WHEN IN INDIA, DO WHAT THE INDIANS DO!

The Indian Auto Rickshaw (pronounced ‘Riksha’ in South India), is typically a dull yellow conveyance with a two cylinder engine and excessive exhaust fumes. Having never sat in one before, I watched with some trepidation as a passer-by hailed one, harangued over the price with the driver, got in, and braced himself for the ride. When it started moving, I understood why.

I was standing outside Chennai International Airport, on my first trip to India. The air was different, the people were different, the language was different. But it didn’t take me long to notice, that of the all differences, it was the difference in transport that was truly different! Gone were the ‘matatus’ that are so abundant in Kenya. Gone were the clear streets, and the greenery in the cities. Gone were those red metro buses that have fixed rates. In fact, a fixed rate for transport is a design that is not only not common in India, but sometimes if you mention it, you’ll be the cause of a few good laughs! Haggling is the in-thing, and if you know Tamil, you’re good to go. Unfortunately, that was not the case with me. Mentally preparing myself, I walked out of the Airport waiting area to get myself a Riksha. I found one, or rather, one hundred of them found me at once. The drivers of these Ricks all looked so similar, as though they were from one family; with neatly trimmed mustaches, red and white checked turbans around their heads, a bit of a smile showing teeth that have seen a lot of Paan but no dentists, and a tan brown shirt atop dhotis of several colors, but mostly pastels.

“Maam! Maam! Where you want to go? Come, I take you” was what I perceived to have heard, but with so many men shouting out the same phrase, the scenario became a bit too daunting. I quickly chose one of the drivers, and we walked a distance away from the others to bargain in peace. Mistake Numero Uno was to try picking up a Riksha at the Airport. Suffice it to say, I was bargaining from a position of low power. With no knowledge of Tamil. And a driver who understood only smatterings of English. I forgot the most basic rule. When in India, do what the Indians do. Which translates into, ‘When there is no Maximum Retail price on a product, start bargaining from a fifth of the price quoted. That’s the only way to get a bargain!”

With my minuscule knowledge of Hindi, I asked him about the fare to the City Central railway station. ‘Five hundred rupees, Maam.” “What? That’s preposterous! I’ll pay you Rs. 350. Not a cent more!” Not a cent more turned into twenty five rupees, as we finally agreed to three hundred and seventy five rupees. “Come this way, Maam, the Riksha is just around this corner.” As we walked and walked, I was getting more and more furious. The corner seemed to have vanished, and the heat seemed to have risen up suddenly. Exhausted, I berated myself for picking the one guy who’s Riksha was halfway to China!

It was no wonder that when I finally saw his Riksha, I sat on the sidewalk and cried. And the journey was not even begun. This yellow Riksha, with the bald tires, slightly lopsided appearance, and a meter which had probably never seen the light of day, was going to be my first conveyance in this, the land of the Rajas. I was going to enjoy it, come hell or high potholes!