The glorious autorickshaw

On this blog, I’ve often written about autorickshaws – little three-wheelers that, though present in other countries (such as Thailand, where they masquerade as “tuk-tuks”), I will always consider uniquely Indian. Since September, I’ve taken approximately 500 rides in autorickshaws. (That’s seven months in India, thirty days in each month, 2.5 rickshaw journeys per day, and rounding down from there.) If each ride is an all-inclusive, pocket-size vacation to the vibrant streets of this country, that’s a lot of *India* that I’ve seen through the grubby front windows of her three-wheeled chariots.

Perhaps it’s only because I’ve spent so much time in them that I believe autorickshaws offer the most, and the best, of urban India to the curious traveller. There are other ways to get around, surely: taxis (as they do in Mumbai, where I’m sitting right now), public buses (not for the faint of heart or, for that matter, the female), the Metro (recently built, and only in Delhi). Yet only the autorickshaw can capture, in the midst of city traffic and urban congestion, the freewheeling spirit of the open road. Only the autorickshaw serves as a sightseeing vehicle of wonders large and small. Only the autorickshaw offers opportunities for conversation and interaction without forcing them upon the passenger. For me, these are the foundations of living in India: base-level connections without which I’d be cloistered and closeted.

First, the open road. Anyone who grows up in New York City doesn’t really know much about the open road (whatever that is), but maybe it’s precisely because of this ignorance that careening around in open-air vehicles – even through oodles of urban traffic – never stops feeling special. That rush you get when the driver revs up the engine or takes a curve at a precarious angle: it doesn’t go away. It’s like riding on the back of a motorcycle, but you can fool yourself into thinking it’s safer. Those frequent, minor brushes with danger breed sighs of relief at the end of autorickshaw journeys: you feel as though you’ve accomplished something monumental simply by sitting in a backseat and letting someone drive you to your destination. An autorickshaw ride is at once functional, personally satisfying, and entertaining.

It’s also the best way to see the city. Sightseeing tours cart visitors from monument to monument, each journey placated by the glass windows that separate the passengers from the outside world. In a rickshaw, those barriers vanish. A rickshaw can take you to the Jama Masjid: better yet, it can wheel you slowly through the marketplaces that surround Delhi’s gorgeous mosque, exposing you to the sounds of Quranic recitation and screaming children, the smells of freshly slaughtered chickens and fried vegetables, the sights of coarse gray beards and bright young heads topped with knitted white skullcaps. To me, it’s the most interesting sort of sightseeing; in a rickshaw, you can experience it only inches away, for free. (And all this, without having to navigate the streets on foot: a nearly impossible task. A rickshaw may have fewer barriers than a taxi or bus, but there are still some barriers in place – and that can be a good thing.)

Rickshaws throw their passengers into close contact both with their physical surroundings and with other people. The first interaction a rider experiences is with her driver: will he take her where she wants to go? Does he know how to get where she wants to go? Will he charge her the local price, the foreigner price, or the outrageous foreigner price? After these matters have been settled, it’s possible that there might be no further conversation: this is a situation that I have long since come to appreciate. I take it as a huge compliment when a driver doesn’t wish to find out my native country or whether I’ve been to the Taj – I may be paying the foreigner fare, but to him, I’m no tourist. Of course, the driver may want to talk to his passenger (or the passenger may wish to converse with the driver), but I’ve found that these conversations can be controlled in subject and in length. Because rickshaws are so exposed to the outside world – and because the driver has to swivel around almost entirely in order to face the passenger – conversations cannot run too deep, or too long. If a passenger is unresponsive, the driver will generally take the hint, and focus on the road. Yet important questions can be asked and answered, too: the semi-dangerous nature of the ride (not to mention the language barrier) simply necessitates that those exchanges be kept succinct.

There are a number of other human interactions that are wonderful – and sometimes painful – to experience in an autorickshaw. I like to witness the cameraderie between drivers: if two are stopped next to each other at a traffic light, they’ll probably have a short conversation. Perhaps they already know each other; perhaps they don’t. Then there are exchanges mediated by the passenger herself: with its lack of walls and windows, the autorickshaw lends itself particularly well to beggars and hawkers. This can be a frustrating drawback, but it can also be an opportunity to give a smile or a handshake – even if all the beggar wants is a ten rupee note. Rickshaw travel means that humanity is all over the place, in your face, until you speed away: in the end, that’s probably more valuable than the relative peace that a taxi would afford.

So next time you find yourself in an Indian city, don’t hire a taxi for the day. Hop in an autorickshaw: smell the country; talk to her people; learn something; have fun.

*This is the first in a short series of posts about why I love India. It’s a simple theme, but a meaningful one: this is my last week here, and I’m eager to leave on a high note. Among other topics, I’ll be writing about the joys of Indian newspapers, same-sex friendship, waiting for things, grooming habits, riding the Metro, the use of public space, and some great places to eat.