BACKPACKING STORY

THE NIGHT A FRENCH BACKPACKER GOT INTO THE WRONG RICKSHAW

Diwali in Rishikesh. A freezing mountain road. Five drunk men in a rickshaw. And one decision I still think about.

INDIA · RISHIKESH · 6 MIN READ · J. R. GOPEGUI

This happened in Rishikesh on 5 November 2010. Diwali, the festival of lights, when even the poorest families spend their wages on fireworks and firecrackers.

That evening, like every other day, I came out of my yoga class at eight. Waiting by the door was a French girl who had taken the class for the first time. Light-haired, sharp-featured and wearing a slightly grumpy expression, she asked me where she could get a rickshaw back to Lakshman Jhula.

I told her I was going there too, and that we would have to wait on the road for one to come past. The alternative was to walk about three kilometres uphill along a mountain road with no lights.

We walked to the road together while she told me she had been travelling around India for a year and dreamed of opening a fabric export business back in Marseille.

In the distance we could see the lights of the Lakshman Jhula bridge, and over the Ganges the first fireworks were starting to go off. I took out a torch to light up the road a little.

It was a particularly cold evening, with an icy wind sweeping down the slope, and we both agreed that sandals and short sleeves had not been a good idea. Winter had arrived. Normally there were dozens of rickshaws on that road. But it was Diwali, and after ten minutes we were still there, jumping up and down to keep our feet warm.

We kept talking and she told me her favourite place was Goa, that in Tiruvannamalai she had met Mooji, and that a medium had told her she had been Indian in a past life, which was why she felt at home in India.

Another five minutes passed and still no rickshaw.

We could have walked the three kilometres, but we decided to wait a little longer. Despite the conversation, she was getting impatient, and said she was starving because she hadn’t eaten since the morning. To make things worse, there were noises in the undergrowth, the air smelled of gunpowder, and the bangs echoed off the hills.

THE WRONG RICKSHAW

At last we saw headlights zigzagging slowly up the road. In about two seconds I went from imagining a freezing three-kilometre walk to picturing myself drinking a hot chai in Lakshman Jhula twenty minutes later.

When the rickshaw stopped next to us, we saw it was almost full. There were five men inside, waving us to get in. Laughing and shoving, they squeezed on top of one another to make room.

The French girl didn’t think twice and climbed in.

Something didn’t add up for me.

It was Diwali, a day for being happy, but those men were too happy. They were talking too loudly, their eyes were red, and they couldn’t seem to stop looking at the French girl.

“They’re drunk,” I said.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“They’ve been drinking.”

I pointed at one of them, who had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his hand. When he saw me pointing at his bottle, he raised it and offered me a swig.

“I’m not getting in,” I told her.

The driver was getting impatient and signalling for me to climb in.

“Let’s wait for the next one.”

“No way,” she said. “It’s too cold. I’m not staying here. Are you getting in or not?”

“No. And I don’t think you should either.”

“I’m not a child.”

She said it impatiently and signalled to the driver to go.

“Chalo, chalo,” the men shouted. Let’s go.

I stayed there alone, frozen, baffled by her attitude, with a torch that barely lit anything.

In the end I decided to walk, slowly, mostly to warm up.

Luckily, after two or three minutes I heard the engine of another rickshaw coming up the road. I waved it down.

Strangely, it was empty. I sat next to the driver.

Over the Ganges there were multicoloured fireworks, but all I could think about was the French girl and the five drunk men.

FIVE HUNDRED METRES LATER

After about five hundred metres I saw a rickshaw stopped on a rise in the road.

I heard the French girl shouting and the men laughing.

My driver had no intention of stopping, assuming there was some kind of conflict, but I made him pull up next to the other rickshaw.

As soon as we stopped, the French girl climbed into the back seat of ours while the drunk men laughed.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Chalo, chalo,” she told my driver.

I tried to ask her again if she was okay, but she apologised and said she didn’t want to talk.

The rest of the ride was in silence, broken only by the roar of the rickshaw straining up the last slopes and the fireworks over the Ganges.

When we finally reached Lakshman Jhula, she thanked me again and disappeared without another word.

I never saw her again.

What happened in that rickshaw during those few minutes, I’ll never know. Nor what might have happened if my ride hadn’t come along.

But whenever I think of dangerous situations while travelling, I think of that night, and of the French girl who told me she wasn’t a child.