Honk If You Love Near-Death Experiences

Here’s a view of Bangalore traffic from the perspective of business travelers staying in a man-made tropical paradise and commuting to an office every day with the car windows rolled up.

We leave The Unwind Island every morning at 9:00 to arrive at work by 9:30. We go down to the hotel lobby, where a driver is waiting to take us. He (always a he) sits on the right-hand front seat, which is the driver’s side. Think opposite; in India the cars stay to the left side of the road, too, so the oncoming traffic is on the right. Some of the roads are divided by medians. Most have many lanes, but no one pays attention to those. In contrast, some of the back streets are unmarked and hardly seem wide enough for two-way traffic.

We pull out, and Bangalore is all around us, bright and noisy and diverse. It rolls by on all sides like a movie as we make our way through a chaotic convergence of cars, trucks, automated rickshaws, motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians, and the occasional donkey cart, all vying to gain the next foot of ground or break in traffic.

All along the road there are little pictures of life in this city: a woman carrying a stack of box cardboard on her head; a shirtless man pushing a bike laden with bright, printed pillows encased in plastic; a brown-and-white cow resting on a traffic island. Yesterday we saw two men urinating and a little child crossing a bridge alone. We passed rows of shanties and rundown shops on our way to the gated office park where Sally and I would be welcomed with bouquets of flowers.

No speed limit signs are posted on these roads, but speed bumps regulate the pace of traffic. Therefore, the way to drive is to reach the highest speed possible before you have to stop again, and then hit the brakes at the last second. We could practically kiss the taillights of the car in front of us.

Turn signals and brake lights mean nothing here. The horn is everything. Signs on the backs of trucks read, “Sound Horn,” and everyone does. The main message conveyed by this universal honking is, “Look out, here I come!” Flesh and metal are close enough to touch, but somehow don’t, as the individual players miss each other again and again by the tiniest of margins.

Accuracy is paramount, for with all of the lanes filled and the cars so close together, there is nowhere to swerve. Sally and I just sit in the back seat and try not to scream.

Even with a driver, it’s hard to relax when you are looking straight-on at a set of truck headlights barreling your way; pedestrians cross the street like cops on TV, weaving in and out of the moving vehicles; and whole families ride the same motorcycle. I hope I still have teeth when I get home; so far I’ve caught myself grinding them every day in the car. You can bet that when we return to The Unwind Island, we’re ready to unwind.

In spite of the craziness of traffic here, serious accidents are rare—especially when you consider the odds with such a crowded population jamming the roads. You do see dents in quite a few of the cars, which should be no surprise. After all, this is BANGalore.