One word sums it up--
If you want to experience the real India, hop inside an auto rickshaw (as opposed to the man-powered variety.) These tiny, death-defying, mind-numbing, advertisement-tattooed vehicles with maverick drivers from old to young will test your mettle and your fortitude.
Say you played the game of "chicken" when you were younger--here's your chance to relive your glory days! One youngish driver I hopped a ride with seemed heck-bent on speeding up within ramming distance of vehicles, old men, and goats, then passing them within centimeters of their finite lives. At one point he and an oncoming motorbike sailed towards each other at mach speed! I squeezed my eyes, arm rail, and water bottle tight, internally yelled "Chicken!", and blinked to find myself still in this world. Away sped the motorbike while my driver drummed his fingers on the wheel and mindlessly hummed the Indian version of "Dixie."
When riding rickshaws you not only get to defy death, but also test your bargaining and anger management skills. Every driver worth his salt will attempt to charge you double to triple the going rate just for being foreign; in my case, foreign, female, and white--a triple strike to up the ante. Mind you, every rickshaw is equipped with a working meter which functions as a nice decoration. When I ask to turn on "meter" and pat it for good measure, many drivers want to charge me the equivalent of my entire ride as a "service fee" just to turn it on! Never mind, I'll bargain! So begins the dance of the lie.
In America the customer is always right. In India, the customer is an ignorant nuisance with money. I, as an ignorant, foreign, white female customer, must convince the nice man in front of me with five teeth that I will not be cheated. In some cases I can work the driver down by a third; in other cases, by a fourth; in many cases, not at all. My bargaining skills stand or fail based on how much energy I have after carrying a purse, water bottle, and three massive bags of groceries while pretending I don't see the men turning to stare at me through the sweaty streets. If I am still cheerful, it's cool out, and I am well-rested, I get a decent deal. If I am hot, tired, and thirsty, the driver might as well just take my rupees and cheat me.
Still, God works in mysterious ways. Until a few weeks ago I had visited a new church every weekend without finding one that felt like "home." The fourth weekend here I had researched two more churches and opted for the one that started at 10:00 a.m. I found a driver who would take me there for only a small "service" fee to turn on the meter. Oh joy! I was on my way to church...or so I thought.
The church, which met in a hotel, was only about 30 minutes away, the standard length of time to get anywhere. The driver did not know whether the old or the new road led to the hotel, so I called the hotel lobby and had their agent speak directly to my driver to give him directions in Hindi. My driver confidently took off and eventually spit us into what seemed like the general area for the hotel. However, he did not know more than that. He stopped and asked for directions from a man on the side of the road, drove 50 feet, stopped again and did the same thing. He varied his approach, though. He drove up next to a moving rickshaw and yelled for directions--the driver next to us gestured for us to follow him. My driver did not give chase, but rumbled along at a snail's pace, determined to stay lost. He wound us down alleys and byways, randomly pointing at any ramshackle building that contained the word "hotel." About this time I really began to wonder if I wasn't literally and figuratively being "taken for a ride." Just as I felt myself beginning to get ferklempt I looked up and directly in front of us was a rickshaw whose slogan read, "God is watching--Have patience." So, I took a deep cleansing breath and said, "Okay, Lord, I'm trying." The driver continued winding us down alleys and random roads until finally, during one of his stops to "ask for directions," I told him I'd had enough and was getting out. That young man smirked and had the audacity to demand "Hundred thirty rupees!" though he'd taken me nowhere. I paid that unscrupulous rickshaw driver his money, grimly shouldered my Bible and marched into the nearest building.
As I thought about it, I realized the church service I'd wanted to go to was half over by now, but the other church I'd researched started at 10:45--I could still just make it! "Darn it, I didn't go through all this not to go to church," I thought to myself. I asked the man at the counter the location of the other small church, which also met in a hotel. It was only 3 kilometers away. I hailed yet another rickshaw driver, bargained again, and off I went to the Lemontree Hotel which housed the small congregation of Ashraya.
"Ashraya" means "Refuge" in the local language. Immediately on entering the hotel elevator I met another expat woman who, it "turns out," was the one who had relayed to my other friend the info. on Ashraya that my friend relayed to me in the first place! As we walked in together, the place held such a welcoming spirit and the presence of the Lord. I truly felt like I could rest and breathe. The same lady and her family as well as another couple and their kids took me out to lunch right after service. Mind you, feeling lonely, I had just prayed before leaving my flat that morning that someone would take me out to lunch after church.
I've been attending Ashraya ever since and have been growing in the hothouse of love and worship I experience there. Every week I go out to lunch with a different group of folks my age and still pray with my expat friend from the first week. God knew.
For every rickshaw wheeling around in circles coughing noxious gas fumes there could be an unseen finger steering that little game piece home. There certainly was for me.
