Travel pictures

As mentioned in the helpless story, Bloody Indians like to have items to show for money spent.

Travel is an uneasy exception. You can’t pack it into a suitcase to take back home, but you can take pictures. This is why, if Bloody Indians spend on travel, they’ll graft themselves to a camera – video or still – and document every minute. They have shots of people getting off planes and entering grey terminals. They take pictures of themselves sitting in buses. They sweep the camera over every single stop, as if searching for bugs; even at dreary rest stops that look so much like the previous one you wonder if the bus is going in circles.

You will rarely see a Bloody Indian lift up a camera and simply take a photo of a beautiful view or a monument. They will ALWAYS be a Bloody Indian posed in the picture – incontrovertible proof that “I was there”.

Sometimes, a group of Bloody Indian boys will have just one pair of sunglasses and a cap among it and they take it in turns to wear them and stand like rude Michelangelo’s Davids in front of monuments. If not standing singly, you can be assured they will have their arms tightly around each other.

Bloody Indians will do anything for a photo that impresses. They go up to stranger’s motorcycles and lean on them possessively. Sometimes they even break a biker’s cardinal rule and sit astride them. In this situation, Bloody Indians love Harley-Davidsons most of all.

I have, with my own monkey eyes, seen a fat Bloody Indian in Switzerland go up to a girl at the top of a ski slope, hustle her off her skis and then stand on them, bending over and holding the poles, posing for a picture. The poor girl stood to one side wondering whether to scream for help or just wait until it was over.

It was going to be a long wait. All his friends were in line.

Home and away

Some Bloody Indians are very different people when they travel abroad. Here are some situations in which reactions at home are at odds with the ones in distant lands.

Beggars
In India: “Eh poda thendi. Get lost!! Bloody beggars are such a nuisance. They should all be
shot.”
Abroad: “Oh look, a homeless man – so sad no? Oh yes, there’s a lot of poverty in India too, but I think that’s a good thing because it gives you a sense of place. When you see an armless woman holding a headless baby at a traffic light, it give you a chance to do something for humanity. It’s so humbling. Come let’s give that poor man some coins.”

Licences
In India: “Look at that idiot driving like that. I tell you, the RTO will give licences to any goat that pays money.”
Abroad: “Eh I’ve failed my driving test here 60 times. In India the system is so good men, I can just pay 200 rupees and I’ll get a licence.”

Efficiency
In India: “To get one bank draft I have to talk to 20 people? Get with the times you good-for-nothing inefficient bastards.”
Abroad: “Chee chee chee – look at this... machines to do all the work in two minutes. There’s no human interaction, that’s why these people are like this – so unstable.”

Traffic lights
In India: “Go go go!! Who cares – red, green, blue – just go! Cut him, cut cut cut. Kill the
bugger.”
Abroad: “I know it’s green. I’m just slowing down in case anybody else wants to go. You should be polite on the road.”

Waiters
In India: “Tss tss! Ai! Come here you! Yes, you bloody fellow – look at this, my soup is not hot. Take it back. TAKE IT BACK NOW! I’LL KICK YOU, DONKEY.”
Abroad: “Excuse me please ma’am? If you don’t mind ma’am, pardon me for saying so and being so bold, but my vegetarian pasta has pieces of bloody meat in it. And a caterpillar. I’m so sorry to disturb you miss, but you see, I am a stricccct vegetarian. Yes madam. No no, don’t change it ma’am. I just thought I’d tell you.”

Driving and driving tests

All Bloody Indian men think they are fantastic drivers. Even the ones who don’t drive. A non-driving Bloody Indian in the US was once heard to say, “I’ll be able to pick up driving really easily here because I know all the routes.” (He said “rowtes”.)

He was a constant backseat driver, telling you to wait, telling you to go, telling you to turn right when you were in the furthest lane from the turn, telling you to stop… IT’S A RED LIGHT – WHY WOULDN’T I FUCKING STOP??? IF YOU DON’T TRUST ME TO STOP AT RED LIGHTS, WHY THE FUCK DID YOU ASK ME TO DROP YOU? TAKE A TAXI, OR ARE YOU TOO CHEAP FOR THAT?

Those IT boys are leaving our shores and causing mayhem on the roads of the US. They believe they know all there is to know about driving, and regularly run through stop signs, turn onto main roads without looking, have no clue what a blind spot is, change lanes without indicating…

Making a mistake in a new system is totally understandable, but the Bloody Indian does not believe he’s made a mistake. He’ll blast through a four-way stop sign and then curse the “blind fucking American scoundrel” who tried to run him down.

Good driving here, and there
A “good driver” in civilised societies means somebody who is courteous, aware and safe, but firm. A “good driver” in Bloody India is somebody who steers with one finger, drives with an elbow on the window, goes at three times the speed limit and accelerates and brakes as violently as the car will allow.

Bloody Indians love using the word “control” in this context. “He has great control yaar”.

