It’s so fun to imagine life in a foreign land. You can conjure images completely different from your reality from the comfort of your office desk or your favorite reading chair. Are cookie cutter homes with tree-less, postage stamp sized lawns bringing you down? Just dream of Morocco. The musky scent of sandalwood in the air, intricate carved wood furniture, rainbow hued spices practically spilling out of woven burlap bags, artisan rugs slung over the humps of camels being led by men clad in traditional flowing hooded robes. I can certainly picture it, but how much of that picture is authentic NOW? Maybe all of it, maybe just some of it. We’ve read about it in stories and seen it in movies, but I’ve never been to Morocco (now I really want to go) so I can’t say for sure.
What I do know for certain is that in India NOW, there is no riding on the backs of lumbering elephants down dusty, quiet roads. There are no pet monkeys scampering up your mango trees to grab the ripe ones down for you, and there are no tigers waiting for you to come out of your thatched huts, unguarded and unaware of their deadly presence. While these things may have happened at one point in time or may still happen in a certain region or two, it is not the norm anymore. Instead of ox-drawn carts or human powered rickshaws being a common mode of transport, what you will find all over India are auto rickshaws. AKA “autos.”
An auto rickshaw is the offspring of a motorbike and a cardboard box, only not as safe. Autos are found in abundance in most places across the country and are easily recognizable by their signature yellow or blue colors and their ability to weave through traffic like a water drop flows down a window. These auto drivers move like professional yet graceless ballroom dancers, seemingly understanding the next movements of their petrol powered comrades before they even make them.
From the passenger’s view point on a hot and sticky plastic covered bench in the back, it seems like complete chaos. Every auto for himself. But I’d imagine from above, the traffic patterns of these autos appear as undulating azure and golden ribbons, silkily and effortlessly gliding along one another, coming close together yet never touching. Perspective is funny like that. The view from above is smooth and orchestrated, while the view from within is bumpy and full of sheer terror.
We’d taken autos on many trips and errands while in Chennai, but the one I will never forget was the last one I took. Carol, Ravi’s stepmom, and I went to a small shopping mall called Spencer’s. If you can’t help thinking of the gag-gift store, you are not alone. Carol was flying back to the Bay Area in less than a week, and we were there to get pashminas and jewelry as gifts for her friends back in the states. We’d been to Spencer’s before, and knew there would be plenty of autos to choose from once our shopping was done. But just to be sure, we asked the auto driver who dropped us off to wait. He emphatically stated he would, yet when we walked out an hour later, this guy was nowhere to be seen. Not a problem, there were at least a half dozen autos right out front.
Speaking in perfect Tamil, Carol asked the first gentleman we saw if he would take us back to Teynampet, a busy commercial district 10 minutes away, where Paatti lives. He shook his head and gave her an excuse. “He says he is on his break and won’t be done for a long time.” She then pointed to the auto in front of his, “He said that this guy will take us there.”
Oh no, not this guy. It took less than a nanosecond to know that the proxy being recommended was on a permanent break. This guy was definitely dreaming of Morocco and definitely didn’t want to be driving autos in 100 degree heat out front of Spencer’s. You know what else this guy didn’t want to do? Take Carol and me to Teynampet.
He begrudgingly argued a price (we offered 100 Indian rupees, he wanted 300) and we settled in the middle. 200 rupees would give us the crappiest auto ride available by the most ‘over-it’ driver in Chennai. He showed us he was the one in control by taking a full 60 seconds just to slide his bare and calloused feet into his weathered brown sandals.
We get it, Sir. You’re irritated. The oppressive, humid heat of the Agni Natchathiram was like taking a peaceful bee’s hive and violently shaking it up. The temperature was putting everyone on edge and turning every day tasks into feats of mental fortitude.
Not only was this man vexed, but he was also a poor navigator. Carol and I openly critiqued his nonsensical route choice, while I also decided that I would grapple him into submission in case his circuitous driving plan had a more sinister goal. He finally pulled over and motioned for us to get out. It turns out that he was not a diabolical plotter, just super irritated, as initially thought.
But wait, this wasn’t our requested destination. We were still a few blocks away. He ushered for us to get out. I leaned forward, pulling my sweaty back from the seat like cling wrap from a slice of cheese. “No, Chosun! This isn’t right,” Carol stated. “He agreed to take us to Teynampet, but now he says the traffic is too bad.”
Carol and the driver calmly argued for a few seconds more. He again gestured for us to get out of the windowless, glorified boxcar, and pointed to the side of a cluster of storefronts. “He is telling me that’s a shortcut we can take,” Carol says with exasperation in her voice.
I looked closer, and the entrance to a 10-foot tall, white plastic sheathed construction alley appeared into view. “What!” I cried out, laughing to Carol. “He wants us to take the rape alley as a shortcut?”
Carol and I walked closer to the entrance to assess the safety of this option. The pathway was about 3 feet wide and totally enclosed 10 feet high on both sides, only open on top. It jogged straight for the first 30 feet or so and then made a sharp turn to the left where I knew all the dead bodies would be found. “No way, Carol. We can’t go in there,” I said.
“I know,” she worriedly replied.
“Should we just get another auto for the last couple blocks?” I asked.
“Maybe,” she says.
As Carol and I commiserated on our unfortunate predicament, our irritated driver began to shout out to us. “He’s telling us to go in,” Carol says.
“No.Way.In.Hell.” I reply. While Carol and I continue to mull over our options, our driver decides to take matters into his own hands. No, he doesn’t offer to simply drive us to our previously agreed upon destination, but instead, parks his auto on the pedestrian walkway and comes marching towards us.
“What is the problem!? Why aren’t you going in!?” he asks in Tamil, waving his hands around to underscore his exasperation.
“It isn’t safe for us,” Carol tells him. If he had rolled his eyes any harder, that man would have fallen over.
“Come on! I’ll go with you then!” It would have been seen as chivalrous if he wasn’t so dang condescending about it. But Carol and I were sweating like a cold glass of water on a hot day, and we wanted this outing to be done. So, we followed him into the white, roofless, tunnel-of-the-unknown.
About 1 minute into the exit-less chute, we began to see both couples and singles walking calmly by. So, with no visible murders or murderers in our sights, we told the driver he could go back. I gave him 50 more rupees, for which he was grateful, and for which I hope will encourage him to do good deeds for his future female passengers.
After another minute of race-paced speed walking, Carol and I exited the frightening corridor onto the sidewalk of a very busy intersection. Well, crap! We were not even close to where we needed to be, and I instantly imagined Jedi-Knighting that 50 rupees back into my pocket.
Carol and I couldn’t help but laugh about how this outing unfolded as we hailed yet another auto. Our proceeding gentleman driver ferried us to our final 3 shops and then quickly back to the safety of Paatti’s compound. We thanked him for his professionalism and gifted him with coloring books we’d purchased from a young street-side peddler. He had many grandchildren at home who would love these books, and thanked us back by placing his right hand over his heart and slightly jiggling his head.
This was a gesture I had become quickly accustomed to since arriving in India, and had even found myself doing back, instinctively. With our hands over our hearts and smiles on everyone’s faces, I couldn’t help but feel gratitude for this adventure, and gratitude for all the people I will meet along the way. Even the irritated ones.
Watch this video that my daughter shot and enjoy the ride!