The 3-wheel drive to conquer the unknown

Thru’ the Looking Glass

About a year after I moved to Mumbai, I found myself wondering if India had finally made me insane. It wasn’t for any of the reasons you’d expect though. I had agreed to race an autorickshaw 1,900 kilometres across the country with several other teams. Never mind that the noisy contraptions tormented my ears and frazzled my hair. I didn’t even know how to drive one! Declining wasn’t an option though. I’d resolved to say yes to opportunities that came my way, and it certainly was the crazy chance of a lifetime. BUT...I wasn’t a thrill-seeker who craved madcap adventures and adrenaline. Daily life in India was adventurous and challenging enough for me. I liked to meticulously plan my travels for peace of mind. In contrast, this was an odyssey into the unknown, with temperamental transport guaranteed to break down. What would India have in store for me? How would I cope?

Adam Branford is a fellow Australian who had similar thoughts when he signed up to a much tougher autorickshaw run at the age of 45. As a kid, he was really frightened of the unknown. When he grew up, he was afraid of travelling to places like India. I was, too. I explored the world before building up enough courage to visit India. Adam not only lived to tell the tale of his gritty three-wheeled Indian escapade, he felt compelled to do it all over again on a different route six months later and recently wrote a book about his experience. (Of course, he vowed never to return to India after his first trip, but an intangible “something” lured him back, as it invariably does!)

Surprisingly, I survived the epic jaunt intact, too. Thirteen demanding days on the road took me from Chennai to Mumbai. I arrived home empowered by the magnitude of my achievement and more confident in my ability to live in India but aware of my paradoxical relationship with the country. Oddly, the things that usually annoyed me were the things I was most grateful for on the journey — the flexible rules, temporary fixes, lack of solitude, and unpredictability.

My autorickshaw’s looming mechanical problems materialised as soon as the second refuel. The engine rejected the combination of petrol and oil like a poorly mixed cocktail and spluttered to a halt around 500 metres on from the petrol pump. This was to become a regular occurrence. The next day, the fuel ran out (there was no fuel gauge). Another day, the handbrake broke. In busy towns, the autorickshaw frequently lurched and surged forward as I unconsciously gripped the handlebar where the accelerator was located while tensely dodging obstacles. Parts fell off. There were hills it refused to climb.

However, no matter what happened, a solution was found. Willing helpers (accompanied by inquisitive onlookers) appeared out of nowhere, and someone always knew what was wrong. Instead of ruing how hard it is to be alone in India, I was glad for the constant stream of passersby. One of them was a guava vendor who hopped off his bicycle and offered me a delicious masala guava while I was stuck on the highway in Tamil Nadu. I felt supported, not troubled. Each day became a gripping new quest. Exhaustion was overridden by the wonderment India evokes, the captivating spectacle I was part of, and curiosity over what might happen next.

Humans irrationally fear the unknown without even knowing what it holds. Perhaps Jiddu Krishnamurti was right when he said, “One is never afraid of the unknown, one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” What if the unknown is where the most transformative life experiences await? Those unexpected interactions that create connectedness and expand our being? The beauty of India is that it’s not necessary to traverse the country to have meaningful encounters. A neighbourhood walk is often sufficient.

Sharell Cook, the travel writer from Down Under who has made Mumbai her home is trying to make sense of India one ‘Like That Only’ at a time