Mr. Rames' Wild Ride

This occurred on the same evening as Luana’s Bovine Brush with Death (see below).

(Bob:) Our ship had docked in Chennai (formerly Madras) on the southeast coast of India, and the day after we arrived, a large group from our ship--about 3 busloads--flew out to start a three-day tour of first Varanasi, then New Delhi, and Agra, the site of the Taj Mahal and some historic forts.

Varanasi is along the Ganges, and Hindus in India consider it their oldest and most sacred city.

It’s also important to Buddhists, since Buddha gave his first lecture here. Buddhism arose as a protest against the stratified social structure of Hinduism, much like Martin Luther rebelled against Catholicism.

Hindus go to the Ganges to bathe in the river because they consider it sacred. It is also an important place for cremating bodies; many people actually come here to die or at least to be cremated and have their ashes scattered in the river. Important environmental point: The professor of a Water Resources course on board pointed out that the fecal coliform count along the shoreline of the Ganges at Varanasi is about 6 million parts per milliliter. The acceptable level in the U.S. for drinking water is 0 parts per million. Suffice it to say I didn’t bring my swimsuit for a dip in the Ganges. But there were people actually swimming in the middle of it, in addition to all those bathers.

Anyway, to get to the river to see the evening Hindu prayer service -- something all tourists in the city do -- our guide said we would have a little pedicab ride, since the streets near the river were too crowded for buses. We anticipated a leisurely little 10 minute ride, similar to one we had in China through a nice neighborhood. Wrongooo!

This was a 45-minute-to-an-hour ride through Purgatory. It was uncomfortable -- sometimes painfully so --a little scary and complete and utter fun. Better than any ride at Disneyland.

The road was unbelievably rough; you had to brace your feet on the main struts from the driver’s seat to keep from being thrown off. That was when you stopped, because my pedicab had no brakes and stopped by hitting the back of the pedicab in front. You held on to the side with one hand and tried to shoot pictures with the other.

My driver was named Rames (Luana was in another pedicab), and he looked so small and frail that I felt that I should clearly be the one pedaling. Before we started, Rames introduced me to his son -- age six or seven I would guess -- who was hanging around the pedicab stand late in the day. Rames, a Hindu, said he had three children.

Rames got us going into the cacophony of constant horns from the motorbikes and loud bells from the pedicabs. Every time one of these vehicles, or pedestrians, got too close to us, Rames rang the bell and shouted at the offending party, who then shouted back. Then they each did some more shouting. When we had an actual collision, things really got heated, but surprisingly no fisticuffs resulted.

Rames had limited English, but pointed out the Catholic church along our route, and the Hindu temple, and the Mosque, and the Hindu temple, and the Hindu temple, and -- you get the idea.

Vibrant color followed vibrant color, from the fresh fruit and vegetable and flower stalls, to the knock-off Nike stalls, with women in bright saris everywhere.

About 75 electrical wires snaked off every pole: I wonder how many of those are metered?

Monkeys ran across the tops of buildings.

Everything was crowded in on everything else -- especially in the street.

A few people were laughing and pointing and commenting to Rames, undoubtedly about his luck in getting to haul the lardo American.

Add into this the cows. It is a strange phenomenon about Indian cows: They don’t like fields. Even in the village areas they seem to like congregating on the side and middle of the road and in front of shops, where they have easy access to eating the garbage in the street.

(I wonder if they have “Why did the cow cross the road?” jokes in India. Maybe one would be “Because stopping traffic was udder fun.” I’ll stop now, rather than milk it for all it’s worth.)

So we make it down to the Ganges for the evening ceremony that Luana will describe in another entry. Then we have to come back. Rames is waiting. He specifically told me the number of his pedicab and said I was to ask for him by name. Masochism is alive and well in India.

More good news for Rames. A Semester at Sea student from another group got lost and ended up with our group, so Rames got to haul the two of us back, with the other guy sort of perched up on the side of the seat: one guy in the prime of life and a svelte 6-foot-3 and 240 pounds--or so--and the student: about 6-foot-5 and 220 or so pounds of muscle (I could take him in a fair fight). Needless to say, Rames struggled and we fell far behind the group. Danny, the student, and I suggested Rames stop for an energy drink or two, but for some reason our fluent Hindi didn’t seem to register with Rames. He said something to us like “So’s your mother” and kept pedaling.

We eventually made it, and Rames earned a substantial tip of about two day’s wages in India -- $5 or so from me. I don’t know what the tour company paid him as the basic price for our trip, and I was going to suggest he might want to invest in some brakes. But then I remembered his kids.