A Timely Strike

To the frustration of commuters, the consternation of traffic cops and the befuddlement of foreigners like me, strike demonstrations of unhappy workers, vendors, taxi cab drivers or anyone else with a grievance take place with amazing regularity here.

The worst protests or strikes are the ones that block the traffic arteries in the already congested downtown area. On any given day one is faced with being quite creative in getting around town and not getting stuck in the mess of honking horns, gestures, and frustration with inconvenience. My personal visual favorite was when the city taxi-cabs made a parking lot of all the city streets – oh how I wish I’d had my camera that day! You’ve never seen such a sight as hundreds of cabs lined up like ribbons all around the city!

Yet, as disruptive as it is, this is a fact of life here and seems pretty accepted. Unlike in America where strikes happen with pickets and days or weeks of standing vigil with emotions high, strikes here seem to have a set time and are more like people just “hanging out”. (Though not always, of course) Thus was the situation I walked into this morning while going into the center to purchase plane tickets.

As I stepped out onto the main street the silence was deafening. My first thought was that it was another holiday (one of the MANY), but the lack of flags posted and closed shops told me otherwise. Then I saw them, a group of about 100 people loitering in the middle of one the busiest intersection in town.

Now any gathering of people gives me pause and makes me consider changing direction and walking another way. This group, though, standing with umbrellas shading them from the scorching 10am sun, reminded me of the type of crowd that gathers awaiting a small town parade, just minus the excited anticipation. Walking past the crowd, with the ever-present policemen standing on each corner, I went to a nearby store to ask what it was.

“Oh, it’s a strike,” amused the shopkeeper, “they’re pazar workers unhappy about new rules or something.”

Walking on to the next intersection I saw that the police were diverting traffic, the streets surrounding the strike closed off in deference to it. Occasionally one car or another would try to make a run for it but the policeman would blow his whistle and step right in front of them, tsk tsking his finger. [Once when this happened it was one of the city busses that the police officer stepped in front of—the huge red bus bowing under the slammed brakes. Man, how did that cops legs not become jelly!?]

Exactly at 11am I was standing again at that same intersection having finished my errands in the center and now looking for a taxi to take me to the field office. It was exactly then that traffic was again allowed down this most heavily traveled street in the city, the strike over and everything back to normal. Such is the typical strike here, with a start and a stop time. Point made.

Just one of the many experiences living in another country where things are so different and at times quite strange, yet are becoming a regular part of daily living.