{"id":442,"date":"2018-08-04T22:25:07","date_gmt":"2018-08-05T05:25:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/?page_id=442"},"modified":"2025-07-20T22:12:00","modified_gmt":"2025-07-21T05:12:00","slug":"the-rickshaw-man-1991","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/the-rickshaw-man-1991\/","title":{"rendered":"The Rickshaw Man (1991)"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t
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The author in an Indonesian rickshaw, 1986<\/em><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This is from an account I wrote in 1991 for my Hong Kong employer, Asiaweek, which had a special section for bylined stories. The in-house name was the\u00a0<\/i><\/span>\u201cG<\/span>ood Read.<\/i><\/span>\u201d\u00a0<\/span>These stories always started with \u201cI\u201d and a verb, and were written in the present tense. It\u2019s based on a trip I took to India in 1986.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t

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\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I stumble off a bus in Varanasi after a 24-hour ride. It is almost dark. The bus, the street, everything is swarming with people and things. I scramble to the top of the bus, which is also swarming, find my luggage, throw it to the pavement, and jump down. A wiry man in ragged pants and plastic shoes has already staked it out.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This is my introduction to India, and the rickshaw man.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI want to go to the Hotel de Paris,\u201d I say. I had read about it in the\u00a0Lonely Planet\u00a0<\/i>guidebook.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The rickshaw man bares his teeth, stained red with betel nut. \u201cWhich Hotel Paris?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I fumble with the guidebook.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cTwo<\/i>Hotels Paris,\u201d he says. \u201cYou want new hotel? Four-star, out of town, 750 rupees? Or old hotel, 250 rupees\u2013\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThe old one.\u201d It\u2019s got to be the one the guidebook calls \u201ca wonderful old-style place in large grounds.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cThat one, they changed the name to the Hotel Parvaaz de Paris,\u201d he says, bobbing with enthusiasm. \u201cNot yet in the book.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cOK, let\u2019s go. Wait\u2014how much?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cTwo rupees.\u201d Less than 25 cents. I am suspicious of this driver, but happy that he is cheap. I pile into the bench seat behind him. He stands on the bicycle pedals through a kilometer of buzzing auto-rickshaws and lumbering Tata trucks. On a side street we stop at the new, five-story Hotel Parvaaz. No \u201cParis\u201d about it\u2014and no \u201clarge grounds,\u201d either. I\u2019ve been tricked. But I\u2019m tired, and accept it.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The next day I hire a different rickshaw man. He takes me to the real Hotel de Paris, less than a kilometer away\u2014large grounds, just like the guidebook said. He tells me that because the Hotel de Paris is in the guidebook, it has enough customers; the Parvaaz does not.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou have no booking, the Paris pays me five rupees,\u201d he says. \u201cYou have booking, then nothing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cAnd the Parvaaz?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A pause. \u201cFifty rupees. Parvaaz no good place.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The Parvaaz is charging me the same price as the Paris. But when I tell the Parvaaz I am moving out, the room rate comes down by two-thirds. The clerk grins: \u201cThe first night you come, the cheap rooms were full.\u201d I ask to see the \u201ccheap\u201d room, and it is nearly the same as the one I had. I go to the Paris.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This kind of thing happens again and again. As a Westerner on my own in India, I am a mark. Not to the businessmen and professors I meet on Indian trains. They are open, and interested in me. But to the shop owner, the tout, the taxi driver I am a piece of fat meat.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Especially to the rickshaw man. He lies. Ask him to go to the government hotel that pays no bribes, and he says it is full. It is not full. Ask him to go to a government shop, and he says it is closed. It is not closed. He knows it is not closed. It just does not pay him a 30 percent commission.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I quickly learn to agree on a price before I sit down in his rickshaw. \u201cPay as you like,\u201d he says, but it doesn\u2019t work. If I don\u2019t pay as he likes, he will make a scene. He will argue, beseech, whine and cringe. He will play on my humanity, my guilt, my patience. He will squeeze these feelings until they are all gone.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0He will do this for amounts of money that seem absurdly small when I reflect on it. But I don\u2019t reflect on it. I am in India, and I want the same price as Indians. I ask the hotel clerk the right price to go to the fort, and I insist on that price. I try this many times, but I never get the clerk\u2019s price. Never. I am a foreigner, and the rickshaw man knows I can pay more. He will pedal away before giving me the clerk\u2019s price.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The rickshaw man is not openly hostile. He is helpful, friendly, even fawning. But it is not genuine. The rickshaw man who confides in me about the Parvaaz takes me to a certain restaurant for 10 rupees, agreed in advance. By the next day he has become \u201cmy\u201d rickshaw man. He insists on waiting for me out on the street. Since he is my \u201cfriend\u201d I don\u2019t haggle with him the second time. He takes me a similar distance, and I offer him 15. I figure I\u2019m giving him a tip; he replies with an ugly smile as if I\u2019m trying to cheat him. He demands 20. He knows that I feel guilty about being pedaled around by a skinny man in plastic shoes. He has deftly built up a \u201cfriendship\u201d with me and cashed it in for five rupees. I never see him again.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I tell myself, don\u2019t worry, it\u2019s only five rupees\u2014about 65 cents. The aggravation is not about losing the money. It\u2019s about losing control. It\u2019s about being a piece of fat meat.<\/span><\/p>

