Rickshaws
It is impossible to walk down the street of Varanasi as a westerner with out once hearing the call ‘rickshaw madam’, “Madam rickshaw where you go?”, “You need Rickshaw madam”. By the 15th time in 3 minutes you are ready to take a sharp pin to their tricycle’s wheels. Rickshaw drivers seem to have a sensor for westerners-even when you think they are not paying attention I have never once been able to walk by with out an offer. These wirery men litter the streets and only during the hottest part of the day can you safely pass because they can most likely be found sleeping on the colorful back seat of their rickshaws.

If possible besides the verbal pestering it is best to avoid them for they are known to hack up and discharge big wads of red liquid from their stained pink teeth. This, to the uninformed observer might even look a little like splattered blood. However this liquid I’m talking about is Paan, and is usually chewed with tobacco. Paan is from a plant called ‘beetle nut’ and I guess when mixed with tabacco the combination creates a ‘high’ as well is a stimulant. However I cannot imagine they would be able to do their job with out this. Daily, the little men’s stick legs have to manage to pull pairs of plump middle class Indians, well fed tourists, and sometimes entire families (I have been amazed at how many people can manage to crowd into the back of rickshaws). These silver three wheeled bicycle men are like the ants of the streets of India, always carrying three or four times their weight and crawling around from every dusty corner looking for ‘food’.

However actually riding in a rickshaw is an experience in itself. When you first climb aboard and sit on the sticky colourful ‘pleather’ you feel like royalty being able to sit high above the wandering water buffalos, and thick layer of dung scented dust. It’s like the climate has changed. The air even tastes crisper and cleaner as you are transformed into a princess while your own personal ‘servant’ peddles below. When you first start moving the wind moves the stale heat across your cheeks and the breeze provides an escape from the pulsating 50 C/111 F sunshine. Yet then the fun REALLY begins. You see there are no such thing as ‘traffic lanes’ in India. The creeky rickshaw has to weave in between cars, cows, and people diving the same as well as the opposite direction. Many times a green and yellow three wheeled tuk tuk is heading straight toward you and you are SURE the rickshaw’s non-stop bell and the tuk tuk’s repeated horn will be the last sounds you hear. Then at the very last moment you swerve to the right skim the side of a cow and just about take out a family of colorful sari’s.

I cannot imagine doing their job and often I am quite torn about how much to pay them afterwards. A thirty minute ride ‘should’ cost around 20 ruppees which is less then 25 US cents. So for a 12k/7 mile ride in which they have braved the heat, filled their legs with painful lactic acid, conquered the traffic and finally deliver us safely to our destination earns them the cost of a gumball. I almost feel bad. What is the harm in paying a little bit more? I am sure they all have families and lives. Even if the money is just feeding their ‘paan habit’ they should at least have something to enjoy after sitting in the scolding sun all day. Yet, on principle I only pay what the market price is. I guess this is more of a power play than anything. I think, “why should I pay more than anyone else pays for this ride” and selfishly stick to my price.

For instance, often if there was traffic or it was hot they will say “35 rupees madam, very hot”. And I say “no you said 20 before”, “but madam very hot”. Then, when attempting to pass them the rupees often they will even put on a ‘pouty’ face, stick out their lip, and refuse to take the money. In this case the ‘proper’ response is to leave the money on the seat and then as soon as a soft breeze threatens to carry the money away their greedy fingers quickly snatch up the bills. I mean really 15 rupees to me is nothing, why do I have such a hard time surrendering to his requests when in fact they are quite valid? It was hot, there were huge traffic delays, and the ride really was a feat of bravery. Yet even though I have a minimum wage in my country, a strong currency and many opportunities to work I am still leery about ‘being ripped off’. Yet the poor Indian rickshaw drivers were ‘ripped off’ the day they were born. They were unfortunately born in a country and caste where money and food will be a struggle for their entire lives. Yet we never think like this. It really hit me when I was talking to another volunteer from costa rica. She was saying how she had to work earning 400 USD$ a month in order to afford the trip. Yet I am lucky enough to be from a country where I can make that same salary in one week. So are we really being ‘ripped off’ when the rickshaw driver demands 15 more rupees?

The trip really has shown me how money is such a strange and inconsequential thing. My passport and birth certificate have guaranteed me that I will always be able to eat. I can always go home and if trying hard enough find something, some way to eat whether it be welfare or minimum wage jobs. Here neither of these exist.

None the less there are well off Indians. I admit I had begun to stereotype India until I went to a ‘mall’. After living in the ‘slums’ it is easy to forget that India is not all poverty and third-world lifestyles. The mall was air conditioned, had a food court and even ‘normal clothing shops’ rather than little dark makeshift buildings with crooked signs proclaiming ‘silk paradise’ ‘good price’. Thanks to the media we don’t here about this part of India as much. Sure this ‘mall’ was surrounded by the warped worn down buildings, roaming cows, and the typical ‘chaos’ of India-the mall exists as proof, as a monument to the higher classes. Yet, like I continually keep learning, just because there was air condition and real shops did not necessarily mean that the people who were shopping there were either happier or unhappier. There was still genderism- the mall had separate entrances for women and was filled with only men (because it was dark and women don’t go out after dark usually). Back in Nagwa the kids and women have more freedom and less ‘expectations’. And they are almost free from the chains of conformation requirements that class and money such as ‘acting a certain way’, ‘dressing a certain way’, women have less restraint and there is less of an ‘keeping up with the neighbors’ attitude. When you have nothing, you enjoy everything and stop taking what you have for granted. When you are just tying to survive anything is excepted and thus there is more freedom. As cliché as these last sentences are… the more and more I continually find them to be true. I’m sure the rickshaw drivers could careless about throwing away their dignity and begging for 15 more rupees.