The Rickshaw

As of 2004, there were approximately 1.2 million cars and more than 2.5 million motorcycles and scooters in Delhi. There were also 75,000 auto-rickshaws - transport mode of choice for most of India's cities, large and small.

I've been fascinated with the auto-rickshaw ever since my first trip to Asia in 2004. They are not unique to India as a mode of transportation: they can be found across Asia, but always in different forms, and each country has developed a very distinct and unique auto-rickshaw culture.

In Tibet, auto-rickshaws are less common in urban areas, but a modified version is very popular in rural farming communities. These rickshaws, unlike their more compact cousins elsewhere, have a front wheel that is set 10-15 feet in front of the driver and passenger area. They have an apocalyptic feel and always seem to be made of salvaged parts: a tractor engine, a motorcycle wheel, a woven straw roof.

In India, the compact auto-rickshaw is king. In Delhi, rules governing the appearance and licensing of rickshaws is very strict, so nearly all of them are painted in the same green and yellow. They are easily hail-able, unlike the city's taxis, which can only be purchased from hard-to-find and disparate government stands. They are also remarkably cheap: the government sets the price of a journey, and right now its a 10 rupee (20 cent) base fare, plus ~7 or so rupees per kilometer. Were a Westerner like me ever successful in being put on a meter, a 30 or 45 minute trip would cost no more than a $1 USD.

But, much of the fun of being a Westerner here is that you never are put on a meter. You just bargain. You grow adept at feigning disbelief at the initial high price, of choosing drivers who seem more likely to cave, of walking great distances to find packs of rickshaws, where the competition might be stiffer. You also become skilled in walking away, hoping to hear the reluctant "Sir!" calling you back to a lower, more reasonable price. If truly successful, you'll get within 10 rupees of what an Indian would pay on the meter. That 10 rupee difference is insurmountable, a tax on foreigners that is non-negotiable and firm.

My favorite bargaining technique is disbelief, followed by mock anger that I'm being treated like a tourist. I've lived her for 2 to 3 years after all, and commute on this route every day. I know how much it would cost on the meter - every other driver lets me on the meter. You won't lower your price? I'll call the hot line to report you - I have you license plate number memorized. You'll lower the price by half? Ok, no call, lets go.

What's amazing is the bonhomie that permeates the exchange. Very rarely does negotiation become aggressive; both parties forcibly contort their faces into grimaces in order to appear stern, while desperately trying to avoid laughing at the ridiculousness of the daily haggling pantomime.

The wonderful thing about auto-rickshaws is riding in them. They're terrifying. Their size allows them to weave in an out of traffic, cross multi-lane highways in short bursts of speed, and squeeze between two buses that have no idea of your presence, and wouldn't even if they crushed you.

But they're also very beautifully decorated. The inside of the rickshaw is where a driver can exercise creativity. In Delhi, the creativity is dampened by regulation, but still, mirrors and windshields will be adorned with large pictures of Bollywood heroes and starlets - both male and female are always wearing wet clothes, have long hair, and pouting their looks in the same androgynous way that clearly signified the libidinal to Indians. Some have sound systems, where the entire passenger bench has been converted to a rack of speakers and subwoofers. Others have embroidered leather patterns on the seats and interior walls: hearts and Hindi symbols are most common.

Outside of Delhi, things become even more garish. Flashing lights, bright colored exteriors, bejeweled meters, entire ceilings plastered with Bollywood iconography.

I'll try to capture as many of these as I can over the next year: for now, the rickshaw (and driver) from whom I received the fairest price yet (although he dropped us at the wrong location).