Why was Samuel reluctant to take another rickshaw in Udaipur?

He had accumulated several negative rickshaw experiences in India, including a confrontation in Old Delhi where a driver demanded four times the agreed fare and grabbed his shoulder. By the time he reached Udaipur, he was expecting another argument before the ride even began.

What happened during the rickshaw ride in Old Delhi?

After agreeing on a fare, the driver stopped short of Samuel’s guesthouse, refused the original payment and demanded four times more. Samuel left the agreed fare on the seat and walked away, but the driver grabbed his shoulder, bringing the confrontation dangerously close to a physical fight.

Why did Samuel tip the rickshaw driver in Udaipur?

The Udaipur driver quoted a fair price, helped with Samuel’s backpack, spoke to him kindly and delivered him to the correct destination without inventing an extra charge. The generous tip was a thank-you for honest service and for restoring some of the trust Samuel had lost.

Did Samuel believe he handled the Delhi confrontation well?

Not entirely. He still believed he was right to reject the inflated fare, but he also recognized that exhaustion, anger and pride had allowed a dispute over a few dollars to come dangerously close to violence.

What lesson did Samuel take from the two rickshaw rides?

He realized that caution can become unfair suspicion when a traveller makes a new person answer for someone else’s behaviour. One driver had grabbed his shoulder; the other had lifted his backpack. The two men had nothing to do with each other.

Blog, Quirky Travel Tales<

The Time I Tipped My Rickshaw Driver While Visiting Udaipur, India

by Samuel Jeffery

Travelling through parts of northern India was the pinnacle of my entire 2010–11 backpacking trip across Asia.

Before arriving in India, I had started to feel road-weary and thoroughly templed out after revisiting many familiar corners of Southeast Asia. I was still enjoying the trip, but the spark had dimmed. Another temple, another bus, another guesthouse, another backpack shuffle. I had fallen into the rhythm of long-term travel without necessarily feeling much of anything.

India changed that almost immediately.

It provided the stimulation—and, more importantly, the challenge—I had been subconsciously craving. Some of those challenges became extraordinary travel experiences. Others were simply frustrating, exhausting and demoralizing.

Often, they were all three at once.

The time I tipped my rickshaw driver. Nearby the Jama Masjid, Old Delhi, India

One particular aspect of travelling in India that I had begun to loathe was taking an auto-rickshaw from point A to point B.

The negatively charged experiences were starting to pile up. Haggling over fares. Being taken somewhere I had never asked to go. Persistent offers of additional services. Sudden price changes. Drivers who appeared to regard my destination as a loose suggestion rather than the entire purpose of the transaction.

By that stage of the trip, I was often climbing into a rickshaw already braced for an argument.

That was not a particularly healthy way to travel, but it had not come out of nowhere.

While staying in Old Delhi, I spent time visiting the impressive Jama Masjid and wandering through the surrounding streets.

I had only recently recovered from a horrific case of food poisoning that had left me bedridden for several days. “Recovered” may be too generous a word. I had reached the stage where I could stand upright, keep food inside my body and convince myself that this meant I was ready to explore one of the most intense cities on earth.

My recovery strategy was not sophisticated: feel slightly better, immediately overdo it.

After walking around Old Delhi for longer than my body appreciated, I was completely knackered. My strength disappeared, everything began to throb and the nearest metro station suddenly felt several countries away.

I needed a rickshaw.

I was not thrilled about it.

The Rickshaw Ride in Old Delhi

Jama Masjid silhouette in Old Delhi, India

A rickshaw driver offered me a ride back to my guesthouse, several kilometres away, for a price that seemed reasonable.

We agreed on the fare. I climbed inside. Off we went.

The rickshaw threaded its way through an endless maze of crowded markets and streets filled to the brim with activity. Normally, I would have been absorbing it all. On this particular ride, I was mostly trying not to collapse sideways into the vehicle.

Then, just outside my intended destination, the driver suddenly stopped.

As far as he was concerned, the ride was over.

I insisted that he take me the rest of the way to my guesthouse. It was not far, but I was exhausted and that was the destination we had agreed upon.

He refused to move.

It quickly became clear that this was the end point whether I liked it or not. We were far enough from the guesthouse entrance, the tourist police and other foreigners that I suspected the location had not been chosen entirely by accident.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the fare we had agreed upon.

As I moved to hand it over, I could not believe his reaction.

He refused the money entirely. He crossed his arms and glared at me with contempt.

Dumbfounded, I offered it again.

He still would not take it.

Then came the real price: four times the amount we had agreed upon.

My frustration entered the red zone so quickly that common sense barely had time to pack its bags.

I was weak, recently ill and alone in an unfamiliar part of Delhi. The sensible response would have been to assess the situation calmly and prioritize getting back to my guesthouse.

I did not do that.

Instead, I marched over to the rickshaw, placed the agreed fare on the seat and turned to walk away.

