The Rickshaw Mission.

But first, the Indianized English of the day:

* It was half way through a five hour bus ride that we saw a sign instructing us to ‘Rest A Wale.’ Were they suggesting we ensure the rest of one of the whales living among the rice patties? Or perhaps that we arrest one? I thought alternatively that they might want us to rest awhile… but the bus sped past without any of us resting at all so who knows?

* We were sitting at a rather highbrow restaurant in a lovely garden setting. There was a little outhouse on the lawn crowned with a sign that said ‘Tandouri Knight.’ We were waiting all night for a knight to appear, presumably brandishing a turmeric-stained chicken rather than a sword. But alas, he never turned up.

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You may well ask why we are on a rickshaw mission, and I can assure you that you wouldn’t be the first (or even among the first thirty.) It is hard to say what inspired me, but one day we were getting a lift in the back of a rickshaw and suddenly the three-wheeler looked like so much more than just a tiny taxi. It looked like a tiny house.

The idea of a portable house has always appealed to me. I remember envying snails when I was a little tyke. They never have to backtrack if they don’t want to because all the hardware they need is already conveniently installed on their back. I liked that idea. At the time I had visions of myself with my plastic Micky Mouse cubbyhouse mounted on my back – but it never would have worked. The ratios were all wrong.

But now, at 29 years of age, it seemed my childhood fantasy might come true! Admittedly, the rickshaw wouldn’t be attached to my back, but I’ve come to be a tad (if only a tad) more realistic in my old age. Its speed would also probably be comparable to that of a snail – but hey! We are in no rush.

So, on naught but the word of a few rickshaw drivers in Mcleod Ganj, we set off to Mandi looking for a rickshaw dealer whose name and exact location we didn’t even know. It wasn’t much to go on, but getting even that much information was like trying to sieve for gold.

The bus trip down brought us through the Kangra valley, where green hills rolled endlessly and each new corner revealed another valley lined with rice patties so numerous as to seem like stairwells for the Gods. Palampur, the tea capital of Himachal Pradesh, was so wet and green I could have been back in Tasmania. Indeed, there were even eucalyptus trees around to scent the air with the smell of home!

A tea farm in Palampur

Smack-bang in the middle of Mandi

Reaching Mandi with no expectations whatsoever, we were pleasantly surprised to find a lovely little buzzing city full of friendly folk and surrounded by more juicy green hills. After choosing a hotel we got straight down to the business of finding out whether a rickshaw was actually gettable in this place.

A goose chase would have been easier than the ensuing hunt for information. I’ll give you a typical example of pretty much every conversation that day:

“Namaste. Do you know somewhere that sells auto rickshaws?”
“You want to ride in an auto rickshaw?”
“No, we want to buy one.”
“… You want to hire an auto rickshaw?”
“No no, we want to purchase an auto rickshaw. We are looking for a dealer.”
“You mean you want to buy a bike, yes?”
“No, no… we want to purchase an auto rickshaw.”

(This is where eyes start to boggle and jaws start to drop.)

“You want to purchase a three-wheeler?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“It is not possible. You cannot do business.”
“Oh no, we don’t want to do business. We just want it for personal use.”

(Silence, blank look, another silence…)

“You want a rickshaw for personal use?”
“Yes.”

(Incredulous look…)

“Why?!”
“Just for fun. We want to drive it around your country.”
“I think you buy a bike is better.”
“Nah – everyone buys a bike. We want an auto rickshaw.”

And this is their cue to start laughing. ‘Rickshaw’ is obviously not synonymous with ‘fun’ in the mind of an Indian. Rickshaws are the little scuttling mice of the auto world, useful only for getting you from A to B and dodging bigger, badder wheels in the process. No one could conceive of buying one and optionally travelling around India in it. But I had, and I was determined that we would!

