New Delhi

Rickshaw Driving Lesson

Posted on by Laughingnomad

After dinner, Bob entertains the nearby date sellers by dickering with another rickshaw driver who makes the mistake of saying to Bob “You are rich man-why can’t you give me few extra rupees?” Bob shot back that “I have traveled all the way to India and now you guys have all my rupees!” He laughs. They think you are stupid if you don’t bargain hard.

They settle on a price and on the way home Bob is full of questions about the auto-rickshaw which is a three-wheeled device powered by a two-stroke motorcycle engine with a driver up front and seats for two or more behind. There are no doors and it has just a canvas top. They are generally about half the price of a taxi and because of their size they are often faster for short trips. And if you are a thrillseeker you will love it because their drivers are nutty–heading straight through the mass of cars and pedestrians wielding hair-raising near-misses! When stopped at traffic lights, the height you are sitting is the same as most bus and truck exhaust pipes so many riders wear kerchiefs over nose and mouth looking ridiculously like movie-western cowboys. Bob wheedles a chance to drive our rickshaw a short distance. Bob and the driver end up friends and the guy gets a tip for the driving lesson.

At 5am the next morning an auto-rickshaw driver offers to drive us 3 blocks to the train station for 20 rupees. After we are seated he says “20 rupees each!” Should have seen how fast Bob jumped out of the rickshaw! We don’t feel like cheapskates anymore as this style of bargaining is the norm in India and many other countries-the locals see you as ridiculous or naive if you do not bargain.

The internal struggle is over for me. The guilt is gone. I don’t even notice the beggar lady pulling on my arm. We are finally getting the hang of India and learning how to play their game. And I think we’re entering the last stages of culture shock. But haven’t had the courage to taste a “bhang lassi” yet! (A bhang lassi is a yogurt drink spiked with marijuana…)

Death of the Vice President

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Saturday morning the revered Vice President of India, Krishan Kant had had a massive heart attack and died so Sunday afternoon Bob and I watched the building of the funeral pyre on national television. “Tears trickled down the cheeks of Satyawati Devi, Kant’s shriveled 97 year old mother’s face as she watched her grandson light the pyre,” the next day’s paper reported.

Surface Culture

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India’s spirituality is strong and is seemingly integrated with it�s culture. So this is the first country we have been in that has resisted becoming westernized…at least on the surface…no big time make-up, no dark glasses, no T shirts, no baseball caps, no blue jeans hanging off the pubic bone of young girls (however we have seen a new sari style that is off the hip with a ring in the naval) and no Bobby Marley, rap music, baggy pants, western food or drip coffee-just the obsequious Nescafe. Our hotel offered the Continental or American Breakfast. Grilled chicken, grilled potatoes, juice and tea or coffee. No American fast food outlets in all of Delhi except for one McDonalds that only serves vege and chicken burgers.

Hardly any bookstores. Closest thing to the west we encountered listening to a DJ in a red turban play 70�s American music at the El Rodeo Restaurant where all the waiters were dressed up as cowboys and serving bad Mexican food.

Indians usually prefer to eat only Indian food, Mrs. Singh said when we stayed at her hotel in Jaipur. She described an Indian owned tour company she and her sister-in-law traveled with throughout Europe last spring. She was disappointed to find that the tour company had it’s own cook and every meal was taken on the bus-all Indian food!

News Media
In the English language Delhi Times newspaper there are 14 serious pages of “Matrimonials-for the better half of your life.” Typical Example: “Alliance from (with) tall fair slim convent educated girl for US settled Bengali Brahmin boy Feb 1967 5’11” nonsmoker tetotaler visiting India in Sept Caste State no bar” (in other words being the proper caste is not necessary). Another: “Bride from elite business house for graduate, son of top industrialist.” And another: “Wanted bride from only very big business/Industrialist Family from Son of National Fame very big rich industrialist family.” This apparently the conduit for meeting a marriage prospect for non-religious middle and upper classes.

I get a big kick out of the newswriting style, usually concerning controversial political issues, that go like this lead paragraph: “Despite all-out diplomatic efforts, India�s plans to get piped gas from Bangladesh may turn out to be a pipedream.” And this: Quacks have found a way out if their hospitals are shut down; change the name and keep the racket going. And another: “The government will soon crack the whip on driving schools in the Capital for the poor skills they are teaching Delhiiters.� And this headline concerning Prime Minister Advani’s oversight in not inviting Tamil Nadu Chief Minister to a swearing-in ceremony of another minister: “Jaya pipes down after Advani says he’s sorry.”

