People of India, impressions so far... naughty and nice!

As I scribble this most recent of delicate edicts, I am in an internet cafe in Goa, beside the beach with the sun setting, really v beautiful. I made it from Kovalam, up to Allepey where I stayed on a boat on the Keralan backwaters there before heading up the mountains to Perriyar and Kumali, finally to Kochi and train to Goa where I now find myself. But like I was saying, as I scribble this most recent of delicate edictsI turn to the people of India, for the little over 7 days that I have known them they've had quite an impact on me. I always think the best representation of a country is through its people, that's why at one stage Ireland was known as the country of a thousand welcomes due to their often amourous approach to dealing out the pints and randomly chatting to any stranger who wandered into their local, "ar ya forrin are ya... ye look it!". Now, with the world knowing Ireland for the fact it has rendered itself in the mother of all economic mires, not to mention the gormless edjit that is Cowen throwing his big car crash head and making shapes on every telly broadcast we're known for an altogether different reason. You may not think I'm going anywhere with this ut I am, I promise. To get the negative out of the way first I begin with the issue of tipping, begging and rip off scams.
I cannot think of a single town, village or city that I have visited so far in this heluva massive country in which I have not be pulled, dragged, heckled or otherwise attemptedly drawn to try and buy some overpriced piece of tack from some stall vender, be is the latest greatest newest and more improved llungi (type of scarf), to eat at every restaurant with every concievable food type and name on the menu (always curried though) or, well basically just anything that is going to add further weight to my 17kg bag.
They're one thing, and boy are they one thing, one big thing with your big western head on ye and your supposed loadsa money (I now refer to the above para containing reference to the finiancal sh1thole the emerald isle now finds itself it with Captain Calamity and his band of merry pirates at the helm), the people of India should know, if they bothered watching the news, when they ask where I'm from, "Ireland", they should probably be doing the apologising on my behalf and splitting their hard begged or scammed ruppees with me for all that I've got to head back to.
You get hawked at everywhere you go, day 1 Mumbai, I went to buy an Indian SIM card and only for the fact I'd had the forsight to ask at the hotel how much one should cost, the cheeky b'tard say 399rps... they cost 66rps, and after much conflaberation and a threat to walk out of the shop he sold me one at 100rps with the 34rps credited to my pay as you go account. But one of many such tales, the taxi/ tuk-tuk drivers are the best though, at least their seminally good humoured about the fact they're trying to rip you off and when you tell them to "get away with yourself" in the broadest Cavan accent I can muster, they generally succumb and split their initial asking price in half. I have no idea why I'm paying for it in the first class, they're cramped, uncomfortable, they honk every 5 seconds as if there is going to be a curfew on honking and they're looking to meet a quota and, well these little mechanised traffic clogging bullets of death and back to my earlier point that they should again split the price difference even further if they're planning on making me wet my pants by shooting into open traffic with big grinny heads on them as I'm pinned to the seat, white knuckled with what can only be described as a grimmace.
And that brings me nicely to traffic, of which in India, driving is pretty much like Fight Club. 'First rule of driving in India... there are no rules. Second rule of driving in India... don't speak about rules of the road. Third rule of driving in India... there are no rules!', pretty much like that!
I have nearly being knocked down on pretty much every single day of this journey and the trip up to the mountains, on which I had dedicated driver was, well, to put it simply, the single most terrifying experience of my entire short lived life. Not only were the roads packed... with people walking on them, and even an elephant at one stage, but back to the people, some of whom were walking at least 180km to a temple in some far flung corner of the south for a bless yourself and an Our Father before heading back again, but the road surfaces themselves, well... in some places there just plain wasnt any. 'Money', my driver, I sound like such a pompuous colonial when I say that, but yeah, Money (is actual name, if that was a sign of things to come) drove this car like his life depended on it, and not in a good way, like a Sandra Bullock Speed kinda way, Great Escape over the fence, Tom Cruise Days of Thunder kinda way! on these dirt tracks, I soon learned that two Panadol and the sick travel bands my sis gave me were the perfect accompaniment to every journey.
The people of India, bar the bad experiences I've had, really are amazing, so friendly. Genuinely interested in you and why you wanted to come to their country. From what I've seen, Indian's do their best to make themselves look as western as they can. I saw a guy in a pair of cowboy boots and 10 gallon hat in Mumbai... it was 30 degrees, and not one advertisement seems to show an Indian-y Indian if you catch my drift. They're all, well, white-ish. Which brings me to the next next point, which is white skin worship. I had my first experience of being asked to pose for a photo the other yesterday while waiting for the train to Goa (the trains I leave for another blog), yer man was then upset with the photo which he took on his phone, at which time an admiring crowd had gathered and I was preparing my poor self to vogue for him Madonna style, but he was unhappy, not at the fact that he'd just taken a pic of my puss mug, but because his phone wasn't good enough in the light of the eve, genuinely upset!
The station, which I will leave is another part of India which combines another element of their culture, the distinct lack of personal space. Me from the fields has coped particularly badly with this. Indians do not queue, obviously something the English forgot to tell them about, but queuing is a mere, well not a suggestion, more a figment of imagination. As I begged the enquiries desk at the station which I will go into more detail later, about 40 others clamours over me and my bags, putting their faces close to mine, the buses too. And they treat each other similarly, its nothing for two men to walk down the street hand in hand. Before I'm accused of gay-bashing here I'm alluding to nothing of the sort, but they hold hands and tickle each others fingers, fully grown men I'm talking about here... its just wierd alright!
But what I leave til last is their friendliness, kindness, compassion for one looking so rabbit caught in the headlights as I sometime and their willingness to help if they can. Match that with a decent hospitable nature and great cooking when the curry fever leaves me (just for breakfast, I can't hack it for breakfast!), all in all India really is a v special place to be.