Whose idea was this?
May 23, 2008
Holy cow! Literally. We're stuck somewhere in India in a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti. There's no going back now...
'In exalted temperatures replete with dust, the Scaglietti's never miss a V12 beat'
Never a good time to hit a cow. Not a sacred one and not in a Ferrari. It came from nowhere, out of the dusk, smack bang into the middle of the road. Braking is out of the question with a phalanx of motorised gawpers in close pursuit. A big swerve is the only option.
The 612's nose swings right with a wrench at the
wheel, and the holy ruminant then decides to head for the Scaglietti's left flank instead of turning on its hooves to bugger off back where it came from. Another tug at the wheel sends the big car back left leaving the bovid just enough room to scrape the door with its steel nose ring and leave a silvery snot trail all along the Mugello Rosso coachwork. Could have been worse - it could have been dead, and the driver (me) sentenced to infinity hours community service cleaning temple toilets. Gods (those three million Hindu deities) move in a mysterious way.
Indian roads are in no way the exclusive preserve of vehicular traffic. "Indians," Rahat, one of our guides, tells us, "do not see the road as left and right, or right of way and give way - but just as the road." That goes for critters too. Farmers thresh crops on the tarmac, pedlars set up shop at the most hazardous junctions, auto-rickshaws think nothing of driving the wrong way down dual carriageways. The average UK traffic cop would be apoplectic within two minutes of starting a shift.
The 612's nose swings right with a wrench at the
wheel, and the holy ruminant then decides to head for the Scaglietti's left flank instead of turning on its hooves to bugger off back where it came from. Another tug at the wheel sends the big car back left leaving the bovid just enough room to scrape the door with its steel nose ring and leave a silvery snot trail all along the Mugello Rosso coachwork. Could have been worse - it could have been dead, and the driver (me) sentenced to infinity hours community service cleaning temple toilets. Gods (those three million Hindu deities) move in a mysterious way.Indian roads are in no way the exclusive preserve of vehicular traffic. "Indians," Rahat, one of our guides, tells us, "do not see the road as left and right, or right of way and give way - but just as the road." That goes for critters too. Farmers thresh crops on the tarmac, pedlars set up shop at the most hazardous junctions, auto-rickshaws think nothing of driving the wrong way down dual carriageways. The average UK traffic cop would be apoplectic within two minutes of starting a shift.
>'These two GT's are like nothing the locals have clapped eyes on (and we're in the sticks with extra sticks here)'
If you've a tendency to embrace the hi-vis, health-and-safety end of the human existence spectrum, then India is not the place for you. If, however, you don't mind taking your chances and back yourself to make it through via a combination of outrageous fortune and vestigial 
survival skills, you'll be right at home.
When someone asks if you'd like to drive a Ferrari from Goa to Bangalore - yes is the only answer. When they tell you the driving will be done in convoy, the answer is still yes. When you find the convoy moving as fast as the lead vehicle (a mine-proofed Iveco monster truck), it's still churlish to moan.
Variously sandwiched between the lead 'tank', two Tata copies of Renault Traffic crewbuses, a Fiat Cinquecento, Fiat Bravo, and other sundry light commercials, these two 612 Scagliettis are like Haile Gebrselassie and Paula Radcliffe engaged in a fun run with the morbidly obese. Except this little jog lasts five days.
In their special raspberry ripple paint jobs with
various laser-cut partner/sponsor logos lovingly applied, these two Gran Turismos are like nothing the locals have clapped eyes on (and we are in the sticks with extra sticks here). We are mobbed at every stop along the way. And there are plenty of stops - scheduled and unscheduled.
survival skills, you'll be right at home.When someone asks if you'd like to drive a Ferrari from Goa to Bangalore - yes is the only answer. When they tell you the driving will be done in convoy, the answer is still yes. When you find the convoy moving as fast as the lead vehicle (a mine-proofed Iveco monster truck), it's still churlish to moan.
