Dear Indian rikscha-drivers!

Three days ago, you fooled me. Once again. It happened on the crowded streets of Bangalore. I was looking for a western toilet so I stopped an older rikscha-driver and asked him to give me a ride to the next western toilet. He hesitated, pretending to think very hard about my concern and said: “Ok, I know a place nearby.”I trusted the man. Well, to be honest, I was forced to trust him because no-one else in the area knew about a western toilet. I was pretty lost. 

Hence, the old man drove me through the city for about 25 minutes. I saw the red numbers of the rikscha-metre raising up every minute but I didn’t care. I really needed a toilet. After what felt like an eternity the old man stopped at a junction of a byroad and he told me: “Go to the last house of the street. There is a hotel with a western toilet for you. I will wait right here for you, my friend.” I was not in the state of mood for rational thinking so I just thrust 150 rupees (7 rupees tip) into the old man’s hand and I ran to the last house of the street. 

No, I don't need bread!

 

Standing in front of the building I realised that it wasn’t a hotel at all. Nevertheless, I asked the man at the entrance of the building for the promised toilet. The thin Indian grinned and answered: “Sorry, man. We don’t have a toilet. We have bread. We are a bakery.” No, I really did not want bread right now. I got really angry and frustrated. All the way down for this answer? The rikscha-driver was wrong. And I was convinced to confront him with that. I was running back to the junction where I arrived full of sweat. But no chance for any complaint. The old man and his rikscha had disappeared. Now, I really got angry. It was the moment I realized that the old man had systematically robbed me blind. No hotel. No western toilet. No waiting. The triangle of a liar.

Not all drivers fooled me: Schaij and smalltalk with a driver in Pune.

Long story short: I had to walk about three miles to find my way to the next mall with the next western toilet. The sun was burning down on me. I was full of sweat. Exhausted and tired. I’m pretty sure I looked like a miserable wretch. But I just did not want to spend any rupee for another rikscha-driver. 

I don't trust you anymore

Honestly, dear Indian rikscha-drivers, I don’t trust you anymore. There was too much trouble with you the last weeks. Too many of you tried to fool me or other backpackers. The toilet-story is only one little example for many similar frauds. In Mumbai, a younger driver drove me about four miles through the wildest traffic jam in the wrong direction. In the end, I stood completely lost in front of a construction area instead of my hotel. The wasted 90 rupees were actually bad enough. But worse was the fact that I missed my train to Pune because of the dumb odyssey. 

I heard a lot of other awful rikscha-stories of other backpackers. One day, you pretend that your taxi-metre is out of order so you can charge us the doubled (fixed) price. Another day, you stop without being asked at the sidewalk to lead your passengers into souvenir-shops of your friends. Of course, you want us to buy something because you earn extra money for every rupee we spend in your friend’s shop. 

Your behavior is shameful!

You know what: Your behavior is extremely shameful. We, tourists and backpackers, are annoyed and frustrated. We lost confidence in you. Of course, there are many nice drivers, too. Without any doubt. But some of you ruin the image of all Indian rikscha-drivers.

Honestly, I understand that many of you are frustrated. You earn 10 000 rupees (150 Euro) or less per month and you have to work up to ten, twelve hours a day. No, that’s not fair at all. I even understand that you charge us a little bit more than you charge an Indian. It’s a matter of fact that many western tourists have more money than the Indian average. But I sometimes have the impression that some of you imagine that we have lemon trees in our western backyards full of fresh 100 dollar-notes. Unfortunately, we haven’t such lemon trees. To be honest, I even don’t have a backyard. 

Charge us more but please, be honest!

I would accept to pay an extra ten (or twenty) rupees at the end every ride if you just do your job. I don’t demand a smile, I don’t demand hospitality from you. What I ask for is really simple: honesty.

Hoping to have some peaceful rides with you on my last two weeks in India!

Ibrakadibra