In a rickshaw, passing a rickshaw.

India has a swarm of these bright yellow rickshaw taxis all over the country, each seemingly with its own unique decoration and character. And by character, I refer to how often the vehicle stalls, which isn’t really a big issue… to start it up again, the driver reaches down and yanks a large lever up as hard as possible, and that brings some pep back to the engine. For a few minutes.

These vehicles are often highly personalized with ornaments and such, so you’d think you’d be able to get an idea of the driver’s personality by looking at the stickers covering the wind shield, usually bright and glittery stickers of various deities. However, as Kalyan pointed out, the used-vehicle market in India is so huge that you really learn nothing from the decoration; the driver probably just bought it like that. You just have tons of rickshaw cabs denoting various religious affiliations that may or may not belong to the driver, each with their bright yellows dampened just a bit by the grime that builds up from all those diesel fumes. And that’s just the looks. The ride is something else.

If you’re looking to travel around an Indian city or trying to find a masochistic way to travel the countryside, you’ll invariably end up in one of these rickshaws, and with good reason. A ride across town that would cost $20 in a city like New York or London will cost less than 100 Rupees in India, or about $2. This, of course, if the driver uses the meter.

I should note that one of the problems of being a foreigner is that a few of the drivers try to charge more, on the order of trying to charge 150 Rp for a 20 Rp ride (there’s a lot of interesting experiences you get to have as a foreigner in India… more on that in a later entry). Sure, that translates to $3 or so versus 40 cents, still pretty good by Western standards, but bear in mind that 150 Rp will buy your meals for a day. Of course, with Kalyan as the Virgil to our Dante, negotiating these occasional rickshaw pre-rides was not really an issue.

A rickshaw driver in Hyderabad. He was pretty happy when I asked if I could take his photo, but adopted this stern expression for the picture.

Once you’re in the cramped confines (we could barely fit three people in the back of one of these things, and there are no seatbelts), you get the Indian driving experience- the utility and practicality of a taxi ride with the excitement of a roller coaster ride. A rickshaw ride is not a ride for the backseat driver.

Driving in India has a bizarre extremely aggressive yet extremely defensive blend… it’s difficult to describe. There’s no sense of safety space, and you can literally reach out of your vehicle and touch the person in the vehicle next to you… we’re talking centimeters of space between vehicles (which includes rickshaws, motorcycles, buses, small cars, and sometimes people). If there is space, the Indian driver feels not that it is their right, but it is their obligation to fill it as much as possible with their vehicle, and if that involves cutting off a few drivers coming up behind you, no problem.

At the same time, it’s almost as if every driver is really laid back about aggressive driving tactics, and it works very well. Here in the States (especially Southern CA), there’s a definite sense of entitlement. If I cut you off on the road, I didn’t just cut you off. I at once humiliated and insulted you, and probably defiled your mother too. I cut into your lane. Feelings of resentment and anger will boil deep inside you, and you will probably carry this monumental event with you for the rest of the day. You’ll arrive at work later and tell your friends and coworkers about the guy- no- the asshole- who cut you off on the road that morning.

In India, you will cut off an average of 5 people a minute.

All right, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it happens frequently, and it doesn’t ruin anyone’s day. It’s because everyone recognizes that they too will soon be cutting someone off as well (this is true in the States as well, it’s just that we refuse to recognize it… or maybe I’m just a really bad driver). There’s a certain amount of latitude because of it. We were in a rickshaw a couple of times, and I was reminded of the scene from Return of the Jedi where a small rebel squadron is facing down a massive fleet of oncoming TIE Fighters. This image came to mind as our driver knowingly turned the wrong way down a one way street. We were a lone fighter, the mass of oncoming traffic the TIEs. You get the picture. But it ends up being ok, because the oncoming traffic moves just a tad to the side to avoid hitting you. They recognize both past and future incidences of themselves pulling the same stunt, and gladly accommodate. As a passenger, you have to learn to just go with it.

Maybe it was my imagination, but I think I even caught a couple of the drivers nodding with approval at being particularly skilfully cut off. OK, maybe not.

Of course, there are countless other variables that go into driving, such as pedestrians, cattle, and the occasional camel rider. Pedestrians typically don’t have a whole lot to worry about when crossing the street (though being a largely Hindu country, the cattle still win out on having the least to worry about), but to the unknowing foreigner crossing is a daunting proposition. Most traffic will swerve out of the way to avoid foot traffic. The exception is the buses… they won’t stop for pedestrians. More likely than not, they will speed up. My advice would be that if you’re planning on crossing a street in India, and you see a bus a ways down the road, wait for it to pass. In fact, just flag down a rickshaw and get him to drive you to the other side.

Coming up next… I’m not totally sure. Maybe some bazaar experiences.

I didn’t.