Villagers go walkabout herding goats with a staff. As I pass by I wonder why the goats do not simply run away. Even if the goats are enslaved and ultimately killed for their meat, they do seem to have a happier life compared to western farm animals. Its a pleasure to watch the kids goats bouncing along the road as I bike approaches, and I wriggle my way through the mass.
Another thing I have noticed here is that Indian barbers only seem to have knowledge of one specific way of cutting hair. Every Indian male I see invariably has his hair neatly combed across the top of the head, with a obvious parting at the side of the head. It did not matter how many times I ruffled my hair in front of him, the barber still gave me the Indian cut. Afterwards, I re-styled it and ended up with a weird thin quiff at the front, and short everywhere else.
Back at the Francis(the elderly Irishman)’s restaurant , an argument broke out when Francis asked for the toilet to be sluiced. He took umbrage to the fact that three of the male staff stood around with their arms folded. He finally lost his cool when his Indian wife told him that the men in these parts would not do that sort of job (and would not pick up any litter either for that matter).
“Right”, he cried, “I’ll do it myself”, and in to the outhouse he marched with a bucketful of water.
Although Indian people tend not to be overly welcoming or friendly, there is very little that seems to ruffle them. Maybe it is their spiritual dimension at work, or maybe they have just become de-sensitised by the noise and traffic of India’s streets. I dropped my bicycle into the local shop for a service and while walking back to my guesthouse, I decided to chance thumbing a lift. Within seconds I was on the back of a stranger’s motorbike who dropped me half way home. Thinking this was a fluke, I walked on, holding my thumb out again just in case. A moment later and another biker (himself running a solar-lighting business) picked me up and dropped me back to the village. Here it is normal but in the west, the default assumption is that hitch-hikers are dangerous, and people who pick them up are clinically insane.
If there is a moral to the story it must be to go with the flow of the world around you, take the positives, shrug off the negatives, keep doing whatever makes you happy and enjoy the ride.