a series of fires alongside of us. I thought they were markers indicating where the road was, for there were no street lamps, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see families cooking meals by these flames. Every twenty feet was another fire with another family. The sides of the road looked like an ongoing campground. These people, I would later discover, were some of the thousands of street people who had left their villages because of the droughts that had rendered their farm lands useless. They had fled to the cities to work and beg for their survival. There was an entire subculture of barbers, bakers, and craftsmen living on the roads plying their trades. The campfires continued and became denser the nearer we came to the center of Bombay.

We arrived at the hotel, which was surrounded by a mass of traffi

The flight over the Arabian Sea from Saudi Arabia was akin to riding on the back of a panicked goose who was alone in the dead of night in a overpowering storm. When one looked out the windows you could see the wings moving up and down. The jet buckled, lurched, plunged, and banged into air pockets, righting itself time and time again. The cabinets above our seats burst open littering their contents on the occupants below. I had never experienced turbulence like this before, nor have I experienced that degree of turbulence since. I was both mesmerized and awe struck by the flexibility of the wings.

When I deplaned I was intoxicated. When I attempted to buy some rupees I was upbraided by the clerk behind the window for entering his country in this condition. I apologized profusely and staggered out into the hot and humid night where I might catch a taxi cab. There were cabs lined up for miles waiting, I assumed, to pick up passengers. This was not the case. Gathered outside of the airport was an ugly mob. They carried clubs, empty bottles, rocks, and signs. I tried to figure out what was causing the uproar, and finally asked a porter.

“The cab drivers are on strike,” he replied.

Not all the drivers were on strike. There were some brave scabs who were cashing in on the misfortunes of the striking drivers. These scabs would wait outside, away from the crowd. A handful of police protected them. Then when a cab was needed a porter would signal, and the cab would come racing in at high speeds so as to frighten the strikers. It didn’t always work. If the cab driver wasn’t especially brutal, he would stop before the onslaught of strikers who would jump out into his path. Usually they would jump away at the last minute, but the driver could never be sure. And as he went through the crowd, he was pummeled with stones and bottles. The porter informed me that on one occasion the mob had broken through and rocked a cab over on its side and beaten the driver.

I watched several passengers get into cabs, lower themselves to the floorboards and then speed away through the mob. The porter hailed me a cab, and I ducked into the back seat. The driver revved up his engine, ground it into gear and sped off. I sat up watching how the mob in front of us closed in. As is my peculiar nature in stressful situations, I began to crack impromptu jokes and laugh. The driver turned for a brief second to look at me as if I were a madman, which perhaps I am, and I could see the terror on his face. His look alerted me to our real danger. The clubs smashed against the roof, a bottle broke against the window, and young boys jumped out in front of the cab, preying upon the driver’s humanitarian impulses not to hurt them.

He slowed.

The crowd surged up against the side of the cab. They tried to open the doors. I felt the cab being rocked from side to side. The driver was screaming with fear. I watched as he shoved the car into first gear and laid on the horn. He accelerated dangerously into the mass of bodies; they melted away from the cab. He picked up speed and soon we were cruising at forty miles an hour away from the airport.

My surge of protective adrenalin transformed itself into a case of post traumatic shakes.

As we continued down the road, I noticed a series of fires alongside of us. I thought they were markers indicating where the road was, for there were no street lamps, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see families cooking meals by these flames. Every twenty feet was another fire with another family. The sides of the road looked like an ongoing campground. These people, I would later discover, were some of the thousands of street people who had left their villages because of the droughts that had rendered their farm lands useless. They had fled to the cities to work and beg for their survival. There was an entire subculture of barbers, bakers, and craftsmen living on the roads plying their trades. The campfires continued and became denser the nearer we came to the center of Bombay.

We arrived at the hotel, which was surrounded by a mass of traffic

humid night where I might catch a taxi cab. There were cabs lined up for miles waiting, I assumed, to pick up passengers. This was not the case. Gathered outside of the airport was an ugly mob. They carried clubs, empty bottles, rocks, and signs. I tried to figure out what was causing the uproar, and finally asked a porter.

“The cab drivers are on strike,” he replied.

Not all the drivers were on strike. There were some brave scabs who were cashing in on the misfortunes of the striking drivers. These scabs would wait outside, away from the crowd. A handful of police protected them. Then when a cab was needed a porter would signal, and the cab would come racing in at high speeds so as to frighten the strikers. It didn’t always work. If the cab driver wasn’t especially brutal, he would stop before the onslaught of strikers who would jump out into his path. Usually they would jump away at the last minute, but the driver could never be sure. And as he went through the crowd, he was pummeled with stones and bottles. The porter informed me that on one occasion the mob had broken through and rocked a cab over on its side and beaten the driver.