However, our queries continued to be met with much disbelief, boggling eyes, dropping jaws, amused grins and laughter. You’d have thought we wanted to buy an army tank for casual travelling! Some people said that there was no rickshaw dealer in the city; some people said they didn’t know. Some people said there was and we should turn to the right, some people said there was and we should turn to the left. We asked a policeman where we could find a dealer, and he gave us in return many confused smiles but no answers. Some people really did want to help, and would have if we’d inquired after something normal like where the best restaurant is.

We were in the middle of a busy road, trying to elucidate our mission to a small bunch of Indians who had gathered to witness the spectacle of two nonsensical foreigners, when Latesh and Deep appeared on a motorbike. Because of their English skills, we were able to communicate our goal to them with slightly less than average levels of confusion. After trying futilely to convince us that a motorbike would be preferable, they suggested that we try tourist information.

But tourist information proved to be as elusive as the rickshaw dealer. According to the collective advice of several people, it was this way, that way and the other. Consequently, we went this way, that way and the other. We were trudging in the ‘other’ direction when Latesh and Deep suddenly popped up again.

“We just realised it is Saturday!” they exclaimed. “The tourist place is not open today! How about going to the leader of the auto rickshaw union instead?”

Now that sounded promising! We thanked them profusely as they zoomed off one way and we trudged off the other way (this was another ‘other way’… there were a lot of other ways in this town.)
It was the hottest time of day, and we found most of the rickshaws concentrated in one area like sediment that has settled at the bottom of juice too warm to drink. They sat hickledy pickledy, just waiting, hot little huts on wheels. We asked one driver where we could buy a rickshaw, which resulted in a conversation of the aforementioned variety only less fluent. Another rickshaw driver came to see what was happening, then another. We asked where the rickshaw union was, and they said there was none. I tried again, asking if I could see the rickshaw union leader. “I am the leader,” volunteered one bloke.

I said I didn’t believe him and one of those cheeky grins split across his face. This is the grin that Indians get when you’ve figured out that their version of the truth may not be… well, the true one. It basically says Oh well, it was worth a try. It’s just business – you understand that, eh? It is impossible to get angry faced with such good-humoured cheekiness.

Anyway, there was a growing crowd of gabbing rickshaw drivers trying to work out exactly what the hell these foreigners (or possibly aliens) were trying to get at when – tah-dah! Latesh and Deep materialized before us again! I jumped back and Moonho did one of his ‘O’ faces. They’d appeared in a small cloud of smoke that was either the result of exhaust fumes or genie magic, and we were both starting to suspect the latter. They were our magic Indian genies and were here to grant our wish.

They joined the confluence of rickshaw drivers and there was much chittering and even more chattering. When Indians talk fast Hindi they appear to be having an auction. Words get faster and faster, excitement builds and people seem to be competing, there is a climax and some sort of conclusion, then the excitement dies down… only to start up again when the next item of interest is revealed.

On that day we were the item of interest.

Eventually, after many questions and answers had zipped bullet-fast back and forth between the boys and drivers, a decision was made. We would be driven to a rickshaw dealer.

So this dealer did exist. Woohoo! We jumped into the back of the proffered rickshaw. We were to go with the would-be union leader. Immediately another driver, not wanting to miss out on all the fun and games, jumped into the front with him before anyone else could. And then we were on our way!

When I first saw my rickshaw it was love at first sight. It is Shiva-blue, its skin (ah-hem – metal) is smooth and its little windscreen wiper ever so cute. It’s a truck rickshaw - like a ute that has been squished to a third of its original size by the hand of Shiva himself.

After a few days and an unhealthy amount of paperwork, it became ours.

Or rather, she became ours. Why is it a she? Well, just as I told Mum when she asked little Leah why her favourite teddy was a girl, “Because she has no penis!”

Henceforth, our rickshaw shall be known as Damsel the Speed Demon. I shall paint her blue exterior and she will be art on wheels. She will be our ride, our home and my canvas.

All we have to do now is learn how to handle her. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it…?

Damsel the Speed Demon!

The lady with her wings spread

Damsel's bottom