Rickshaw Driver, India

RICKSHAW DRIVER

Varanasi, India
July 2015

My hotel man told me I should not pay any more that 50 rupees each way for a rickshaw ride to the famous, scared Monkey Temple.  That is less than a dollar; less than two dollars for a round trip. So now that I have some guidelines, I am much more comfortable going out on the streets and negotiate a fair fee for a ride.

As I hit the street, I am bombarded with requests from everyone selling anything.  Because it is late in the afternoon, there is desperation in their voices. For some of these people, they have not had any business today so I may be their last and only chance to earn some money today.

“Madame, you want silk?”

“You need taxi?”

“I have good price for you Madame.”

“Will you take a boat ride with me? I give you fair price.”

“You need tea?  I have the finest tea Madame. Come with me. I show you my brother’s shop.”

It’s hard to walk away from hungry, desperate people, particularly when my mere presence projects a profile of abundance.  I am the only white, older woman I see in my surrounds.  And actually, I am the only non-Indian I see. I stick out in this massive crowd.

A young man approaches me with his rickshaw and asks if I would like a ride.

“How much to take me to the Monkey Temple.” I ask him, ready to take on his hard sell.

“200 Rupees, both ways and no charge for waiting for you. You take your time”.

“No, no, no.  Too much”, I tell him with confidence.  “I should only be paying you 50 Rupees each way.”

“50?” There was a tone of insult in this response.

“Yes, my hotel man said I should only pay 50 each way”.

“OK, ok, I have no business today, I will take you for 120 rupees but no less.”

I shake my head and walk away, certain that he will run after me but he doesn’t.  So now I know that 50 rupees is too little. The next driver wants 200 rupees but we settle on 150 for the round trip.

“Your hotel man does not know what he talks about when he says you should only pay 50 rupees.  This is hard work, Madame and it is a long trip. It is 5K to the temple.”

I quickly did the conversion.  Five kilometers is 3 miles so it is a 6-mile round trip ride for $2. This man was going to haul my fat ass through dense traffic for a mere $2.  All of the sudden, I was filled with shame.

The streets are intense.  There are taxis, tut-tuts, rickshaw drivers, scooters, cows, water buffalo, people, carts and dogs.  There are no traffic lights and no rules of the road.  This is just a constant merge from one side of the road to the other.  There are near collisions with every blink of an eye.  I sit high up on my rickshaw and I am sorry I didn’t take a taxi instead.  I am at too much risk to get hurt.

He bikes for 5 minutes then he jumps off the bike and pulls me for a few minutes as he rest as best he can.  I want to jump off, pay him and take a taxi the rest of the way.  But I don’t have any sense at to tell a taxi driver where to drop me off.  I only know how to get back to my hotel by sight, not by street names.  So I have to stay with this man.

He stops at a park that has been turned into a giant, larger than life sized loom and people were wandering around, weaving a magnificent, large piece of fabric.  I think he thought this would grab my attention and I would get off the rickshaw for a few minutes so he could rest.  But, to be truthful, it is just too damn hard to get off the rickshaw.  It is just high enough off the ground that getting off and on is an embarrassing challenge and so I am not going to get off needlessly.  Yes, I would have loved to see this display of art.  But, no, I am not getting off the damn rickshaw.

So we arrive at the temple and he shows me the way around.  I tell him I am not going to be long. I just want to see how many monkeys are there.  I don’t want to talk to any priest and or get any more chakra marks on my far head. I will be in and out.

I go in, I avoid eye contact with anyone who waves to me.  I check things out and I leave, glad to know that I can get back in the rickshaw and head home to get out of the heat and to get away from all of this dangerous traffic.

“You know”, I tell him, “I expected to see monkeys at the temple. I didn’t see any monkeys.  That was a bit of a disappointment.”

“No, Madame, this is not Monkey Temple. One more kilometer,” he tells me.

I am annoyed at him but I understand that this guy has to rest.  This is hard work. So I tell him that I only want to go to the monkey temple, no other place.

“But you can rest as much as you want along the way.  I am not in a hurry.”  I think I am being kind and reassuring.  But I am oblivious to his pride.  This man does not want me to think that he can’t get me there.

We do get there and I check out the monkeys and two juveniles, who are fighting with each other, wrestling right in the midst of the crowd, mesmerize me. People are walking around them and over them as they roll on the sidewalk, flipping each other around.  Then I notice that people are staring at me, staring at the monkeys.  It’s time to go home. So I find my driver and we head out. But first, I stop to buy a bottle of water and offer to buy him a bottle as well.

“No, no Madame, I only drink India water,” he tells me.

I am not sure what that means but we head back into the dangerous traffic. He takes a different route home and he stops to speak to a police office who stands by a blocked entrance to the street.  The road is closed but only to those who do not give the police office 20 rupees.

“I pay him every day”, my driver tells me.  He abruptly stops and tells me this is where I get off. Nothing looks familiar to me and I panic just a little bit.

“Ok, Madame, wait.” And he pulls me just another 50 feet and now things look familiar so I hop off and pay him, more than what we had negotiated but not nearly enough to compensate for this very hard work.