Rickshaws can be a metaphor for Mumbai. They're bumpy as hell, there is no seatbelt, the meters are outdated, but they are a lot more fun than other ways of traveling.
I definitely prefer it to being packed like sardines on the train (the train is of course much cheaper, and more practical for longer trips). Sometimes I meet really lovely people on the train, or at times, like yesterday, the ride is a little more uncomfortable. Standing, bodies pressed up against one another and all the smells that go along with that, I am close enough to see the lice (or something with life) in the woman's hair in front of me. I can't move away, but I crane my neck back hoping not to catch it (once again I look like the weirdo foreigner on the train).
Terrifying third grade flashbacks of Ms. Lee sending me home from school with lice are suddenly fresh in my mind. The hallways never seemed so big and intimidating.
Many of the men who operate rickshaws live in the slums, or ostensibly right in their rickshaws. On late nights walking home on Bandstand, I see rickshaws from the back that double as homes, feet dangling out of one end and a hand poking out the other side.
All the rickshaws have very differently decorated interiors, and I am not sure if they are purchased this way, or if they reflect the driver's personality--I hope it's the latter. Hoping in to a rick in Chembur I see the driver sitting on a a faux pink long hair cushion, and wonder if he has the sense of humour I imagine.
Without doors, ricks also present the prefect opportunity for street salesmen/women/children.
After giving shotty, simple directions in Hindi, my rickshaw driver looks back at me, suspicious:
"Bombay?"
"Nay, Canad--"
"CANADA!" Before I even got the word out there was a cute, boisterous little boy, with a huge smile, arms filled with fake flowers and and eyes filled with determination.
"Canada, yes Canada. Nice country. 40 rupees." He thrusts out his hand full of pretend flowers.
"Nay," I say. I smile because he is sweet and I feel bad, but he takes it as encouragement.
"Okay, Okay, 30 rupees," smile just as vibrant.
I say nothing.
"20 rupees.....okay, 10 rupees"'
Red light's green, and the rick starts to speed away.
I definitely prefer it to being packed like sardines on the train (the train is of course much cheaper, and more practical for longer trips). Sometimes I meet really lovely people on the train, or at times, like yesterday, the ride is a little more uncomfortable. Standing, bodies pressed up against one another and all the smells that go along with that, I am close enough to see the lice (or something with life) in the woman's hair in front of me. I can't move away, but I crane my neck back hoping not to catch it (once again I look like the weirdo foreigner on the train).
Terrifying third grade flashbacks of Ms. Lee sending me home from school with lice are suddenly fresh in my mind. The hallways never seemed so big and intimidating.
Many of the men who operate rickshaws live in the slums, or ostensibly right in their rickshaws. On late nights walking home on Bandstand, I see rickshaws from the back that double as homes, feet dangling out of one end and a hand poking out the other side.
All the rickshaws have very differently decorated interiors, and I am not sure if they are purchased this way, or if they reflect the driver's personality--I hope it's the latter. Hoping in to a rick in Chembur I see the driver sitting on a a faux pink long hair cushion, and wonder if he has the sense of humour I imagine.
Without doors, ricks also present the prefect opportunity for street salesmen/women/children.
After giving shotty, simple directions in Hindi, my rickshaw driver looks back at me, suspicious:
"Bombay?"
"Nay, Canad--"
"CANADA!" Before I even got the word out there was a cute, boisterous little boy, with a huge smile, arms filled with fake flowers and and eyes filled with determination.
"Canada, yes Canada. Nice country. 40 rupees." He thrusts out his hand full of pretend flowers.
"Nay," I say. I smile because he is sweet and I feel bad, but he takes it as encouragement.
"Okay, Okay, 30 rupees," smile just as vibrant.
I say nothing.
"20 rupees.....okay, 10 rupees"'
Red light's green, and the rick starts to speed away.
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| Faux snake skin interior? I think so. This shot makes the rick seem a lot more spacious than it is. |
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| Bejeweled pleather. Yesssss. |
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