Biker Chick

That’s me! Six weeks ago I got a motorbike, my first to drive or own, and time to report in on how it’s going. I did agonize over it.

To get a bike is to enrich some reasonably well fixed guy with the capital to run a dealership. To stay with rickshaws, bike and auto, means to contribute to the income of far more modestly fixed folks.

To get a motorbike is to add to carbon emissions, which are appalling already in Varanasi not to mention the rest of the planet. The bike is at least reasonably efficient. It goes 100 km on a litre of petrol—it’s about a 5 litre tank.

I’m occasionally out as late as 10 or 11. (Dinner starts between 8.30 and 9.30), though not as much since I started getting up at 5 to see early morning rituals. It’s hard to find rickshaws on the street at that hour, which accounts for the price, but it’s a safety issue as well. You can’t phone one because drivers most don’t have cellphones. Some folks have regular drivers of rickshaws or even cars. A car is not the message I need to be sending, my schedule is too variable, and my flat too far from the city where the drivers live to come out at odd hours.

Most critically, I’m too far out (this is why I didn't get a bicycle) to get transport from campus early in the morning to the riverbank where folks are bathing, or the temples. There’s also a flexibility issue. I don’t always want to go a particular place. Sometimes I just want to roam about looking at roadside shrines and temples as they appear, and this is hard to do with rickshaws for various reasons. As it turns out, I still need rickshaws for occasional trips, but the motorcycle vastly enhances the flexibility and the efficiency of my time.

It’s routine for drivers to see how much they can charge westerners. I know roughly what the price should be in the areas I travel (I gladly pay a generous premium as a westerner, but we’re talking absurd), I laugh and we discuss something realistic.

Occasionally I’ve settled on a price with a driver and had him stop halfway and demand an exorbitant price to continue. Getting out and walking off generally solves the problem since the agreed fare is comfortably above what he’d normally get, but it’s a pain when you’re trying to get somewhere. Sometimes it doesn’t work. If you leave one driver to go find another, (if you’re in a crowded place there’ll be a several drivers shouting a cheaper fare at you—-which of course may change once you’re inside) a shoving match between drivers may ensue and even escalate, since you’re supposed to be the first one’s fare. Then the police come (or don’t) and whack somebody with a stick, not exactly a productive development. The usual case is there are protracted, angry negotiations before a second rickshaw driver can drive me away.

Once a driver was playing cat and mouse with me. I’d get out, he’d relent, I’d get back in, he’d drive a little ways and jack up the price, I’d get out. I finally got out with the intention of staying out, against my better judgment allowed myself to get back in after walking a ways without seeing another rickshaw. He dumped me in a completely unknown place, doubtless to frighten me into cooperating. I walked and walked till I found another rickshaw driver, got in. The first one shows up indignant. I’m his fare. The second rickshaw driver pleads with me to get in the first rickshaw but I’ve had it with him. Energetic consultation among the males on the street. Again I’m pleaded with to get out and go with the first guy. I had virtually no language at this point though I had managed to get across the price hike to the second driver whose eyes got wide, but still he didn’t want to mess with the first guy.

Time for don't-mess-with-me theatrics. Furious head shake, exaggerated folding of arms. Translation: I WILL NOT LEAVE THIS RICKSHAW. YOU WILL HAVE TO DRAG ME OUT. (They wouldn’t dare.) That one ended up costing me a lot and took an hour, but it was worth it to get away from that guy.

I’ve also had lovely encounters with drivers. There was the one who drove me all one night during Navarati (Nine Nights of the Goddess) to look at pandals (specially mounted life size idols of Durga and her divine associates). Early on I got out of the rickshaw before it had fully stopped and fell flat on my butt in the gutter. He was horrified but I had the presence of mind to laugh (it was totally my fault). Bingo, we were fast friends.

I got a real motorcycle jacket too (and yes, a helmet). It’s quite cold early in the morning. The women’s winter jackets at a nearby department store are heavy cotton. No good at all. I went to the men’s floor to get a real jacket Mine has sheep’s wool lining, an exterior of fake leather that totally cuts the wind, and five fabulous pockets (un-findable in women’s clothing), one that zips, two that button. It’s too big, so I wear a poncho over it so as not to look like a strange half male creature sitting among the women at the riverbank in the morning. My shoulders look a little broad but it works.