It is said that Indian drivers are second in expertise only to Formula One racers. In Delhi, you can believe it. Road markings do not exist save for road signs which implore drivers to use them. But instead, Indians use their car horns for a kind of sonar effect. Sounding a horn doesn’t mean, “what the bloody hell are you doing,” it means, “look at what the bloody hell I am doing.” As a result, Delhi driving is accompanied by a cacophony of beeps, honks and, presumably the odd yelp.Today had been an induction into the paper, which included several sessions entitled “brand awareness”. This generally involved showing several slides of the newspaper’s changing masthead, a constant reminder that they were the highest circulation newspaper in the world (after The Sun, of course), and a couple of showings of a promotional video voiced by Amitabh Bachchan. It was conducted while we wore mandatory logo polo shirts, and scribbled in our own-logo reporter’s notebooks. They’d laid on spicy vegetarian pizza and burgers made with spicy potato patties to please my American comrades (the house we inhabit is non-smoking, non-drinking, and vegetarian. It also seems impossible to get a cup of coffee).
Eight hours of slideshows later, we decide to venture out to a market called Greater Kailash I to shake some Delhi dust into our hair. One of the highlights of any tuk tuk driver’s day must be spotting a couple of whiteys flagging them down on the road, in order to charge them at least twice what they would anyone else, (which, granted, is probably the difference between 30p and 60p) and then persuading them that it is ‘good price, madam, good price.’ Next comes a pas de deux which involves the driver climbing back into his rickshaw, while the haggler walks away, each sneaking a look behind at the other to see who breaks first. If you’ve misfired, he really will drive off and leave you without another tuk tuk (and goodness knows when the next will come). But if you’ve hit the right spot, and he won’t have anyone else lurking around the corner, he’ll sigh, agree to your price, and then inevitably try to convince you at the end of the journey you owe him an extra 20 rupees.
On this trip, we manage to lose the game to five tuk tuk drivers, before we befriend two Indian women on the road. Their destination is on our way, so after a showdown with two drivers at a time, we fix something like a reasonable price and all bundle in. This is another common sight in Delhi, though not one we’d ever taken part in before: to fit as many bodies into, or onto, one vehicle as possible. In the case of a tuk tuk, this normally involves some kind of limb sticking out the side, which will have to be cramp-inducingly yanked back in to avoid decapitation by the zooming traffic. We are off.
Delhi roads are full. Delhi cars are full. Taxis full, tuktuks full, motorcycles are full. It’s a not uncommon sight to see an entire family on a motorbike: the man can be distinguished as the only figure wearing a helmet, while the woman rides sidesaddle behind, sometimes with a baby, but never holding on, sari blowing a vibrant banner in the wind. If there is an extra child, or even children, they’ll be sitting over the handles. On today’s journey, we pass five on one bike. It’s become a game to see who can find the motor with the most people.
Honking vehicles weave madly in and out of each other, sometimes in and out of people, and always at speed. And yet you would be hard pushed to find a dented piece of bodywork in the city. Instead, it’s possible to sneak a peek into the sides of other rickshaws. Sometimes you will see a bundle of bodies, or a huge bundle of books tied together with string, a huge statue of Ganesh, or sometimes a bunch of boys in their sunglasses and tight denim at the beginning of a night out. More often than not, there will be several pairs of eyes peeping out at the white faces, or children running alongside on the road to catch a rare glimpse or induce a wave. On the rare occasion the traffic might stop, Delhi maps for sale will be thrust in front of your face, or a tray of coconut slices, or copies of celebrity magazines. At other times, a grubby hand will emerge begging for a few rupees.
If you are lucky, you’ll stop for a refuel, and join the line of bright yellow and green tuk tuks waiting for the pump attendant. You’ll be thrown out on the concourse, with all the other tuk tuk passengers, and the atmosphere will be something like a railway platform all of a sudden, the private transport becoming communal for a few moments before you’re all aboard again.
You’ll pass families settling down for the night in roadside tents made of blue raffia sack, their washing hanging on the chickenwire above. A peek inside might reveal a greying plastic jug or two and maybe a mucky child. You’ll cross rivers throwing up a sulpherous smell, flyovers smelling of hot, spicy ash, and over it all the thick dusty air which slows your breathing.
Tonight, as usual, death is close, but never likely. Our driver laughs as a pregnant woman emerges five inches from our speeding windscreen. “I have been doing this a long time,” he grins, as he negotiates her width between his tuk tuk and the next. She looks nonplussed. The traffic being awful, he decides to take the pavement, following a volley of motocycles, and throwing dust over the row of blue tents beside. And then, being informed that he has overshot our house by at least half a kilometre, he performs a u-turn onto the pavement once more. Avoiding an encampment of Pakistani soldiers outside their embassy, he turns head-on into five oncoming lanes of traffic. It is now that my poor, frazzled fellow passengers and I have had enough. “Stop!” Malena yells, throws some rupees at him (goodness knows what they are – his luck is in), and jump out. After all, we are not Michael Caine and this is not the Italian Job. We walk off into the dark, to the sound of his laughter, and, I imagine, head shaking with pity.
Whiteys, I imagine him thinking. When it comes to driving, there’s so much they have to learn. But we are better at brand awareness.
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