Variously sandwiched between the lead 'tank', two Tata copies of Renault Traffic crewbuses, a Fiat Cinquecento, Fiat Bravo, and other sundry light commercials, these two 612 Scagliettis are like Haile Gebrselassie and Paula Radcliffe engaged in a fun run with the morbidly obese. Except this little jog lasts five days.
In their special raspberry ripple paint jobs with
various laser-cut partner/sponsor logos lovingly applied, these two Gran Turismos are like nothing the locals have clapped eyes on (and we are in the sticks with extra sticks here). We are mobbed at every stop along the way. And there are plenty of stops - scheduled and unscheduled.The first unplanned halt occurs high in the hills east of Goa's state capital Panaji. Bumper-to-bumper with reconstituted 1970s trucks very heavily laden with anything from huge boulders to bulging bales of unspecified vegetation, the Ferrari caravan crawls up the narrow thoroughfare. When a local truck grinds to a stop, all burning clutch and shouting, everything else does too. Not
being entirely familiar with Ferrari's latest 'mannetino' gearshift system, I am surprised when having selected first gear I depress the throttle and find the car moving backwards into the substantial front bumper of an Ashok-Leyland tipper. I try again hoping that this is perhaps an electronic aberration. Same thing.
By this time, the Ferrari mechanics have sussed there might be a motion issue and hotfoot it back up the hill to assist the inglese. Sure enough, there's some reverse failsafe in the system for a car pointing downhill with a rookie at the wheel, and normal service is shortly resumed. But not for the hundreds of overburdened trucks that have to make a hill start again, just when they really didn't want to. Sorry.
This is the first day of full exposure to Indian interior driving. The photographers getting flung every which way in the back of a pick-up was gut-bustingly funny for us and eye-wateringly painful for them, but then came the gruesome aftermaths of head-on truck crashes.
being entirely familiar with Ferrari's latest 'mannetino' gearshift system, I am surprised when having selected first gear I depress the throttle and find the car moving backwards into the substantial front bumper of an Ashok-Leyland tipper. I try again hoping that this is perhaps an electronic aberration. Same thing.By this time, the Ferrari mechanics have sussed there might be a motion issue and hotfoot it back up the hill to assist the inglese. Sure enough, there's some reverse failsafe in the system for a car pointing downhill with a rookie at the wheel, and normal service is shortly resumed. But not for the hundreds of overburdened trucks that have to make a hill start again, just when they really didn't want to. Sorry.
This is the first day of full exposure to Indian interior driving. The photographers getting flung every which way in the back of a pick-up was gut-bustingly funny for us and eye-wateringly painful for them, but then came the gruesome aftermaths of head-on truck crashes.
>'Truckies are cavalier when it comes to using warning triangles. Rocks and branches are the favoured materials'
Fast and loose is the style for Indian truckers. Blind overtakes are the norm - and when it goes wrong, it goes really wrong. With most of the antique heavy haulers in the cabover style, those flat fronts make for ugly face-plants when it all goes bad - and sans seat belts a head-on is a very much a dead-on.
The truckies are cavalier to a fault when it comes
to the correct use of warning triangles. These are used solely for decorative purposes, nailed to the front of ornate cabs or suspended in the more Spartan boudoirs of these knights of the road. Rocks and branches are the favoured materials for warning markers. Naturally.
In a place so unstintingly poor, there's an unavoidable unease about swanning around in cars of such worth. But India is also unashamedly ambitious, and the questions fired at we occupants of these swanky vehicles through open windows as we cruise the dirt roads of the vast interior are those of people somehow convinced their time at the 'have' end of the rich list will come: "How much is it?" "What sort of mileage do you get?" The more appropriate "What on earth do you think you're playing at?" never happens. The game is spreading the gospel of Ferrari in a fashion no advertising spend could match. Page after page of luscious cars in jaw-dropping territory cannot fail to wow. And we drivers are an unwitting part of a Ferrari movie too. Hence the need to keep all in convoy, line astern, shipshape and all that.