As a result, some rental companies in the US have started refusing to hire cars to Indian IT boys. Some IT companies have got tired of paying insurance and now use shuttles for their employees.

The number of accidents is astounding. It’s all the Americans’ fault of course. “They don’t know how to drive men. They keep stopping even when there is no traffic on the road. They drive inside those white lines men – don’t they know the car is supposed to be over the lines? Eh, why are you waiting men? Just go.”

You’re an idiot. You don’t know how to drive and you have so much to say? And also, dickwart, after you get out, you don’t need to slam the door so hard. This isn’t your Kailash uncle’s Premier Padmini from the year 1940. It isn’t the door of the Godrej cupboard that your ancestors hid in during the Sepoy Mutiny. It’s a modern car with doors that close with just a push. You slam the door like that again, I’ll cut it off using the boot lid – you’ll find out why we Bloody Indians call it a dicky.

Real driving tests
I lived for a few years in a country that had a lot of Bloody Indians, and also a reasonably difficult driving test. Certainly more difficult than the one I had in India, where the examiner stood on the third floor of the RTO and watched me drive out of the parking lot, around the lane outside (where I was hidden from view most of the way) and back in again. I passed because I remembered to stick my hand out of the window and wave it up and down to signal I was slowing down, and then held it up to signal I was stopping. The man walking in front of my car carrying a red flag did a great job, so I tipped him well.

I met many Bloody Indians who would come to that country for a licence. I became adept at guessing how many tries each person would need. The ones who needed to learn how to drive from scratch, and who were a little nervous before the test, got it fast. Sometimes even on the first go. Most of the women, unless totally uncoordinated, got it in three tries or fewer.

The people who did the worst were the men who already knew how to drive.

One person told me, “I used to drive in India – I could steer with just one hand man – I’m good. I’ll get it first or second try.”

I told him “Ten tests minimum, you fool.” We bet. I won. The asshole backed out and didn’t shave his head.

Most of these people were too bloody minded to learn from their mistakes. There was a little bit of bias against Indians in that country, but not a lot. This would be their excuse. “Bastard examiner, I didn’t do anything wrong. He failed me. Nothing I did men, nothing – and that gandu failed me.”

“There must have been something.”

“No man nothing! I just took a turn a little fast once, but otherwise nothing men, nothing.”

“So you took a turn a little fast?”

“Yes, but he failed me because he hates Indians.”

There it was. A lesson that could have been learned. But because the person believed he’d failed only because of somebody else’s bias, he went and failed again. And again. And again. And again.

Being helpless

Bloody Indians are often infuriatingly helpless when abroad. They expect to have their hands held for them every step of the way. They use the “I’m new here” card for months on end. “I’m new here, can you get me something from the vending machine?”

They have instructions in pictures, stupid.

Some of them get this helplessness so ingrained that they won’t eat unless they’re served. They won’t help load or unload their own suitcases from a car... and they won’t even go and get a trolley. If they’re abroad on work, they’ll know absolutely nothing about the city except for how to get from the office to the hotel.

Only after a couple of visits, will they slowly get to know the few Bloody-Indian-approved spots in the city.

Safe zones
I’m sure you’ve noticed, Bloody Indians are always seen in groups at the same places. That’s because these places have been deemed “safe” by generations of visiting Bloody Indians. Places where the food is not too experimental, and there’s good value for money. Places that have sales and bulk offers. Malls. (Bloody Indians love malls because they are free (most important), impersonal and full of girls to lech at.)

Some Bloody Indians feel so crippled by the exchange rate that they spend barely enough money to survive. Let’s face it, it is difficult when you come from a land where you can get an excellent cup of coffee for ten cents and can eat yourself to death for a couple of dollars.

Some get out of paying for stuff and actually act as if it’s their birthright to have somebody pay for them. “Why the hell should I pay 400 rupees for a sandwich? Let them pay, anyway they’re rich.”

Which is the same as: “Amma. Ammmma. Ammmma? Pay for me no amma? I have rupees amma, and you have dollars. Pay for me no amma?”

GOT SHAME?

In this way, Bloody Indians save lots and lots of money. More money than you would have believed possible. Give an Indian an allowance of $500 dollars a week and he or she will have saved $12,000 after two months. Nobody knows how it’s done. May be God feels upset about these people living on stale eggs and crumbs and gives them some of His own money.

A large portion of this loot is sent back home. After repatriating 90% of it, they’ll still have $4,000 or so. Yes, it’s a miracle and it happens every day. They’ll take this $4,000 to the closest bulk-goods store and spend and spend and spend. They’ll buy four tons of cheap chocolate. One hundred and thirty pairs of Nike trainers. Case loads of shirts and
trousers.

You see, the Bloody Indian believes in having something to show for money spent. Good food and entertainment is for the birds – you can’t pack it into a suitcase and use it impress the folks back home.