And finally this… “US tries to stop (corporate) rot with new rules.”

Bargaining for a Rickshaw

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Our last night in Delhi before taking the train to a cooler Shimla in the mountains for a few days, we strike out in the worst part of the day for traffic to have dinner in Old Delhi. Bob is bargaining on the price-which is always about double or triple for the big westerners-when a policeman comes down the street whacking all the drivers across their backs with a big stick to get them to move on. I hate what I see but it works to our advantage-the driver is anxious to move on and takes Bob’s last offer.

The streets are full of people, animals and various mechanical transporters and the auto-rickshaw comes to a stop in traffic for half an hour. It has cooled off a few degrees and there is a slight breeze. No problem! We surprise ourselves by just watching the show go on around us despite being enveloped in exhaust fumes.

The restaurant was interesting-several venues surrounded a central open air “kitchen” where one area was devoted to tandoori, in another small area three men were sitting on a raised floor making chapatis and puris and baking them in an oven in a hole in the floor and another area displayed half a dozen huge round metal jars sitting at an angle with small openings into which the waiter dipped out servings of stewed vegetables, chicken, and mutton. The mutton stew was superb.

Traveling India Bob-Style

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The Indians have a wonderful sense of humor so Bob takes advantage of it and manages to turn everything upside down wherever we go.

In addition to an auto-rickshaw, India has bicycle rickshaws-a three-wheeler bicycle with a seat for two behind the rider-and is the basic means of transport especially in small towns and villages. We take a bicycle rickshaw ride in New Delhi from an old man and entertain the entire street of people when Bob insists on doing the pedaling with the old white haired guy Indian sitting beside me in the back…”slowly, slowly,” the rickshaw owner keeps repeating nervously as we weave through traffic……..

Later, when the umpteenth little girl comes begging from Bob as we are sitting in an auto-rickshaw he turns the begging routine on it’s head and asks her for a rupee…she obliges and gives him a coin…then he rewards her for her good-natured response by giving her several rupees to finish off the joke. When the sellers ask Bob what he is looking for and Bob answers that he wants rupees or nirvana or something just as ridiculously nebulous (silly) they just stop and look at him funny and then laugh—successfully diverted from their begging. “Yes everyone has their own way of getting money,” one says. It’s Bob’s turn to stop and think.

Suffering cabin fever Bob takes off on another afternoon to explore and get lost again. While walking, his attention is diverted by a beggar woman and her scantily clothed children but as he gets away from them a boy insists on shining Bob’s shoes. “Look” the shoeshine boy says, “you need shine!” Bob looks down and there is a huge glob of what was probably human shit on his sandle…he kicks his shoe and the shit toward the boy growling his sentiments… realizing he has been had by an accomplice. This is not so funny. The boy–startled and taken aback–retreats. This scam is described in several guidebooks as a maneuver to generate business for the shoeshine mafia. On the way back to the hotel Bob snarls at every Indian tout that approaches him and they immediately back off…I think this is called the disintegration stage of culture shock.

On a better note, in the mountain town of Shimla, people are sitting around the edges of a town plaza watching people watching people and Bob takes a picture of four local hip 20-something young men and then asks them for dollars in
exchange for their photo. They laughed heartily and Bob sensed they appreciated both the irony and the joke.

But if Bob doesn’t stop telling everyone we are from Iceland (“Where you come from?”) I am going to kill him…makes me feel like a complete fraud!

Ghandi-India To So Africa

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In my last story, I mistakenly said that Gandi was born in South Africa. He was not. He was born in 1869 in Porbander in the Indian state of Gujarat where his father was chief minister.

He attended law school in London and since there were no opportunities at the time in India, he went to South Africa. The pictures on the wall of the museum in South Africa illustrate his experiences there including one when he was on his way to Maritzburg on the train where because of his color and race he was thrown out of his first class seat. This incident changed him for the course of his life.

He remained in South Africa for 10 years helping lay the foundation for the freedom struggle in the transvaal while at the same time developing his own framework for satyagraha (passive resistance). Ghandi returned to India from South Africa and lived at Mani Bhavan-the name of his home where he developed his ideals of Truth and Non-violence-and inspired his followers and devotees with a sense of service and sacrifice.

As Bob and I retrieved our shoes and walked down the hall to the door leading out into the street, I sense him following us, through the heat and dust. I turn around and ask “why are you trailing us from South Africa to India?” He is small, stooped over, tired but with sharp black all-seeing eyes. Then I hear Ghandi’s soft even voice: “I want the cultures of all the lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any.”