A Supposedly Stupid Thing I’d Totally Do Again

There are easier ways to see India than pinned inside a tiny rickshaw. But to truly experience the country, that’s the way to go.
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Mitch Moxley

Hello please sound horn please.

These words are painted on the back of a truck passing me on a highway in the state of Kerala, in southwestern India. It’s a massive truck, a blue whale of a truck compared with my minnow of a vehicle. And it’s not alone.

I’m driving a seven-horsepower, two-stroke, three-wheeled auto rickshaw—ubiquitous in Indian cities, and designed for ferrying passengers a few blocks, not for trekking across the country, which is exactly what four friends and I will attempt over the next two weeks. We’ll travel 2,500 miles to Shillong, in northeastern India, in a pair of vehicles whose average speed is about 25 miles an hour. These are tiny machines; my 6-foot-3-inch frame barely fits in the driver’s seat, and to tap the brake, I have to stick my knee through the opening to my left, where, on a less crazy automobile, you’d expect to find a door.

We’re on the first day of the Rickshaw Run, a triannual event put on by The Adventurists, a U.K.-based travel outfitter that offers creative journeys ranging from the surreal to the insane. About 70 teams from around the world are participating, and though no prizes are at stake, the goal is to reach Shillong within 14 days. Our entry fee covered our rickshaws, which we could paint and customize as we desired, and access to the opening- and closing-night parties. The race organizers provide little else: no route, no support, not much advice—and that’s the whole point.

This fact isn’t lost on us when, on day one, we stall in the middle of the road, then get a flat tire, then run out of gas—twice—all before realizing we’ve been driving on the wrong highway for hours. We’re also still figuring out our GPS, which seems to be still figuring out the Indian geography; it frequently points us to roads that don’t exist or to routes that conflict with our paper maps. We call it a day at sunset in a city called Guruvayur, just 68 miles from where we began. We know that in order to make Shillong in time, we need to average 180 miles a day.

Despite the setbacks, we feel great as we sip gin-and-Sprites in our hotel. After all, these headaches were part of the plan. Or, in our case, the lack of a plan. We christened our five-person team “The Inevitables,” a nod to our patron saint, Roald Amundsen, the mustachioed Norwegian explorer who conquered both poles and is often credited with coining the phrase “Adventure is just bad planning.” What he meant as warning, we adopted as instruction, concluding that the best way to embrace the spirit of the Rickshaw Run was to accept the chaos of India. We painted Amundsen’s face on the front of both of our rickshaws and did virtually no planning in the lead-up to the trip. Adventure, we thus figured, was inevitable.

We wake early on day two and drive east through the low mountains of Tamil Nadu. Before long, we’re lost in a maze of back roads, stuck behind colorfully painted trucks (including one carrying an adult elephant), each reminding us to please sound horn please. Our rickshaws putter up steep roads punctuated with small villages and tea plantations, depositing us in Gudalur, a mountaintop city where we catch a few hours of sleep in a moldy bunker of a hotel room.

At dawn, while driving on a misty forest road, we stumble upon a tiger reserve. A guard stops us at the gate. “Elephant, elephant,” he says, swinging his arm to indicate a trunk flipping a rickshaw. After signing a consent form (and offering a small bribe), we’re on our way through the park. We don’t see tigers, but we do spot deer, peacocks, monkeys, and, yes, a few elephants. Don’t feed wildlife and inflict menace, a roadside sign instructs.

Menace quickly finds us, though, several hours down the road, on the edge of Bangalore—a metropolis of 8.5 million souls that we reach at the height of the evening rush hour. What follows is the most intense two hours of my life. We dodge thousands of buses, trucks, cars, humans, and other rickshaws. We get lost in a slum. We drive in the wrong direction down a freeway. When we arrive at a downtown hotel, we swear through dry lips that we will never enter an Indian city at rush hour again.

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Mitch Moxley is a writer based in New York and the author of Apologies to my Censor.

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