In Orissa in eastern India the drivers normally drove without lights at night. The lights were kept in reserve as weapons. They were angled so that they shone into the eyes of oncoming drivers, and were just used at the last minute.
The roads often consisted of a single stip of tarmac just wide enough for one vehicle, with sandy margins either side. There was a battle of nerves to determine who owned the tarmac, and who ended up in the sand. At night the lights and the horn played a large part in these battles.
The taxi drivers would also refuse to use windscreen wipers when it rained. I never managed to see any sense in that either.
It was genuinely dangerous on the roads. After ten Indian trips with about a year in the country I had been in four minor car crashes.
Not the least of these was when a little piglet ran out into the road from the bushes. It was followed by larger and larger pigs in a line. We avoided all but the last and largest pig. A big pig is a pretty solid object. The taxi shuddered and then reared up and shot over it in a Bluesmobile leap. I looked back and saw the pig man waving his arms in the air as we disappeared down the road. I wanted to go back and talk to him, but the driver refused on safety grounds.