Hail me a rickshaw!

Where does the most ingenuous experience of a country’s true character come from? Did you say its ancient civilisations or its resplendent beauty and culture? How could you pooh-pooh our swashbuckling road network? The most fitting testimony to the island is its roads. It’s a thrill-a-minute ride that packs indubitable signs of where we are heading.

Islanders seem to be in a hurry. Thumb on the horn, foot on the pedal and brain in the back seat; Sri Lankans in their motorcycles, tuk-tuks, cars, vans, buses and lorries are always in a hurry. 

But collectively they seem to be going nowhere! The mind-boggling drama that unfolds on the road does make Disneyland hell rides look like child’s play. But gone from our roads is an intriguing transporter from a by-gone era: Rickshaws!

The 10-minute walk from the car to your destination can be a nightmare in the sweltering heat. The distance is too short for the tuk-tuk driver. You look around for a rickshaw and there’s none around. I forgot that this is not New York; in New York, I found myself utterly lost in near freezing weather. 

An imposing hotel overlooking the famous Empire State Building, I hoped the Yorkers to know. In this mega city, you are doomed without a street number which I had effortlessly lost. Every willing passer-by pointed in a different direction which only prolonged the misery. 

After three hours of wandering in freezing darkness, I was in a state of despair. On this fateful New York night, not a single empty cab was in sight. Desperate knocks on an apartment glass front wouldn’t even get a cursory glance from the security chappie inside. 

At long last, a legendary NYPD patrol car arrived on the scene, in true Hollywood style. I threw myself into its path. Their response was a quick burst of the siren before speeding away, probably ridiculing an ignorant Asian for mistaking the squad car for a taxi.

As I stood half frozen and out of options, out of the darkness of the street sprung the biggest surprise of my life: a rickshaw. I remember embracing the Afro-American rickshaw man. 

I have never been so elated at the sight of a fellow human being. For once, a New Yorker didn’t need a street address. Twenty dollars and 10 minutes later I was in the warmth of the hotel’s enticing lobby. Since then I have been praying for rickshaws to make a comeback in Colombo.

How about restricting vehicular traffic to congested urban hot-spots like the backstreets of Pettah and bringing back the rickshaws? If it’s acceptable in NY, I don’t see why it should be relegated to a primitive contraption here. 

The way the economy is trudging along, it may not be long before the rickshaws and bullock carts make a comeback. 

The country is cash strapped. It would be scandalous to say we are printing money but money we need just to pay colossal interests on international borrowings, as well as interest payable on massive sovereign bonds. So unless the imports are cut and exports multiplied, I’m investing in a rickshaw production plant.

Scientists say the most relaxing image you can imagine is rain falling at a slant. I’m doing just that as I try to block out doomsday warnings. But then, I don’t want to be in a rickshaw in the pouring rain. I think I’d imagine a cold beer.

(An award-winning former war correspondent and adviser to the Minister of Tourism, brand guru Dinesh Watawana heads the respected integrated communications agency The 7th Frontier. He is renowned for his innovative brand strategies and is credited with putting Sri Lanka on the global map of tourism with his critically-acclaimed eco resort KumbukRiver. Email him at [email protected].)