Damsel Has a Scuffle, Damsel Flirts and Damsel gets us to Delhi

Damsel makes friends

Back along cliff-top roads fit for James Bond, back to hilly Shimla and back to the Regional Transport Office. We explained to the RTO fellows that, contrary to what they had previously told us, a big wig from the Ministry of Transport said it would be possible to get Damsel registered in Shimla.

That gave them pause for thought. They stood around for some time, foreheads furrowed and scratching their thinking beards. Then they threw that kind of Hindi at each other that makes you feel like you’re in the middle of a heated auction. Then they went back to the furrowed brows and scratching of bits that get itchy when you have to think.

But at the end of all that they still decided that “It can’t be done.”

The big wig had told us if it didn’t work out in Shimla to come to Delhi. Going to the biggest of big smokes in the middle of summer was not exactly on our ‘to do’ list. It may have even been near the top of our ‘not to do’ list. Unfortunately such lists didn’t figure in this decision-making process.

So we piled everything into Damsel’s hump and set out. At some point, as if finally bursting out of a complicated maze, we broke free from the writhing, unevenly scaled snakes that are Himachal Pradesh roads. We had arrived on the hot, flat plains. For the first time Damsel’s wheels were able to taste the surface of a proper highway.

Being on a busy Indian highway is like an enormous game of musical chairs. The trucks provide the tunes with their musical horns and the vehicles on the roads are players, all trying to rush into one space at the same time.

It rather reminds me of a song from Playschool, a popular children’s program I used to watch as a little’un. It went If you can’t go past it you have to go around it, if you can’t go around it you have to go over it, if you can’t go over it you have to go under it!

Indian cars work on pretty much the same principle. If they can’t get past you on the right, they’ll take the left. If the left doesn’t work they’ll go via one of the wormholes.

You see, Indian roads are fitted with wormholes for the convenience of vehicles that aren’t content with getting somewhere at a less than life-threatening pace: i.e. all of them. I’m sure it is via this method that enormous honking chunks of metal kept materializing on either side of us, turning Damsel into a pitiful piece of blue cheese between two beastly crackers.

Meanwhile, Damsel the Speed Demon (it is important we call her by her full name occasionally so that she doesn’t get an inferiority complex) crawls along at knee-height, putting contentedly to herself in a rather lawnmower-like fashion. She simply refuses to be intimidated by the beasts of the road, mashed between them though she may be.

My, but she is a brave lass!

Boys in Chandigarh

In Chandigarh Damsel’s demeanour changed rather dramatically. This is probably because she is young and impressionable, and was mixing with significant numbers of her own kind for the first time. It is also where she had her first scuffle.

A planned city, every road in Chandigarh is wide and flanked by mature, leafy trees. The city is dotted with roundabouts, the footpaths are squeaky clean, fashionable young ladies clip-clop around in high heels and hip young men check out the fashionable young ladies clip-clopping around in high heels.

To complete the illusion of law and order, the streets are filled with a larger than average number of police, usually wielding guns or batons. They are visions of supreme authority with their fawn uniforms, smart hats and straight-as-a-board backs. They saunter about, swinging those batons with the superior air of a baseball player who knows he is good enough to make a home run. I had this constant niggling temptation to go up to one of them and ask if he could give me a good spanking with his baton. I’m guessing, however, that the Monty Pythonesque humour might go over their heads.

Speak to them once, though, and they go from austere to your best mate in an instant. The first policeman we spoke to for directions wanted us to step into the station… for chai! They weren’t even vaguely interested to see any papers proving our ownership of the vehicle. With that increasingly familiar expression of disbelief/amusement, they just wanted to know where we got it, whether it was difficult to drive and why we’d chosen a rickshaw rather than a cushy little car.

Further up the road, away from the policemen’s eyes (gladly), is where Damsel had her scuffle with a bully. Chandigarh might be a planned city, but do not be fooled. Just because lines, rules and traffic lights exist doesn’t mean that anyone takes any notice of them.

Typical Indian traffic is made up of frenetic drivers on disorganised roads. Typical Chandigarh traffic is made up of frenetic drivers on organised roads. For those of us trying to stick to the rules, this makes Chandigarh a more treacherous place to drive, because you end up concentrating on lines rather than what the other cars are doing. On a nice, normal, hectic road you are free of lines and rules that pull your attention away from other cars. You just go along with the craziness, and in doing so can negotiate your way through it all.

We were at a junction when Damsel received the punch. It wasn’t nearly hard enough to scare us, but it was hard enough to send shock-images of lawyers and police through our minds. Even though it was obviously his fault, I crawled out of the rickshaw with the dread of a study-deficient child slinking out of an exam room.

The car had tried to come out of a road to our left prematurely, hitting our back left corner with his front right corner. But Damsel is a tough lass! She acquired a barely visible scratch, while he was bruised with a sizeable dent. Perhaps karma does exist, as the Indians say. This is what he gets for treating the road like a dodgem car game.

Frowning, we checked the damage. Frowning, the other bloke checked the damage. Curious, other drivers stopped and gathered around. Another auction ensued, after which our hector seemed to give up. He flicked his hand towards the road and threw some curt Hindi in our vague direction. The spectators translated for us. “Go… just go.” It was too obviously his fault, and he wanted to avoid legalities.

Images of lawyers and policemen faded blissfully from our minds as we pulled back into the organised disorder. Damsel was slightly scratched, but she didn’t seem too upset. I think she might even have been a little proud of it. The tattoo was testament to the fact that although she was a petite little lump of blue, she could stand up there with the biggest of ‘em!

Things didn’t go uphill from there, and that is just how a rickshaw likes it. Damsel sailed along the nice flat roads, absent of the normal grunts and other admittedly unattractive sounds that tend to escape from her backside. And good thing, too! I wouldn’t want to see her embarrassed in front of the dashing lads of Chandigarh. Some of the rickshaws weren’t as shiny and new as her, but she is no snob. I even caught her checking out some cycle rickshaws! But her favourites were the rugged older rickshaws. They had character.

Damsel chasing tail

Damsel shows off as she overtakes

Before long we located a random genie floating around waiting to rescue defenceless foreigners. Being ourselves foreigners, we very kindly aided him in his quest. With his willing assistance we were soon settled down in a hotel whose price had been bargained down to something resembling reasonable.
The next morning, before leaving this perfectly planned city whose perfect uniformity has been perfectly thwarted by Indian drivers, we visited the local rock garden.

The Chandigarh Rock Garden

The Chandigarh Rock Garden begun because for one road inspector called Nek Chang the mere inspection of gravel and rocks was not enough. It started in 1957, when he secretly started hoarding lumps of stone that represented, to his eye, images of animals and humans. One thing led to another (as they do for these arty types who with crack-brained ideas involving junk, rickshaws etc.) and by 1975 he’d created 12 acres of interlinked courtyards filled with fantastical sculptures made entirely of recycled materials. If he’d been caught indulging in such wayward artistic activities early on, he’d have probably been reprimanded. But with 12 acres of art under his belt, the authorities decided it was a jolly good idea and gave him some money to develop the place.

Today the rock garden is spread over forty acres and created entirely from industrial and residential waste that would otherwise have festered away in piles along with all the other rubbish in India. To enter the garden one has to duck through a low hole in the rock wall. By the time you straighten on the other side you discover you’ve entered a whole new world.

Then you discover that in fact the rock garden is a whole series of little worlds linked together via timeless little paths. In some of them countless electrical sockets blink at you from high walls. In others forms stand locked in time and stone, their postures hinting at some strange activity comprehensible only to mythical creatures. In yet other worlds the creatures are more defined. There are maidens with long, craning necks, monkeys unabashedly flaunting their cheeky nature, mosaic men riding wilder beast with helmets on, jolly, chuckling men made of wire, barrels, flapping birds, prancing horses, gnome huts… every piece seems cut out of a story book.