It is worst in tourist towns. Get in a rickshaw or a taxi and the driver will start trying to sell you a \u201ctour.\u201d This means going to a shop\u2014at Varanasi, a silk shop; at Agra, a marble shop; at Jaipur, a carpet shop.<\/span><\/p>

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\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0In Agra I tell the taxi driver, \u201cI don\u2019t want to buy anything. Just take me to the Taj and the fort.\u201d<\/span>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou not buy. Look.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo. I don\u2019t want to go there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cIs part of sightseeing. I show you marble work, jewelry work, fashion clothing-\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cTwo places. Jewelry and marble.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cMarble is very nice. Same as Taj.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Cold stare.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou know Diwali?\u201d he says. \u201cAt Diwali time, owner of shop pays me gift. Two rupees for each person I bring to his shop. I am a poor man.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo!\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cActually,\u201d he says, \u201cis not for me. Is for the owner of the car.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0India is full of ordeals like this. In Khajuraho the rickshaw men wait at the entrance of the hotel like hungry dogs. You see them; they see you. You swear you will not hire them.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou want rickshaw?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhere you going?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cFor a walk.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou go sightseeing? I show you Eastern temple, village and Southern temple.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo. Not today.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYes. Today.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNo. I want to walk.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWalk no good. You take rickshaw.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI need to walk. I get fat if I don\u2019t walk.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYou walk, take rickshaw back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cNope.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYes, you take rickshaw back. Very cheap.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0It is a dull day, and the rickshaw man has nothing else to do for 30 minutes but beseech, cajole and whine. The shopkeepers also have no business. With the rickshaw man following me like a beggar, I turn into a group of tourist shops with the idea of window-shopping. It is not allowed. Four shopkeepers, two from either side of the street, converge on me in mid-street like heat-seeking missiles, each beseeching me. I turn and walk away.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cDo we bother you?\u201d one asks.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cYes.\u201d He seems surprised, and hurt.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0At Agra the stress begins before I leave the train. Agra has two stations, and the guidebook says to get off at the second. The taxi drivers get on at the first, and slide open my compartment. I am chatting with three Indian businessmen.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The taxi man sees me. \u201cAgra! Get off here!\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI get off at the next station.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat is your hotel?\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I don\u2019t want to tell him my hotel. It is none of his business.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m getting off at the next station.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cWhat is your hotel!\u201d<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I tell him. \u201cHere! You get off here!\u201d But I refuse, and he leaves.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Slam! The door slides open. The tout sees only me. \u201cWhere are you going?\u201d he demands. The businessmen are invisible.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This time I tell the tout nothing, and he goes away. When the third one opens the door, the businessmen burst out laughing.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Beggars also single me out. In Delhi I am in a long queue to get into the fort. The line is all Indians, except me and the man behind me, a dark-skinned American.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0A little girl with a begging bowl spots me. She bothers nobody else in the line; I am the only one with white skin. The American behind me is just brown enough to be saved.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0I liked India, mostly. It is a gaudy land, steeped in history, with pungent curries and cheap prices. People with no financial stake in you are open and generous. But the touts, beggars and rickshaw men kept me constantly on edge.<\/span><\/p>

My instinct is to be open to strangers, and take them at face value. I couldn\u2019t do that in India. By the time my month there was up, if somebody in the street said, \u201cHello. What country are you from?\u201d, I answered with an obscenity.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The first city after India was Hong Kong. The taxi driver charged me six times what he would have in New Delhi. But he had a meter, and there was nothing to argue about. He drove me straight to my hotel without a word. Ten minutes later I was walking down Nathan Road among thousands of people, and every one of them ignored me completely. I was free.<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0<\/p>

\u00a9 2018 Bruce Ramsey<\/span><\/em><\/p>

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/span>I didn\u2019t think Asiaweek editors would use this piece, and they wouldn\u2019t. I was a Westerner criticizing Asia \u2014 and they were a Western-owned\u00a0<\/i>magazine in a Western language<\/i><\/span><\/span>\u00a0trying to attract Asian readers. Criticizing anything Asian from a Western point of view was absolutely banned \u2014 a good business practice. After 27 years, I can\u00a0<\/i>publish<\/i><\/span><\/span>\u00a0it here.<\/i><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The author in an Indonesian rickshaw, 1986 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0This is from an account I wrote in 1991 for my Hong Kong employer, Asiaweek, which had a special section for bylined stories. The in-house name was the\u00a0\u201cGood Read.\u201d\u00a0These stories always started with \u201cI\u201d and a verb, and were written in the present tense. It\u2019s […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-442","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/442","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=442"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/442\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1593,"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/442\/revisions\/1593"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bruceramsey.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=442"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}