May 12, 2008
A wild ride in India
By sedan, rickshaw and elephant, a traveler learns that the road to enlightenment curves and swerves
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The highway out of Delhi, India, looks like it has a rash. What is this stuff? It's smashed-up watermelons from a truck.
I realize I am going to die here, along with all this fruit, when I notice that my driver hasn't slowed. Ahead on the left is the wreck of the melon truck. I can see the Indian make, Tata, on its colorful bumper and the instruction, "Please Blow Horn." Too late for that.
To our right is a steamroller rolling the wrong way. Straight in front, we are about to demolish three old men on a bicycle, a cart being tugged by a camel, a homemade tractor, and -- I can watch their flicking tails up close -- a herd of calico goats.
There is no explosion. No pain. Just a puff of orange dust.
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My first view of the afterlife is a sign for a brand new tourist hotel. "ON YOUR WAY TO JAIPUR," it suggests, "VISIT THE JUNGLE BABBLER RESORT."
Besides the Jungle Babbler, heaven includes India's National Highway No. 8, my guide Kumar Nirala and our driver, Manuel. Or maybe, by some miracle, we have slalomed safely through all these vehicles and animals and are still alive.
Manuel, a South Indian with a Spanish name, reaches for the rearview mirror and jangles a little decorative bell.
"What's that for?" I ask, wiping my brow.
"He is saying thanks," replies Kumar. "In India, you see, a good driver depend on three things. Good horn. Good brake. And good luck."
"I am on my way," I keep reminding myself, but National Highway No. 8 has its own ideas about the pace of my trip. It is early summer. No rains yet, but in the heavy air there is a hint of monsoon.
"Today," announces Kumar from up front, "the temperature in Centigrade is 44 degrees." I do a quick calculation and come up with 111. That can't be right. Can it? Everything that's black in the car -- door handles, the dashboard, locks -- feels like smoldering coal. And when I accidentally touch my metal belt buckle that's been in a patch of sun, I yelp.
Highway No. 8 is supposed to be a major turnpike, but we whiz past vendors hawking fruit, ice cream, juice squeezed out of stacks of sugar cane, and -- according to the sign on one miniature stand -- "Refrigerated Water." Boys waving bags of snacks charge at the car, trying to get Manuel to pull over.
As usual, the Indigo does not break stride. The houses we pass are the color of candy cigarettes. Pinks, bleached whites, baked browns, brick reds. A Hindu temple looks like it's on fire, but I realize what I'm watching are waves of pure heat rising from the tiled roof.
Soon we have to dodge around earthquake-deep cracks in the asphalt. Now there are alpine ravines and volcano holes. I am happy to see a work crew filling these up. One man is doing the detail work, pouring tar from a porcelain teapot.
Seeing a bicycle cart reminds me of Delhi, the day after I arrived. Kumar and I had flagged down a rickshaw for a ride through the Old City. Delhi rickshaws are pedaled, not pulled, and this one featured a high and ornate bench welded to the back of an Indian-made Hero-brand bike.
Power was provided by Ahmed Sayid, a man in large pajamas who hummed as he rode. In the spaghetti streets of Kinari Bazaar, Sayid was less lucky than the bell-ringing Manuel. Calling out, "Chalo, chalo," ("go, go") Sayid ran over the heel of a woman in the crowd and near the end of the tour, rammed us into the flank of another rickshaw.
As I remember this, there is a screech of brakes. A thundercloud of dust. The Indigo has swerved away from something. I swivel my head to see a turbaned man waving his fists.
Manuel taps his bell. "It is this man's fault," explains Kumar. "He is running across. Pedestrian is supposed to walk slowly. If they run, you allowed to hit them."
Copyright © 2008, The Baltimore Sun
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