Hectic street scene in Old Delhi with rickshaw rides happening

I knew it was far from over.

Moments later, I felt a forceful tug on my shoulder.

I spun around, thrust his hand away and turned to face him directly.

We glared at each other with mutual disdain for what felt like an eternity. In reality, it was probably only several seconds.

Several very long seconds.

The fact that we came so close to exchanging blows still makes me feel queasy. There was a fine line between what happened and something much uglier, and neither of us appeared particularly interested in stepping away from it.

Eventually, he backed off.

I continued walking towards my guesthouse, visibly shaken and more than a little puzzled by my own reaction.

Would it not have made more sense to pay the newly demanded fare—the equivalent of only a few extra dollars—and avoid escalating the conflict?

Was nearly getting into a physical confrontation worth such a small amount of money?

At first, the answer seemed obvious.

No.

But the more I thought about it, the more I understood that the money itself had never been the real issue.

I felt that I was being bullied. I felt disrespected. From my perspective, it had stopped being a disagreement over a rickshaw fare and become a refusal to be treated without a shred of humanity.

Although I was mentally and physically rattled, part of me also felt proud. I had stood up for myself. I had not allowed myself to be intimidated. I had not handed over four times the agreed fare merely because someone demanded it loudly enough.

Another part of me understood that I had nearly been punched—or thrown a punch myself—over a few dollars while barely recovered from food poisoning.

Hardly my finest tactical decision.

Even now, I cannot neatly separate principle from pride. I still believe I had every right to reject the new fare. I also believe I allowed anger and accumulated frustration to push the encounter dangerously close to violence.

Both things can be true.

A Completely Different Experience in Udaipur

Several weeks later, while visiting Udaipur, I once again needed the services of a rickshaw driver.

The encounter in Delhi was still lodged firmly in my mind. So were the other arguments, detours and demands that had accumulated before it.

I approached the driver already dreading the entire routine: the bargaining, the hassle, the suspiciously helpful questions and the inevitable offer to take me somewhere I had never expressed the slightest interest in visiting.

Before the man had done anything wrong, I was treating him like a future problem.

Photo of a bird soaring in Udaipur, Rajasthan, India

To my surprise, he quoted a price that seemed reasonable enough that I did not even bother bargaining.

That alone caught me off guard.

As I went to place my backpack on the passenger seat, I felt another pair of hands assisting me. He took the bag from me and lifted it securely into the rickshaw.

We set off towards the station, and I slowly began to relax.

He started a conversation and appeared genuinely interested in what I had to say.

At first, I remained suspicious. I had heard friendly conversation before. Sometimes it was genuine. Sometimes it was the opening act before a sales pitch, a shop detour or an offer involving someone’s brother, cousin or exceptionally trustworthy friend.

I kept waiting for the angle.

It never arrived.

Once I realized he was not buttering me up for additional services, I became more open and engaged with my answers. The tension I had carried into the rickshaw began to loosen.

When we arrived at the station, he helped lift my backpack out of the vehicle. I could not help noticing the radiant smile on his face.

Before I could even reach for my wallet, he wished me well on my journey.

He did not demand a tip.

He did not invent an additional charge.

He did not stop short of the destination or steer me towards a shop.

He had taken me where I asked to go, for the price we had agreed upon, and helped me with my backpack at both ends.

The bar, apparently, had fallen into a deep hole.

Yet his kindness did feel meaningful. He treated me like a valued passenger rather than a walking ATM machine.

More importantly, he treated me like another human being.

Without hesitation, I reached into my wallet and handed him several bills. The tip was generous, but as much as he probably appreciated it, I owed him more gratitude than he could ever have imagined.

He had done nothing extraordinary.

He quoted a fair price, helped with my bag, spoke to me kindly and delivered me to the correct destination.

That was precisely the point.

A cute girl with a cow in Udaipur, India

By then, I had become so accustomed to approaching rickshaw drivers with suspicion that ordinary decency felt remarkable. Without realizing it, I had expected this man in Udaipur to answer for everything that had happened with another man in Delhi.

One driver had grabbed my shoulder.

The other had lifted my backpack.

They had nothing to do with each other, yet I had carried the first man into my encounter with the second.

Sometimes it is the smallest gestures that make the greatest difference.

The lesson I took from that ride was worth far more than the tip. A difficult experience can teach you to be cautious, and sometimes caution is necessary. But it can also harden into something uglier when you begin treating every new person as a replay of the last one.

Ever since, I have tried to detach myself from previous experiences and allow each new person to begin with a blank slate.

I do not always succeed. Few of us do. Suspicion is sticky, especially after someone has given us a legitimate reason to feel it.

But that short ride through Udaipur reminded me that the next person I meet is not responsible for the last person who treated me badly.

I have learned many lessons on the road. This was one of the simplest—and one of the most valuable.