Welcome to Andaman, where every auto-rickshaw ride is a journey into the unknown—an experience that could only be described as the automotive equivalent of a rollercoaster, minus the safety checks and with a soundtrack that’ll make your ears beg for mercy.
In Andaman, inside some auto-rickshaws the entire contraption comes alive with a symphony of squeaks, clanks, and rattles from every part except the horn. It’s like riding in a musical instrument that’s tragically out of tune. And if you’re lucky—or unlucky, depending on your tolerance for aural assaults—your ride might be accompanied by the sweet serenade of Himesh Reshammiya or a lively South Indian track, blasting through a sound system that was clearly not part of the original auto-rickshaw design.
But what truly sets some of the Andaman’s auto drivers apart is their unique driving posture. Spotting one is easy: just look for a driver perched delicately on one buttock, with their spine twisted like a pretzel and their left leg dangling out of the vehicle as if it’s a high-tech sensor. You’d think they were preparing for takeoff rather than navigating the pothole-ridden streets of Port Blair.
Now, let’s talk about the fares. Once you step inside an Andaman auto-rickshaw, you’re no longer a citizen governed by the Indian Penal Code. You’ve entered a parallel universe where the driver’s word is law. Whether you’re a high-ranking official or a humble tourist, the fare is non-negotiable and always inflated. A mere 100-meter ride? That’ll be ₹30, please. And don’t even think about questioning the rate for a longer journey—it’s set in stone, impervious to even the most persuasive arguments from seasoned debaters.
One might wonder if the local government, with all its power, could intervene. But alas, not even the Lieutenant Governor or the Chief Secretary seems to have powers to convince these drivers to use their meters. Those devices, once intended to ensure fairness, are now just relics—a quaint reminder of a time when logic and reason had a place in the world of Andaman auto-rickshaws.
And let’s not forget the weather. In a place where it rains for ten months a year, you’d think windshield wipers would be a priority. But no, why bother with such trivialities when you can drive blind and add a little thrill to the passenger experience? Sadly even today many auto operates without a automatic windshield wiper. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a heart-pounding game of “Will We Crash?” on their morning commute?
Finally, the pièce de résistance: the rear of the auto-rickshaw, a canvas for advertisements that rivals Times Square. Visual pollution? A distraction to other drivers? