Fthftirty: Why I’m Taking My Life Into My Own Hands

I bought a scooter. It may be a lemon. It also may be the end of me. But it’s better than dealing with this every day:

ME: How much?

RICKSHAW DRIVER: Hundred rupees.

ME (looking shocked and appalled): A hundred rupees! That’s ridiculous.

RICKSHAW DRIVER: Ok, ok. Seventy rupees.

ME (arms akimbo and eyes rolling): It’s a 30 rupee ride!

RICKSHAW DRIVER (looking shocked and appalled): Madam!

ME (walking away): Thirty rupees.

RICKSHAW DRIVER: Ok, ok.

ME (coming back): Ok?

RICKSHAW DRIVER: Fifty.

ME (walking away again): NO!

I really hate haggling with rickshaw drivers. It’s an unsavory part of life in Chennai. They have meters, but they don’t use them. When they see a white chick, they see deep pockets, and that means protracted dickering. Sometimes I jump into a rickshaw after settling on a fare only to discover that the driver has no idea where we’re going. Destination is all but irrelevant. What matters is how craftily you argue and bluff.

I’m a good debater. I lettered in debate. My mom has a roomful of trophies and plaques from those high school glory days. I’m an OK bluffer. Texas hold ‘em with the ladies in L.A. taught me that boldness is as bankable as a royal flush. But I’ve had it with debating and bluffing my way across Chennai. Because even when I win, I lose. I climb into the auto rickshaw battle weary, grumpy and a mite guilty. What’s 40 rupees to me? That’s just under a dollar. It’s a cappuccino at one of the upscale joints in town. It’s a Diet Coke at Citi Centre. And he needs it more than I do.

The exchange transcribed above happened on Thanksgiving as I was leaving the Days Inn hotel where I work out. Catching an “auto,” as they’re called here, outside a hotel is like buying blueberries in February. The premium can be staggering.

As I walked away, I wondered if I’d pushed too hard, been unreasonable. I didn’t wonder for long because another auto pulled up within seconds.

ME: Ispahani Centre. How much?

RICKSHAW DRIVER #2: Thirty rupees.

I almost hugged him. I jumped in without argument. As we rattled past Rickshaw Driver #1, I shot him a “take that!” look. But I know he got the last laugh. Two lady tourists were exiting the hotel and heading straight for him.

Often, auto drivers congregate on corners, and it’s me against three or four.

“How much?” I asked a gaggle the other day.

“Fthftirty,” came the reply.

Or that’s what it sounded like when one quoted “fifty” and another “thirty” for a ride that shouldn’t have cost more than 15 rupees.

Yesterday I flew to Bangalore and back for an interview with the CEO of Air Deccan, India’s first low-budget airline. I’m writing about him for Yoga + Joyful Living magazine.* I paid 130 rupees for the half-hour ride from my apartment to the Chennai airport. At the Bangalore airport, I fended off taxi drivers whose opening bids ran as high as 350 rupees and made my way to the auto stand.

“How much?” I asked before hopping in.

“Per meter.”

The half-hour ride to Air Deccan’s headquarters, a 10.2-kilometer trip, cost 61.5 rupees. I gave the driver 70 and considered moving to Bangalore.

Instead, I’ve bought a scooter. It’s a 1999 Honda Kinetic, and it cost about 7,000 rupees, or $150. It broke down on my first outing. The mechanic who sold it to me “fixed it” for free. My second outing ended similarly. He took it back again, and then he fell off the map. After repeated phone calls, a visit to his (literally) hole-in-the-wall shop and threats involving the word “police,” the scooter was returned to me. The whole affair made haggling with rickshaw drivers seem like holiday.

It’s rickety, this scooter of mine. It tends to stall after potholes and bumpy patches. It lists to one side or the other. Its engine is about the size of a powerful chainsaw’s, and it makes as much noise. It’s not pretty, but my vices have never included vehicle-related vanity. In college I drove an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a headlight that dangled pendulum-style from a single wire. I drove a Buick Century in car-crazy Los Angeles.

My mantra as I bounce along Chennai’s roads is “left left left left.” Which is useful to a limited extent. Indians drive on the left side of the road unless driving on the right is more convenient. They don’t believe in “lanes,” and intersections are free-for-alls. Scott tells me to think of driving in India as playing a video game, “except you only have one life.” Unlucky for me, I was never much into video games. Ms. Pac-Man was my game; the only skill that imparts is gobbling.

The good news -- mom -- is that traffic moves slowly in Chennai. My scooter’s speedometer doesn’t work, so I can’t tell you how slowly. But it’s slow enough that you needn’t lose sleep. Collisions are frequent but not terribly deadly. They’re like stubbing a toe: painful and disorienting and hell on a pedicure. But no worse than haggling with rickshaw drivers.


* SHAMELESS PLUG: Check out my “Journeys” piece in the January/February issue, on newsstands now!