The Demo Site

Driving a Ferrari in India is a somewhat obtuse experience. Normally, the average petrolhead would fantasize about thrashing a Ferrari on curvy corniches overlooking Monte Carlo in the morning, then spending the afternoon daftly cruising down shiny streets lined with stores with weird, two-syllable names like “Gucci” and “Prada.” However, I have been doing something the last few days that is virtually the opposite.

I’ve been chucking around a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti in the hills and on the coasts of southeastern India, on the way to Bangalore, in Ferrari’s Magic India Discovery PR event. As I’ve elaborated in the last couple posts, I have a love-hate relationship with Ferrari at the moment. Their car is amazing, yet their choice for a destination had stumped me for quite some time. India?

Nevertheless, after a good many hours behind the wheel trekking across, around, through, over and under all aspects of Indian landscape, I can say with confidence this has been a nice holiday. Any long-distance journey in a Ferrari is, by law, to be considered a “nice holiday.” It would be an act of unspeakable ingratitude to call a road trip in a Ferrari “boring” or “stupid.” In fact, anybody who does should be forced to sit on a bed of nails.

Yet I have enjoyed my journey for one strange reason that, under sane circumstances, should have been completely irrelevant. Ever since I took the wheel of the 612, I have been enamored with the absolute brilliance of…..the air conditioning. All the technological and futuristic wonders of the 612 are subtly eclipsed by its ability to keep the cabin at a comfortable, dry 20 degrees. By the simple fact its air con worked perfectly the entire trip should make any Ferrari marketing boffin beam with pride. I’m being dreadfully honest when I say that 540 horsepower, the F1 flappy-paddle gearbox, and all the supposed technological superiority Enrique the Mechanic had been babbling on to me about really made no impact on me. What made a definite impact on my squishy journalist brain was the fantastic cooler.

This really took me off guard. I sincerely expected the air con to blip ‘n fritz at least once on the trip. Ferrari air conditioners have traditionally been as useful as kitchen appliances with names like “The Magic Oven,” and about as reliable as a war run by Lyndon Johnson. But the 612’s unit never skipped a degree. It was as if it were pulled from a German saloon.

I just thought that deserved some attention. Of course, my enjoyment was definitely helped along by that classic Ferrari magic where everything that makes a Ferrari distinctive comes together and gives you a slightly orgasmic experience.

When we finally reached Bangalore, I was shocked at the rough modernity of the city, and how technologic advancement and regression were in violent collision. This city is often called the “Silicon Valley of India,” however, one drive down a secondary street reveals more rickshaws than cars, and sometimes curbs and sidewalks are still made of dirt and gravel. Our convoy seemed blissfully unaware of such phenomenon as we zipped from fresh, new Shell petrol stations to scenic temples which resembled overly-detailed wedding cakes. That sort of seemed like the routine throughout the whole trip. Apparently, part of magically discovering India is to magically discover its growing chain of curiously clean and modern Shell stations.

The Ferrari grandees who were running the event insisted that us nervous, culture-shocked journalists engage in hands-on, cultural experiences, such as Hindu ceremonies, dressing in Hindu garb, and getting that red dot put on your forehead. I decided to retain the air of Phileas Fogg and simply, respectfully observe these cultural proceedings with politeness, a button-up shirt, and a notepad. On no account of any sort of xenophobia, I made the conscious decision to focus my assignment on the car instead of the culture. The culture did help the trip stay colorful and adventurous, but my job was to write about complicated differentials and ride comfort, not saris and sitars.

When we reached Bangalore, and had to bid farewell to the 612 and my Ferrari friends, I received a communicade from my respectable Editor saying he had made a contact in the city whom I was to meet for dinner. A major executive of one of the many information technology companies in Bangalore had agreed to be my guide in strange places. Personally, I always enjoy meeting a local; it helps my journalistic integrity when covering a foreign country. Yes, it’s true: I care.

My contact was a gentleman who shall remain nameless. For now, we shall call him R. R was a modern Indian businessman: middle-aged, in an authentic Italian suit, perfectly-trimmed hair, high forehead sans the red dot, and comfortably reposed in his maroon Mercedes S-Class. He ran a company in Bangalore which manufactured computer parts for a surprisingly large number of US and European companies. He also had a significant share in Kingfisher Airlines, the infamous company whose boss currently owns a less-than-stellar Formula One racing team, plus a few more billion-dollar baubles. R, however, is not a billionaire. Unfortunately, he has only reached the unflattering title of “millionaire,” the likes of which take up only 10,000 of Bangalore’s population. He has only a couple homes abroad, compared to some of his compadres, who have a few dozen. Nevertheless, R considers himself prosperous, and exemplary of India’s economic boom. He gets no argument from me.

Dinner was at a small, fine-dining Italian restaurant that served Italian food rivaling the best Italian food in bluddy Italy itself. After victuals, R took me around the boomtown district, with its architectural wonders of glass, concrete, and communication antennas. He explained that the appeal of India to growing IT corporations is not just its cheap production costs but its people, who are more open to international business than, say, the communist Chinese (a debatable statement), and the mullahs of the Middle East who still sanction business in order for it to align with their religious beliefs. In India, no such ridiculous scruples exist, said R. India greets international business with open arms.

And once again, I was way over my head. Must I remind you that my sorry excuse for a journalistic brain is only programmed to digest information associated with the words “car” and “cars”?

On my way home, I wrangled with all the stimulus I had received in the last week. It was monumental. Yet after the dust settled, I could only truly remember one thing: the 612 Scaglietti. The car, the car, the car. The reason why I made the journey to begin with. It had been my friend and companion, the only sense of familiarity in a beautiful if strange country. It had developed a personality, and we became like Laurel and Hardy. Maverick and Iceman. Hillary and Norgay. Fogg and Passepartout. It was brilliant; a transcendental experience. Cheers to you, Ferrari, for making such an extraordinary machine.