out of my malaise. I threw my umbrella into second, and took off. Going with the flow proved relatively trouble free, its the incoming traffic that presents the problems.
Who goes up, who goes down?

Who ducks, who weaves?

Who brakes, who accelerates?

Why can't these people speak English?

And bear in mind, that if you duck, and weave at the same time, you re liable to bring the rim, the gutter, of you umbrella, too close to the passing motorist, which will soak them with your run off.

This, is not done. It is possibly the greatest social transgression, aside from running someone down, as it utterly defeats the purpose of the umbrella in the first place.

Give too much room in your counter collision maneuvers, and you're likely to snag your opposite neighbor. Then there are the alcoves that overhang every shop you pass. They're at a height of about seven feet, usually constructed of rusty corrugated iron, and will slice through your umbrella before you can say Jack Robinson.
And then there's the hideous traffic faux par of driving someone else into an alcove; the automotive equivalent, of running someone off the road. It's simply not on. I copped a torrent of abuse from a couple of Nepalese crones for one such indiscretion.

Getting about Darjeeling, wielding an umbrella, is not easy.

Once I'd got into the swing of just going forward, I settled down a little. And took time to check out fellow motorists.
A mixed bunch.

It becomes obvious that, as in all spheres of life, there are some, inconsiderate wankers, who make things difficult for everyone else. This is apparent in both behavior, and vehicle choice.

For example, the bouguize bastards, who motor about, with enormous black umbrellas, with no apparent regard, for anyone else on the road. These vehicles are very heavy, and as a result, their sturdy build ensures they can literally snow plough lesser umbrella's out of the way. They look like blundering Mercedes limousines. And are usually driven, by fat bastards. If there was coverage up here, these pricks would invariably be on mobiles.
And in your fury at the attitudes of these lumbering road hogs, you may momentarily be a tad less observant than usual. This, is when you are liable to collide with, or just trample, a toadstool.

Toadstools, are little kiddies with umbrellas. Sometimes, they don't even come up to your knees. Usually brightly coloured, and always weaving about in a carefree, exuberant manner, they can be a real hazard.
No body wants to kick a kiddie in the face.

And as with all pecking orders, there is the aspect of conspicuous consumption.

How much, did your umbrella cost?

Is it the latest?

You can pick up a shonky, thrashed second hand number, from one of the many dodgy roadside umbrella dealers. Despite their effusive protestations that this number was only driven on Sundays, no warranties are given, or implied.

Then there's the even dodgier panel shops. Here, you can have your umby knocked back into shape, for a guaranteed fair price. Patch up holes, replace struts…

Parts, can be a bastard, complications, are common.

Then there's the vast miasma of colour schemes, and what they mean. This, I could get no real bearing on. Except, the wealthy, in line with there genteel contempt of those around them, usually went for black.

As you can imagine, my grappling with the quandary of umbrella decorum, saw me totally forget the true point of my meanderings. To get an escape jeep.

This came to me, after about twenty minutes of incredibly stoned umbrella motoring. By now, I was no longer in a total panic. I appeared to be treated by the locals with the wary defensiveness one usually reserves for L plate drivers at home.

I was drifting towards that dangerous, overconfident stage. As the thought struck me, that I actually, did, need to find a jeep, I figured, I needed, to turn right. Up a flight of stairs, into oncoming traffic. I veered right, in an overly flamboyant manner, and crashed straight into an incoming Indian, from a lower social strata.

The collision was at a decent speed, and I saw, with horror, that I had punched my umbrella, through the edge of his.

Fortunately for me, he was driving a Panamanian registered heap of shit.

Hoping to reverse away before he saw the extent of the damage, I was again hit from behind. Vehicles piled up, people started bleating like their gob was their horn, and, it was on.

The Indian I'd just T Boned saw the extent of the damage, and was none too happy. Neither were the other impatient motorists.

From here, the drama unfolded like every car accident you've ever been involved in, the only difference was, we didn't exchange insurance details.

I felt like an Asian in Balga, who'd just side swiped an original GT Falcon, with a Hyundi Excell.

A yabbering mob gathered, cursing and admonishing me, no one was on my side. What could I do. Amid furious protestations, and demands of fiscal recompense, I fucked off.

It wasn't easy.

Naturally, I was convinced, I was being followed. Down the dark lanes of Darjeeling.

This spiraling paranoia, was only circumvented by my stumbling upon the square, where I was meant to hire the jeep from.

This snapped me into the next stage of stoned. From now on, Darjeeling would not defeat me again.

Keen to get a handle on things, I launched myself into the NATO standard haggling cataclysm, with gusto.

Cut a mean deal; the jeep would be at our guest house, in ten minutes. Then I fled, back to the guesthouse, where my compares lay in waiting for the get away car.

Naturally, despite the fact I was sure I'd been gone for days on my umbrella odyssey, I arrived back at the height of the tax evasion firestorm. And was promptly thrown into the midst of it, by being given the deciding vote, on whether to pay or not.

It was grim. Aside from the skuldugerous tax, they'd been good to us. The battle had obviously been vicious, as both Kal, and Scott looked drained. The guesthouse owners had even wheeled out an invalid parent, to articulate their fiscal impoverishment. But my traumatic umbrella experience, had stiffened my resolve.

"Fuck the tax", I said, and made two more enemies, in India.

Jesus, I've got to stop smoking.

Over and out…

Nepali Epilogue…

Further to my effusive musings on umbrella etiquette; I've discovered a practice, that, while no doubt socially repugnant, certainly cuts through traffic.

You simply, spin your umbrella. The effect, is to modify, elevate, the angle of displacement, of the water. What originally fell downwards, can now, also, be projected, outwards.

With me?

Now, you can displace water, with a measure of hostility. Depending on the rotation speed you adopt, you can spray people, who pass you by, even if they give you eight feet of clearance. To be innocuous with your newfound waterborne treachery, start your rotation late, so your victim doesn't see it coming. And keep your revs low, so you only wet their legs. This, is likely to be mistaken, for splashes emanating from roadside puddles, rather than the actions of a sociopathic umbrella driver.

However, if you want to really nail your colours to the mast, crank up the rotation. You'll shower fellow motorists on their lower arms, and upwards. They will feel this immediately, and it will draw to you much malice, and scorn; occasionally, just what you're after. The ultimate cue, is to temporarily blind someone. I haven't pulled this off yet, but believe it would take a fairly high rpm.

And who knows, at those sorts of revs, you might take off.

And fly.

Like a Nepalese Mary Poppins......

Mw