Having a car in the US, even a hearse, is the same as having legs in any other part of the world: that is ‘normal.’ Bins replaces the little frilly maroon curtains from the long back windows with shade film. He removes the railings, straps and other paraphernalia related to keeping a heavy coffin from shooting out the back door. But he refuses to repaint the car. “It will take too long,” he says. So the blue skies and clouds remain in place though he removes the funeral parlour’s name from the sides.

The day of our inaugural ride happens to be July 4, US Independence Day. In the car with us is one of Bins’ new friends, a pleasant-faced giant of a man called Birk. “Viking ancestors,” he says squeezing into the front, “with a touch of baobab tree!” His right arm branches out of the window and he sits with his knees tucked under his chin.

There are no seats in the back, so I’m reclining on cushions and a mattress spread on the floor. Beside me is a picnic basket full of sandwiches, homemade burgers, potato salad, tortilla chips and cookies. There’s a cooler full of ice and Cokes. I’ve decided to lie back and enjoy this odd vehicle now that it’s inevitable. It’s like being driven around in a metal version of a flying carpet, complete with air-conditioning and stereo.

We join the solid column of cars heading out to the local beachfronts. It’s late in the morning and all the best spots are taken, of course. So we head to a sand-less beach strewn with jagged black rocks. All water and frothing surf. There are picnickers there too, but like us, they represent the ‘Other’ spectrum of society — a little more brown, a lot more grey, a scattering of baobabs. No kiddies, no fluffy dogs, no bikinis. “Mellowed in the oaken casks of Time,” says Birk, looking around and grinning shyly.

“Pah,” says Bins. “Scorched on ze Grrrrill of Destiny!” I say, “Who has the mustard?” For some reason this makes the other two chuckle. When I tap my head and say, “These men are crazy?!” they roar with laughter, falling off the rocks they’re perched on. We guzzle our soft drinks, eat our cookies and they smoke their pot. As the tide goes out, the wind sharpens its claws. It completely turns the feathers of a poor seagull standing nearby inside out. For a moment he looks like a poodle with a beak. The three of us cackle so much at the sight that the bird gets offended and takes wing. “You can laugh,” he says, “but I can fly.”

We head back. Another endless column of traffic. It’s dusk by the time we’re home. Some distance away, along the water’s edge, fireworks start to go off. From where we are, we can see the brilliant sparkling lights rise and fall, crackling and whistling against the night sky. The air smells of barbecue pits, gunpowder, seagulls and sun-block lotion. We give thanks for the many different flavours of Independence.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

Last episode: Coffin chic

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