The truckies are cavalier to a fault when it comes
to the correct use of warning triangles. These are used solely for decorative purposes, nailed to the front of ornate cabs or suspended in the more Spartan boudoirs of these knights of the road. Rocks and branches are the favoured materials for warning markers. Naturally.In a place so unstintingly poor, there's an unavoidable unease about swanning around in cars of such worth. But India is also unashamedly ambitious, and the questions fired at we occupants of these swanky vehicles through open windows as we cruise the dirt roads of the vast interior are those of people somehow convinced their time at the 'have' end of the rich list will come: "How much is it?" "What sort of mileage do you get?" The more appropriate "What on earth do you think you're playing at?" never happens. The game is spreading the gospel of Ferrari in a fashion no advertising spend could match. Page after page of luscious cars in jaw-dropping territory cannot fail to wow. And we drivers are an unwitting part of a Ferrari movie too. Hence the need to keep all in convoy, line astern, shipshape and all that.
It doesn't pay to break ranks. After too many hours at snail's pace, my will to toe the line snaps, and with an open road inviting, this 612 cuts loose and leaves the procession temporarily. The 
walkie-talkie crackles: "You are ruining the movie." Oh.
Which movie? If it was Convoy 2, the original Convoy having nearly done for poor lead Kris Kristofferson and director Sam Peckinpah with frustration and excess, some of us were likely to suffer similarly with all that horsepower and few outlets to give it rein. But it's their party, and no one wants to be banished to the van to write "I must not misbehave in the nice cars" one hundred times or more. The cars do not misbehave. In exalted temperatures, replete with choking dust, lunar potholes, sometimes no road at all without warning (not even twig and stone alerts), the Scagliettis never miss a V12 beat. Not even a hurt-you size stone flung up by a convoy wheel can smash the screen.
The crew charged with looking after the cars and their occupants are never less than fully diligent - guiding their low-slung babies over ridiculously proportioned speed bumps, caressing carrozzeria after each day and generally lavishing duty and care on their charges.
walkie-talkie crackles: "You are ruining the movie." Oh.Which movie? If it was Convoy 2, the original Convoy having nearly done for poor lead Kris Kristofferson and director Sam Peckinpah with frustration and excess, some of us were likely to suffer similarly with all that horsepower and few outlets to give it rein. But it's their party, and no one wants to be banished to the van to write "I must not misbehave in the nice cars" one hundred times or more. The cars do not misbehave. In exalted temperatures, replete with choking dust, lunar potholes, sometimes no road at all without warning (not even twig and stone alerts), the Scagliettis never miss a V12 beat. Not even a hurt-you size stone flung up by a convoy wheel can smash the screen.
The crew charged with looking after the cars and their occupants are never less than fully diligent - guiding their low-slung babies over ridiculously proportioned speed bumps, caressing carrozzeria after each day and generally lavishing duty and care on their charges.
>'Stall flogging gear abound and Ferrari is the primo knock-off brand, bigger than Adidas, bigger than gods'
A truck chock-full of rims, tyres, springs, dampers, suspension arms and exhaust tubing, mufflers and catalysers remains unmolested. Ride height has been upped by 16mm over stock
, Duralumin plates, 4mm thick, are bolted over vulnerable underworks, the wings are clad with a substantial film of poly-something-or-other and mudflaps drag along the trailing half of each wheel-arch. That's it for India-proofing.
But Modena is less concerned with protecting hardware here than it is countering flagrant violations of intellectual property rights. A visit to the very holy Vitthala temple complex at Hampi one morning underlines the scale of their problem. Buses brimful of youthful hippy trailers pour into a serene grass meadow car park, and the freshly tie-dyed debouch. Soon they find themselves shepherded by youthful hustlers to the old main drag - a wide boulevard-style approach to the biggest of the temples,a huge cake-like affair - the Virupaksha.
Stalls flogging snide gear abound. And Ferrari is the primo knock-off brand, bigger than Adidas, bigger than gods. The hustling classes know the score.