I walked out of Nek Chang’s rock garden aching to put my paintbrush to Damsel. This is because art breeds art. If only I could get started.

Well, that was my mission.  I was becoming painfully aware, however, that time was running out. Visas do not wait for the completion of art projects before they force you out of a country.

Into the jaws of Delhi

All you clubbers out there will know what it is like to be happily boogying away on the dance floor only to have the smoke machine fart all over you, filling your nostrils and obscuring your vision. That is what it is like moving into Delhi. The air is reasonably clear, and then the grey starts rolling across the skies, ominously hinting at the nature of the beast towards which you are moving.

We kept Damsel’s windows open, desperately grasping the small relief offered by the thin panes of incoming wind. There was no relief from the smells though. When I say it was stinking hot I mean stinking hot. Particles of dirt and puffs of pollution flew in at our faces, which by the time we reached Delhi had caused my skin to become rough. Sweat oozed between breasts, squelched between bottom cheeks and dripped down shins. Trousers stuck to legs and legs to stick to the seat. Licking my lips was like licking a salty seaside shell.

It was in this state that we arrived in a little town outside Delhi. We stopped to buy some bananas and ended up hanging out with a bunch of very naughty young men who wanted to cheat us (but not over the bananas.)

The town was swarming with auto rickshaws - as in tripping over the little buggies is likely a common hazard. They were everywhere.

We stopped near a banana stall and Indians descended upon us as though the ground had lost its gravity and we had gained it. Where did you get this rickshaw?! Why did you get it?! How much was it?! They wanted to know it all – especially other rickshaw drivers.

One driver, bereft of the ability to speak the same language, tried via every method available to him to convey his excitement at having witnessed foreigners driving a rickshaw. With a grin that divided his face in two, he slapped Damsel’s blue exterior heartily. He turned his palms towards the sky as if some miracle had occurred. He shook our hands with enthusiasm that threatened to cut off circulation.

This guy was not the cheater. He was just a very excited man.

The cheater came up from behind him and said in a near-perfect American accent, “Are these guys bothering you?”
“No no, they are just curious,” I said. “You spent time in America, did you?”

Oops. I should have said a near-perfect Canadian accent.

(I know, I know. I can just hear in my mind’s ear all you Canadians yelling objections at this point. But I challenge you: the day you can tell the difference between a New Zealand and Australian accent I will strive to tell the difference between a Canadian and American accent.)

“How about you have a chai with me at my shop?” suggested the Canadian-sounding Indian.

So far we’ve had spontaneous chais for the pure sake of friendly goodwill with many people in India. I mean, even armed police wanted to chat with us over chai! There was no reason to suspect this guy would be any different. What could go wrong over chai, after all?

It went like this: We had chai. We chatted amiably. He suggested we check out a local monument down the road. We went there together with his friends. We chatted amiably some more. I didn’t get genie vibes off these dudes, but nor were the alarm bells ringing… yet.

The cheater suggested we stay at his house the night. “I don’t want to blow my own horn,” he said, “but my parents’ place is like a palace. They would love to have you. Mum is cooking goat tonight.”

There was still no reason to suspect him, especially considering he was offering us a room at his parent’s house. After some consideration we conceded that maybe it wasn’t a bad idea… Moonho was tired from driving, after all.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. I told him I wouldn’t, due to my misbehaving tummy, but that Moonho might like to share one.
“Okay!” he declared.

And then, with sudden urgency not uncommon for an Indian, we were urged to get on a motorbike with his mate. We expected to go back to our original meeting place, but instead he drove us down a small street and stopped outside a tiny shop. At this point an embryo of suspicion started wriggling and twitching in my mind. We made our way into the stuffy den of a shop and sat down. I tried to avoid eating a fly by keeping my mouth shut.

The cheater’s partner in crime spoke quick Hindi to the owner who, face unreadable, produced a bottle of whisky from the bottom of a cupboard.

The drinking was to commence there and then?!

