I don't care if you're 75- PEDAL!

I imagine there's not a well-established social security system here. I'm not sure- but just a guess. Most of the Indian elderly aren't out playing bridge and driving golf carts around Boca Raton. I'm not saying that the average American senior citizen is not productive or active- just that the old folks seem to have more luxuries available to them back home. In India, that luxury comes in the form of 3 wheels, no brakes, a basket carriage and sometimes a portable short-wave radio. Enter the Bicycle Rickshaw.

This is one of the funnest, most dangerous, slowest, most humiliating and awkwardly Indian mode of transportation i've run into yet. These guys are everywhere- willing to throw you in their basket and pedal anywhere in the city. There's an average of 15 or so on every corner and about 200 at each train station, bus stop and taxi stand. It doesn't matter how many you've said no to, the next one will invariably yell "Hey friend- rickshaw- where you go- 40 rupees- we go". Sometimes the driver is blacked out and snoring, expertly balancing his weight so he can stretch from his third wheel to the handlebars- fully prostrate. And almost all of them are old... really old.

The first one I took was with my two friends Kyle and Tony. We didn't know where we were going and we really wanted to take one of these- the first guy we came across was about 70 years old. Of course, being stingy travels and ALWAYS on the look out for scams- we bargained him to about 55 cents. He grabbed the handle bars, mounted up, and could barely get his trusty steed moving... we were too heavy, and he was too old. He weighed 100 pounds... maybe. He was 5 foot tall... maybe. When he stood up, put all his weight on the pedal, and still could barely get us going- I exploded in nervous, uncontrollable laughter. I couldn't help it! I pictured making my great grandpa pedal my ass for 3 miles and tossing him 50 cents- it was absurd. When he got off the bike and started pulling, I covered my mouth, muffled my laughs, and threw in a few extra rupees.

The next time I took one of these rickshaws was on a whim- I was far off from my hostel and I didn't know what bus to take. This guy pulled up beside me and before I could ascertain his age, I threw out my destination. He was about 68, 110 pounds. I haggled, of course. I got him to take me about 4 miles for 75 cents- which in local terms is way too much, but I just can't bring myself to do that to someone who's almost triple my age... we'll see how I feel in a few months. Now this trip falls into the "dangerous" category. If you can imagine the hierarchy on the road- you're got huge buses (lots of them), droves of cars, fleets of mopeds, hundreds of 3-wheeler autorickshaws (awesome, but more expensive) and then bicycles... which one gets run over?? But the biker doesn't even blink- we're weaving in and out of traffic, running red lights, going down the wrong side of the road. And all at about 3 miles/hour. The geriatric can barely swing his leg over the handle bars let alone get me going from a dead standstill, uphill, over a speed bump. As we literally creep through the intersection, about 30 sets of headlights and 85 horns are all directed directly at us- an American tourist in the back of some wooden antique, pulled by the oldest man in Delhi. Needless to say, there aren't any seatbelts.

SCHLUD

SHIT + SLIME + MUD = SCHLUD

This doesn't require an entire page, but definitely added a new, unforseen dimension to the state of Delhi's cleanliness... and my appreciation for close-toe'd shoes and pavement. It rained last night- a pleasure in many ways. The temperature eased, the smog dissipated, the streets cleared, and the lightening broke the midnight sky. However, I was not prepared for the state of Delhi's roadways... at all. The rain mixed with everything- the garbage, the dirt, the oil, the food wastes, the crap- and turned it into one dark, charcoal-hued slime. Unavoidable. Slippery. A third world dirt cocktail. It flips off the rickshaw wheels, sprays from the passing mopeds, and sticks to everything... if anything was going to make me clean my jeans- this is it.
But life goes on, just a little slower. People are a little more cautious- lorreys a little less maneuverable. You can tell, that even if people are wearing flip-flops (gross)... nobody wants to see anyone go down.

FRUSTRATED

This was my first day spent frustrated- language barriers hit head on. The desire to communicate becomes so strong. I consider myself a social person... maybe an understatement. I love company, novelty, humor, and challenge. I also like my solitude- almost impossible to find hear unless cooped up in my room... no way i'm doing that while there are things to see. But to be a social person without a voice- a painter without a brush, a poet without a pen- we've heard these metaphors before. I'm starting to understand the cliche- and it no longer feels cliche, but very upsetting and real. All I want to do is talk in this language- learn it's history, sing its songs, scratch its script... it's extremely difficult.
I find myself wavering between hesitancy and confidence- an uneasy gray area from which you never stay or leap, but kind of trip around and stumble. I have some language tools at my fingertips, much more to learn, and a dangerous amount of desire to learn everything I can! I want results immediately- there, it's said. I don't want to wait. I want it now. How often do we feel this way but never say it? This won't necessarily speed the process, but it does make me feel just a little better.
I've had 4 classes. This is an ancient language- spoken for centuries and at 800 words per minute. A slight "huh" sound changes the meaning and the same word can be used for "fourteen" and "sex". When I think about this, I relax and give myself a break. It will come, I know it will. And when it does, i'll cherish every word I say.