, Duralumin plates, 4mm thick, are bolted over vulnerable underworks, the wings are clad with a substantial film of poly-something-or-other and mudflaps drag along the trailing half of each wheel-arch. That's it for India-proofing.But Modena is less concerned with protecting hardware here than it is countering flagrant violations of intellectual property rights. A visit to the very holy Vitthala temple complex at Hampi one morning underlines the scale of their problem. Buses brimful of youthful hippy trailers pour into a serene grass meadow car park, and the freshly tie-dyed debouch. Soon they find themselves shepherded by youthful hustlers to the old main drag - a wide boulevard-style approach to the biggest of the temples,a huge cake-like affair - the Virupaksha.
Stalls flogging snide gear abound. And Ferrari is the primo knock-off brand, bigger than Adidas, bigger than gods. The hustling classes know the score.
In a country where policing seems largely about big sticks and armoured vans, it would appear to be a very uphill struggle bringing pirates to book. And with 1.3 billion souls eager to sport any
simulacrum of a prancing horse, Ferrari's substantial counterfeit-prevention department has got its work cut out. When it comes to worshipping false gods, the altar of Maranello is firmly where it's at. Feeling very tired, trying to imagine what a 15th-century unskilled labourer might endure while humping a big bag of stones up Matanga Hill in 40-degree heat, we repair to a modest restaurant under the shade of mango trees. The Ferrari boys have logged as many copies of their merchandise as they can - mobile phone cameras red hot and RAMmed out. Where licensed copying is a legitimate business - but most likely a tenth the size of an underground economy in fakes - where a seemingly very convincing Ferrari P4 race car was revealed as paste in nearby Thailand recently, you can't even tell if the holy men milling round these temples are fake-fake or genuine fake. India is losing some of its mysticism to the virtues of being fast and first. This nation wants to be a 'big player' on a 'world stage', and this coupled with corporate desires 'to accomplish these ends' means a changing ethos.>'Men introduce themselves. Folks smoke and shake their heads. As jams go, it's organic and stress-free'
The slogans carried on the backs of trucks reveal this. Aside from the traditional 'Horn OK' (meaning if you are trying to pass this truck, you must make all possible noise if there's to be any hope of the driver giving you any room to pass at all), there are sub-messages like 'Born to win' or 'Be ahead'. The me, me, high-achiever society is coming fast. But not that fast. 
Not when traffic jams of special length and duration are still a national treasure. The road out of Hubli in Karnataka state is in reasonable repair. But one wrong move at rush hour is all it takes for things to go from dead slow to stop. Someone has crashed on a bridge. Traffic is therefore backed up five miles in each direction.
Tired of waiting, reborn to win and eager to get ahead, truck and bus drivers edge past the stationary lines of traffic on the dirt towards the snarl-up. From both sides. A jam that might have stood a reasonable chance of coming unstuck is now destined to be a four-hour special. Engines off, cops everywhere, and the Ferraris mobbed - but it's a friendly mob.
Men politely introduce themselves. Livestock shuffles past. Horns blare. Folks smoke and shake their heads. Night falls. As jams go, it's organic and stress-free. Progress and JC Decaux are going to change all that.
By the time we get moving again, the crowds in the jam have latched onto the convoy, phone cameras everywhere as they try to get a shot of either themselves or their mates in close proximity to these unattainable objects, sacred cows of the automotive universe.
Not when traffic jams of special length and duration are still a national treasure. The road out of Hubli in Karnataka state is in reasonable repair. But one wrong move at rush hour is all it takes for things to go from dead slow to stop. Someone has crashed on a bridge. Traffic is therefore backed up five miles in each direction.
Tired of waiting, reborn to win and eager to get ahead, truck and bus drivers edge past the stationary lines of traffic on the dirt towards the snarl-up. From both sides. A jam that might have stood a reasonable chance of coming unstuck is now destined to be a four-hour special. Engines off, cops everywhere, and the Ferraris mobbed - but it's a friendly mob.
Men politely introduce themselves. Livestock shuffles past. Horns blare. Folks smoke and shake their heads. Night falls. As jams go, it's organic and stress-free. Progress and JC Decaux are going to change all that.
By the time we get moving again, the crowds in the jam have latched onto the convoy, phone cameras everywhere as they try to get a shot of either themselves or their mates in close proximity to these unattainable objects, sacred cows of the automotive universe.
