I’ve discovered a shelf of old journals of mine and have started reading entries from them. I found this entry written on the back of an envelope, stuffed into an old journal. I remember writing this about seven or eight years ago during a visit to Pakistan. Here it is, modified a bit. More Pakistan pictures from this year’s trip here.

Sure, you’ve ridden in a taxi, a bus, or a metro to get from place to place in a city. But riding in a rikshaw is something that these modes of transportation can never compare to.

A rikshaw is somewhat of a cross between a mail truck and a tricycle and is one of the main modes of cheap transportation in South Asia. A rikshaw is a three-wheeled motorized vehicle with barely any windows or doors, just a handlebar to grab onto when you’re about to fall out. The minimalistic structure is covered with thin blue metal and brightly painted with poetry and cultural decals. The motorized version has been updated from the “human rikshaws” that were outlawed on humanitarian grounds from the streets. (Read “City of Joy” for a story of a poor rikshaw driver in Calcutta. Absolutely phenomenal book)

Riding in a rikshaw is an….interesting (read: life threatening) experience without which a trip to South Asia cannot be complete.

The driver sits in the front seat steering the car with…no, not a steering wheel…come on, get serious…the handlebars of a motorcycle. The back has a long seat that by American standards can fit two or three. But, if you’re desi, you know a rikshaw can easily fit yourself, your parents, your four siblings, your cousin, and any shopping you’ve done for the day. And maybe your goat.

Furthermore, imagine the road conditions. In America, we complain about bad drivers and traffic….but you ain’t seen *nuthin* till you’ve driven the streets of Lahore or Rawalpindi. Potholes galore and street construction without any detours. People walking and cutting around racing traffic. Motorcycles, bikes with seven people on them, buses with people hanging off of the roof, cars, trucks, rikshaws, “khoota gari” (literally: Donkey car - carts pulled by donkeys or horses). Cows, goats, sheep, chickens, crows. Street vendors and movable cart vendors (ice cream, corn). Dust. Smoke. Heat. Bugs.

There are street lights, stop signs, lane demarcations painted onto the roads. But just because these things are there doesn’t mean you have to follow them. They’re like the Pirate’s Code….more like “guidelines” than actual rules (tip of the hat to Captain Barbossa).

There is absolutely no reason to signal and tell anyone which way you want to turn. Just go! You can drive in the middle of two lanes, on the shoulder, or maneuver your way between everything when there isn’t even room for a mosquito to squeeze through. (This latter option is, amazingly, the most common) Plus, if you do get pulled over by a cop, just wet his palms with a little cash and you’ll be on your way in no time.

Add all this to the fact that everyone is constantly in a hurry because they have somewhere absolutely essential to be….like a tea break or to the cricket grounds or home to eat lunch. Hurry, of course, means horns. While in America, short beeps (even in the north) mean “Hey, watch where you’re going!” or “Scuze me, the light’s green. Mind moving?”

In Pakistan, honking your car horn means “YAAR, MOVE OUT OF THE WAY! I’M COMIN’ THROUGH!” It’s more like a final warning to save your own life.

Oh dear, have I put you off from visiting? Don’t worry! It’s all a beautiful symphony of organized chaos because everyone knows exactly where they’re going. If you do get stuck or frustrated, just sit back and listen to all the different kinds of horns people have installed into their car or truck. Baby’s laugh, wolf whistle, pig’s squeal, etc.

If the US Secret Service wants to train its forces for defensive driving, they should send them to Pakistan’s crowded streets. Anyone who can last a week there can handle any driving situation anywhere.

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