Rickshaw Ramblin

Yesterday was a driving day. A low slung sun warmed our backs as western trekking packs flashing every brand name were loaded on top of support vehicles and rickshaw roofs. We wedged and nestled them between the brightly painted metallic trunks and burlap sacks containing medicine and medical supplies. All the space inside the various vehicles was needed for human cargo. Tied with rope, wrapped in plastic tarps, the luggage clung to the rooftops like an unsteady cake topper. We each said silent prayers to the gods of our choice (Gannesh, Krishna, Vishnu, Bhudda, Allah, Johnny Cash, Jack White, and Jesus’s father among them) and loaded up, the departure call “Challo Chellie” echoing down the line.

Our rickshaw train circled a hectic round-a-bout in Marble City center. We made our way amidst clouds of white grit, our faces wrapped in bandannas and scarfs, dodging trucks, cows, children and pot holes, and took the road east. Slowly, the air cleared, the sun shone brighter, and we began to see bit of green. A collective sigh of relief was apparent; this change of scenery was, both literally and figuratively, a breath of fresh air. We all began to relax a little. Some rickshaw teams had rigged portable speakers and began to broadcast their chosen travel sound track. Through my rectangular windshield view I saw three yellow box trollies settle into a cruising cadence in front of mine. We shifted into fourth gear and bent and wound around the curved road, waving at uniformed school children, at women caring wood and water, and at old men squatting on stick legs, their heads flanked by bent knees and hands folded beneath their chins, with eyes dark and contemplative beneath marigold colored turbans.  

This particular day was typical of rickshaw travel. We inched along, stopping to visit various temples and clarify directions with bemused villagers. While driving across a salt field, flat and grey, we sunk a rickshaw tire into a soft spot and damaged the cuppler on the drive terrain. This necessitated a 45 minute repair, which required 6 people to tip the rickshaw on its side so that the mechanic could clammer and bang away to get an old part loose.

 Later in the day, back on the road, we got lost multiple times while trying to find a roadside restaurant that one rickshaw had gone ahead and encouraged to stew dahl and toast roti for our 22 person crew. The problem was, figuring out how to get there. Our way of resolving the question of directions was to stop, greet a startled shop keeper or shepherd with an urgent and apologetic “Namaste” and hand them a cell phone with the hindi speaking party at our destination on the line. We would then wait for them to point right or left, and the hand gesture “go, go, GO!”.  Three pulls of the rickshaw rope around the starter wheel, and the engine would sputter to life. Sometimes, if wedged on a hill or rut in the road, we would give a push and running start, then jump in…off to the next fork in the road where we would repeat the whole scene over again.

 At one point I bought bananas from a market cart to tide us over. We changed the music multiple times. There were also some practical questions like…If I need to pee near the temple, how far away should I go and not be visible to the road but also not be desecrating the temple grounds. My driving posed an added obstacle for my rickshaw team in that every car, bus, and motorcycle that came within view felt it necessary to slow down, usually after pulling directly in front of us on the narrow two lane road, just to point and oogle at the absurdity of a female driver. Foreigners driving rickshaws created enough of a stir, but a female…headscarf covered, but none the less female…was apparently, worth derailing their trip over. If it did not create such a hazard, adding to the already stressful task, I would have probably smiled back or just ignored them, but after a time I took to shouting MOVE  ON, so that my bumper did not end up intertwined with theirs.  I found myself bristling with indignance at the way that some of them leered...much the same way I do at home when the glass ceiling threatens any airspace around my neck or shoulders. I may be wrong, but I think I saw many of the Rajasthani women smiling widely underneath their veils.   

On one section of quiet road, a farmer allowed me to wash my hands and face at his well. His sons pushed and shoved, proud to show their strength by pumping vigorously so that a steady stream of cool well water rinsed the road dust and handle bar grease, revealing my hands recognizable again. I stood from my crouched position. Suddenly, my breathing slowed, and my consciousness arched an eyebrow. I surveyed the green farm land, wandering goats, and 3 young girls, their faces framed by silk fabric, peeking shyly from behind the sod wall of their kitchen, and a temporary stillness expanded inside me that I knew, even in that moment, was necessary to remember.

We ended the day by caravanning into Temple City. The name is exactly what you get. A market place square surrounds the temple and associated buildings dedicated to worship of the Hindu god Hanuman. A great warrior, and mischievous prankster, this part man part money deity saved King Ramma's wife by rescuing her from captivity in Sri Lanka. Images of Hanuman show a pointed tail and monkey ears. He seems devilish to me. That night we slept in an old Hindu monastery, the dormitory guest house for Hanuman's temple. Apparently, the worship is a twenty four hour affair. Curled on bed rolls and quilted Rajasthani blankets, we went to sleep amidst the sounds of drums and woke intermittently throughout the the night to the gentle ringing of bells.