Moonho took a little of the offered whisky and I politely declined. The partner in crime looked at me and said “Just a little.”
“No thanks, I’ve got a bad tummy,” I said.
“Just a little bit is okay,” he insisted.
“No no, it’s not okay. I’m sick.”
“Take just a little.”
“No, really, I don’t want any.”

He poured me a drink of whisky anyway. Of course, I wasn’t about to make myself sick for the sake of etiquette. I bluntly refused to drink. His face transformed for a mere fraction of a moment to an ugly mask of frustration, and in that moment my embryo of suspicion skipped a few semesters and was born. This guy wanted to give us what we didn’t want, and was after something with which we were most likely unwilling to part.

After several more failed attempts at convincing me to imbibe, we left. The original cheater had finally returned and we all walked together up the road. As we did so the two men spoke to each other in hushed tones behind hands. It occurred to me that if I was ever going to be cheated I’d prefer to be cheated by con artists with a bit more skill.

I told Moonho in Korean that I thought these guys were dodgy, and he agreed. And then, as we walked, a boy who couldn’t have been much older than fifteen slipped ghost-like into the space next to me. He looked up into my eyes somberly and said quietly “These men are no good. They will do something like give you alcohol then try to get something from you. I’m not telling you this because I want something from you myself. I just think you are a guest of India and this shouldn’t happen to you.”

I looked down at a young face that looked up at me, apparently with nothing but concern.

“Thank you,” I said. “I will take your advice.”

He nodded once then quickly slipped away, a small bird melding back into the flock as if afraid our cheaters would see him. He seemed utterly genuine. I know he had to be either a little angel or a part of the plan. I will never know which, but I hope he was of the former category. If not, I think that one day he shall become a much better con artist than the wanna-bes presently in our company.

I approached our first cheater and told him we wouldn’t stay at his parents' house – we wanted to be on our way. He must have seen the resolution in my eyes (or the boy warning us) because he didn’t object. However, after awhile he asked, “What changed your mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” I said, being careful not to implicate the boy – for our sake if he was in on it and for his sake if he wasn’t. “We just decided we should get to Delhi as soon as possible because we have a lot to do.”

We chatted pleasantly for a little longer as we headed back to the rickshaw. I suppose they imagined my lack of animosity indicated ignorance, for they started again to try and convince us of the hilarity and fun we’d experience over a few drinks. “I’ll buy you a nice cocktail,” said cheater number 1. “And some beer!”

I objected over half a dozen times before I finally turned to him and said “If I drink I will become ill and vomit all over your lap. Do you want that to happen?”

He stared at me for a moment then shook his head. And that was the end of that.

“We’ll send you an email!” I lied as we pulled away in the rickshaw. The lads looked at us quizzically. I don’t usually lie easily, but in this case it came out effortlessly. Self-preservation is justification enough for me. Best to keep it friendly and them uncertain to the end, I figured.

Damsel hummed happily as we pulled away from the town. Some things can infuriate me, but for some reason situations like this don’t leave me feeling particularly angry or badly done by. Where there is a large population and limited resources you will find con artists. This is my second trip to India, but of all the people who have tried to cheat me in this way none have yet managed to get past chai. At least I get free chai, eh?!

Because Moonho had a little whisky in the veins, I took the rickshaw’s reins. Under my control for the first time, Damsel felt surprisingly obeisant. This is not because Moonho is a bad driver – far from it – but wheels that go in that direction exactly when you tell them to inspire confidence. I had imagined that she was like an untrained puppy, uncontrollable and liable to jump unawares in front of a monster truck at any moment. But she was perfectly well behaved.

Still, I didn’t forget that in this game of dodgem cars, rather than going ‘bump! giggle giggle’ one could well go ‘crunch! ouch, I think I’m a paraplegic.’ So I drove more carefully than a naked person walks through a forest of stinging nettles, and all was well.

As we approached Delhi we stared at the grey sky through the even greyer smoke coming out of the bum of the truck in front of us. Within all that grey wafted an air of inevitability. We hadn’t been going to return, but there was no choice. The jaws of the big city were closing in around us again, and this time we were wilfully driving into it.