First impressions, walking around Kolkata.
Thick traffic, all trying to move at different speeds. Pedestrians, rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, yellow taxis and decrepit mini-buses. The blaring of horns is a ceaseless cacophony. Any and all manueuvres, or just simple proximity to anyone else, requires a sustained blast to let everyone know of your presence. Most trucks and buses have "sound/horn" or similar painted on the back. Most of the cars don't have side mirrors and those few that do drive with them pressed flat into the car doors.
Chai being brewed on a black stove that looks to be both makeshift and a permananent fixture. The large man and skinny lad do it with some flair, intermittently pouring the brew from pan to pan in big flourishing arcs. Broken crockery litters the area, as all the cups are single-use earthenware. A large crowd waiting for their fix watches the three of us (six if you count the backpacks) with amusement and interest.
Goats with weird flat faces are chained to trees and poles, munching through anything thrown in front of them. Living rubbish bins.
The row of shop fronts suddenly opens up to a concrete cube full of hundreds of chickens and a mess of feathers. The floor is slick with blood and four guys are stripped to the waist in the middle of it all, chopping and plucking methodically. One of them shouts "hello!" and waves a cleaver.
Signs of abandoned construction abound, with heaps of broken tiles, gravel or bricks lining the street, permanent obstacles to be navigated around by pedestrians, vehicles and animals.
Pigs, dogs and children rooting through a heap of rubbish as crows swoop and caw. The rubbish spills into the street and it stinks, sure, but not significantly more than the ambient reek.
Really dark skinned men diligently lathering up every inch of their bodies with white foam before rinsing if all off at the communal street-side pumps, while others pump water into jerry cans to drink later.
Every business seems to occupy about two square meters or less - orange juice squeezed while you wait, chapati and roti fried on huge flat pans, fruit, veg, baskets of live chickens, sweetmeats and snacks. A row of men sit on the pavement, operating old-fashioned typewriters, typing up official-looking documents on request.
The cows are just chillin'.
Thick traffic, all trying to move at different speeds. Pedestrians, rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, yellow taxis and decrepit mini-buses. The blaring of horns is a ceaseless cacophony. Any and all manueuvres, or just simple proximity to anyone else, requires a sustained blast to let everyone know of your presence. Most trucks and buses have "sound/horn" or similar painted on the back. Most of the cars don't have side mirrors and those few that do drive with them pressed flat into the car doors.
Chai being brewed on a black stove that looks to be both makeshift and a permananent fixture. The large man and skinny lad do it with some flair, intermittently pouring the brew from pan to pan in big flourishing arcs. Broken crockery litters the area, as all the cups are single-use earthenware. A large crowd waiting for their fix watches the three of us (six if you count the backpacks) with amusement and interest.
Goats with weird flat faces are chained to trees and poles, munching through anything thrown in front of them. Living rubbish bins.
The row of shop fronts suddenly opens up to a concrete cube full of hundreds of chickens and a mess of feathers. The floor is slick with blood and four guys are stripped to the waist in the middle of it all, chopping and plucking methodically. One of them shouts "hello!" and waves a cleaver.
Signs of abandoned construction abound, with heaps of broken tiles, gravel or bricks lining the street, permanent obstacles to be navigated around by pedestrians, vehicles and animals.
Pigs, dogs and children rooting through a heap of rubbish as crows swoop and caw. The rubbish spills into the street and it stinks, sure, but not significantly more than the ambient reek.
Really dark skinned men diligently lathering up every inch of their bodies with white foam before rinsing if all off at the communal street-side pumps, while others pump water into jerry cans to drink later.
Every business seems to occupy about two square meters or less - orange juice squeezed while you wait, chapati and roti fried on huge flat pans, fruit, veg, baskets of live chickens, sweetmeats and snacks. A row of men sit on the pavement, operating old-fashioned typewriters, typing up official-looking documents on request.
The cows are just chillin'.
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