|Our taxi entering the exit ramp.|
Somebody needs to make a coffee-table book of Delhi driving. It is the most entertaining aspect of my day, mainly because what would be considered a "close call" in American driving happens about 17 times per minute in my autorickshaw.
First, I bargain with one of these autowallah's in broken Hindi. (I'm getting pretty stubborn. I shout "Bhuyya! Thik bolo!", and then consult my Hindi book for rude words.) After managing to a. reach a good price and b. cram four fat Americans into a seat meant for three skinny Indians, we set off on a journey never seen on immaculate U.S. roads. At first I was told to just close my eyes, but I'm starting to enjoy the exhilaration of the ride. A tree in thriving in the middle of a one-way road, rear-view mirrors turned in to swiftly squeeze through two buses, driving in reverse on the freeway because you missed the exit, pedestrians rushing through eight lanes of traffic, it's all part of the charm. Okay, maybe I'm going just slightly crazy in India.