Tuk-Tuk for Two: Escape to India with two strangers, in the unforgettable race of a lifetime. (Weird Travel Book 3) by Fletcher Adam

Author:Fletcher, Adam [Fletcher, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Wanderlust Words
Published: 2020-02-29T16:00:00+00:00

19

The first breakdown

Sitting in traffic, I spotted a learner-driver up ahead and pointed it out to Evelyn. From the backseat, she let out a loud, shoulder-shaking laugh. “What do you think the lessons are like?” she asked. It was my shift again. I slid back in my seat to better hear as she mimicked an Indian accent. “This is the accelerator, this is the brake. You won’t need the brake.”

“You sound like Aarav.”

“Oh. That guy.”

As if to prove our point, a family of five squeezed past us on a single scooter: father in front, mother in back, surfing the exhaust, and three kids squashed between them like human jam.

Helmets worn? None.

“Are we nearly there yet?” I said, like a five-year-old on his way to Disneyland.

“No,” she replied gruffly. How long since I’d last asked? Five minutes? Ten? Ooze dripped from deep wounds on my hands as I let out another deep, rasping, throat-shredding cough. Being in the open air meant we had a breeze but were inhaling everything carried in on it.

We were on Route 66, approaching Alappuzha, our destination for the night, idling in traffic beside a fruit stall whose owner slept with his head against the edge of his cart. It was easy to find romance in these roadside dreamscapes. To mistake poverty for innocence and confuse people who had little with those who wanted it. The traffic cleared, and we zipped over a white bridge—the latest freshly painted link across an unbroken chain of lagoons, lakes, and rivers. Canal boats packed with spices cut lines in the tranquil water, scattering clouds of white egrets into the sky. Kerala is spice country: its fertile wetlands grow what its narrow canals transport. The Venice of India, they call it. It was easy to see why.

The scenery was spectacular, my mood less so. The traffic cleared and after the next speed bump, I twisted the gearshift towards me only for it to lock in my hands.

“It’s stuck,” I said, as the engine pleaded for second gear.

“STICK?”

“STUCK. NOT WORKING.”

“WHO’S TWERKING?”

“I’M PULLING IN.” I said, stopping just past two roadside restaurants.

A breakdown on day one? How temperamental were tuk-tuks? I pulled out my phone: 5pm. Only a few hours until dusk. The day’s points were in jeopardy.

“What happened?” Evelyn said, coming around to the front.

“It’s stuck in first. Let’s give it a break.”

A kind-hearted pedestrian arrived immediately. “Problem?” he asked.

“It’s stuck in first.”

He hewobbled in agreement, neither surprised nor concerned. A second man appeared behind him. A third then manifested from under the second’s hat, who pulled a fourth from his sleeve. The group then doubled themselves using concealed mirrors until—hey presto—they’d become a crowd. A helpful crowd who surrounded the vehicle and discussed, collectively, how best to solve the clutch problem. Evelyn and I looked on from two tiny, wobbly stools at a nearby fruit stand.

“You must love this?” Evelyn said.

“Why? I don’t like this kind of attention.”

“You don’t look very uncomfortable. And you need this, no?”

There was a thread here, but I couldn’t tug it loose.

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