I watched several passengers get into cabs, lower themselves to the floorboards and then speed away through the mob. The porter hailed me a cab, and I ducked into the back seat. The driver revved up his engine, ground it into gear and sped off. I sat up watching how the mob in front of us closed in. As is my peculiar nature in stressful situations, I began to crack impromptu jokes and laugh. The driver turned for a brief second to look at me as if I were a madman, which perhaps I am, and I could see the terror on his face. His look alerted me to our real danger. The clubs smashed against the roof, a bottle broke against the window, and young boys jumped out in front of the cab, preying upon the driver’s humanitarian impulses not to hurt them.

He slowed.

The crowd surged up against the side of the cab. They tried to open the doors. I felt the cab being rocked from side to side. The driver was screaming with fear. I watched as he shoved the car into first gear and laid on the horn. He accelerated dangerously into the mass of bodies; they melted away from the cab. He picked up speed and soon we were cruising at forty miles an hour away from the airport.

My surge of protective adrenalin transformed itself into a case of post traumatic shakes.

As we continued down the road, I noticed a series of fires alongside of us. I thought they were markers indicating where the road was, for there were no street lamps, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see families cooking meals by these flames. Every twenty feet was another fire with another family. The sides of the road looked like an ongoing campground. These people, I would later discover, were some of the thousands of street people who had left their villages because of the droughts that had rendered their farm lands useless. They had fled to the cities to work and beg for their survival. There was an entire subculture of barbers, bakers, and craftsmen living on the roads plying their trades. The campfires continued and became denser the nearer we came to the center of Bombay.

We arrived at the hotel, which was surrounded by a mass of traffi

of strikers who would jump out into his path. Usually they would jump away at the last minute, but the driver could never be sure. And as he went through the crowd, he was pummeled with stones and bottles. The porter informed me that on one occasion the mob had broken through and rocked a cab over on its side and beaten the driver.

I watched several passengers get into cabs, lower themselves to the floorboards and then speed away through the mob. The porter hailed me a cab, and I ducked into the back seat. The driver revved up his engine, ground it into gear and sped off. I sat up watching how the mob in front of us closed in. As is my peculiar nature in stressful situations, I began to crack impromptu jokes and laugh. The driver turned for a brief second to look at me as if I were a madman, which perhaps I am, and I could see the terror on his face. His look alerted me to our real danger. The clubs smashed against the roof, a bottle broke against the window, and young boys jumped out in front of the cab, preying upon the driver’s humanitarian impulses not to hurt them.

He slowed.

The crowd surged up against the side of the cab. They tried to open the doors. I felt the cab being rocked from side to side. The driver was screaming with fear. I watched as he shoved the car into first gear and laid on the horn. He accelerated dangerously into the mass of bodies; they melted away from the cab. He picked up speed and soon we were cruising at forty miles an hour away from the airport.

My surge of protective adrenalin transformed itself into a case of post traumatic shakes.

As we continued down the road, I noticed a series of fires alongside of us. I thought they were markers indicating where the road was, for there were no street lamps, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see families cooking meals by these flames. Every twenty feet was another fire with another family. The sides of the road looked like an ongoing campground. These people, I would later discover, were some of the thousands of street people who had left their villages because of the droughts that had rendered their farm lands useless. They had fled to the cities to work and beg for their survival. There was an entire subculture of barbers, bakers, and craftsmen living on the roads plying their trades. The campfires continued and became denser the nearer we came to the center of Bombay.

We arrived at the hotel, which was surrounded by a mass of traffi

I could see the terror on his face. His look alerted me to our real danger. The clubs smashed against the roof, a bottle broke against the window, and young boys jumped out in front of the cab, preying upon the driver’s humanitarian impulses not to hurt them.

He slowed.

The crowd surged up against the side of the cab. They tried to open the doors. I felt the cab being rocked from side to side. The driver was screaming with fear. I watched as he shoved the car into first gear and laid on the horn. He accelerated dangerously into the mass of bodies; they melted away from the cab. He picked up speed and soon we were cruising at forty miles an hour away from the airport.

My surge of protective adrenalin transformed itself into a case of post traumatic shakes.

As we continued down the road, I noticed a series of fires alongside of us. I thought they were markers indicating where the road was, for there were no street lamps, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see families cooking meals by these flames. Every twenty feet was another fire with another family. The sides of the road looked like an ongoing campground. These people, I would later discover, were some of the thousands of street people who had left their villages because of the droughts that had rendered their farm lands useless. They had fled to the cities to work and beg for their survival. There was an entire subculture of barbers, bakers, and craftsmen living on the roads plying their trades. The campfires continued and became denser the nearer we came to the center of Bombay.

We arrived at the hotel, which was surrounded by a mass of traffi

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