Three-wheeling ticket to ride

FAIZAL talks quickly and I had thought he said his name was Frasier, which seemed unlikely in the state of Kerala in southwest India.

Illustration: Igor Saktor

FAIZAL and I are becoming fast friends. He talks quickly and yesterday, when he began stalking me, I had thought he said his name was Frasier, which seemed an unlikely thing to be called in the state of Kerala in southwest India.

Faizal is an autorickshaw driver and says I look like his sister (mother?). He prefers to call his vehicle a tuktuk, which is "more modern, more for tourists". There are not many visitors about the colonial settlement of Fort Cochin, in the port city of Kochi, in the pre-monsoon months, when the air becomes so spongy it's as if you could slice out your approximate shape in the air and walk clear through the gap.

The autorickshaw drivers hang outside the charming little Malabar House hotel, where I am staying, and my room is at the front, along a colonnade, so they can clearly see my comings and goings. Faizal would mount the steps in his three-wheeler and propel me clear across the lobby to the hotel's courtyard restaurant for breakfast, if I let him.

Faizal is determined to drive me around this Tuesday. And it is important to note the day of the week as later we will meet Ruby, a seamstress, and we will sing the chorus of the Rolling Stones song to her and then I will tip Faizal so handsomely he will be momentarily dumbstruck. In fact, I will be paying him to go away and let me walk because, despite the head-aching heat, I want to explore Fort Cochin's quarters on foot.

Faizal is having none of that; he will drive beside me, like an outrider, if I insist on promenading, so it is easier to hop aboard and chat. The covered but open-sided autorickshaws have been built in India since 1957, and many look as if they have not been replaced or reconditioned since. Black and yellow, able to turn on a dime, they buzz about like busy little wasps. They are not comfortable, but fun and bright and, definitely, breezy.

He is disappointed at the smallness of my itinerary, the token nature of my shopping list, my insistence on pausing to write down the names of enterprises that catch my eye, from the Surrender Hair Salon to Brilliance Suitings and Innerwearings. He inspects my Moleskine notebook, looks for mentions of his name.

I have been to Fort Cochin several times and have seen the stand-out sights. I just want to wander this trip and absorb everything around me by that peculiar process of osmosis that can happily occur when you take time to slow down and let things unfold. So we just scoot about rather aimlessly until I tell him I have ordered some tailoring so maybe we could check on its progress. He gives me a mournful look; how did I manage to sidle out of my wonderfully visible colonnaded room and locate a tailor? Did I walk? Have I (gulp) been seeing other tuktuk drivers?

I tell him a fellow traveller, Terri, recommended Angel Cotton Collections Tailoring in Princess Street and we went there on our tour minibus. "Minibus, minibus," he mutters darkly.

Angel Cotton Collections Tailoring does indeed feature a heavenly creature, in the form of Ruby, sitting out front and pedalling away on a frankly ancient sewing machine, bolts of gaily coloured fabric flying through her fingers. She is alarmed at the sudden sight of me, however; the shop's promise of "one-hour stitching facilities" is merely a suggestion and she hasn't started work yet on the long Indian-style tops I have ordered, which are due for collection in a few hours.

The manager appears from the gloom of the tiny shop and offers his card -- "silk, linen, cotton material and readymades; parcel wrapping" -- to smooth things over. Madam should call past tonight, any time at all, the shop is "at your good service; open all hours". Ruby pulls at my sleeve and whispers that she goes home at 9pm. This is crucial information, as it is Ruby Tuesday who is doing all the work.

Faizal, who has now appointed himself as my tailoring agent as well as my driver, declares, without consulting me, that we will be back at 8pm sharp. I correct him and say I will be back at 9am the following day. Faizal winces at the use of the personal pronoun.

When we do tootle to a stop next day, at a relaxed 9am, Ruby is still sewing shirts and the manager is chatting with friends at the nearby chai stall. Soon he comes into his "parcel-wrapping" own, however, and the finished tailoring is delivered with a flourish, but not before Faizal checks the seams, the quality of the cloth, the sturdiness of the string-tied bundle. He tells me I have paid too much and, with no apparent irony, adds that I have been "taken for a ride". It has cost me less than $30 for two long shirts, including fabric. I am happy, I tell him, as we return to the hotel, a journey of four minutes.

I think that's goodbye, as I am leaving Fort Cochin today, but 30 minutes later, Faizal has arrived in a great billowing of dust amid our little group of travellers as we look at a row of autorickshaws in a field near the hotel. They are about to take off on the Malabar Rampage, a leg of the annual Rickshaw Challenge charity drive, and the game little vehicles, many of which look held together by paper clips and strategic temple offerings to the gods of traffic, have been customised with sponsorship stickers and vibrant artwork from the gaily named Pimp My Shaw company.

We talk to three English banker chaps, skin as floury as steamed buns, who have jetted from the northern winter into high-steam India this morning and are ready to check their chariot, which has a fetching design of blinged-up tigers. The race is a 2000km gallivant; they have no idea what is in store.

Faizal, who is not at all connected with the event, has much to say. He introduces himself to them quite clearly as Frasier, with a long emphasis on the second syllable. The autorickshaw only has "seven horsepower, single cylinder, two-stroke engine, most likely to tip on tight corners", he parrots and asks how they intend to tackle the hills, deal with holy cows and cranky camels on the road and, indeed, even fit in the autorickshaw (they are burly fellows, it has to be said).

They are confused by his rat-a-tat questions and off they go on a stop-start practice run along the flat dusty street beside Fort Cochin's parade ground, which causes Faizal and his cronies to fall about laughing. The now-sweaty bankers look as if they are trying to set a world record for fitting flesh into a three-wheeler.

The next Rickshaw Challenge is the 14-day Mumbai Xpress from Chennai to Mumbai (from July 30 to August 12); you could do worse than spirit Faizal aboard as your secret agent.

More: www.rickshawchallenge.com.

Susan Kurosawa was a guest of Wildlife Safari and Singapore Airlines.

www.wildlifesafari.com.au
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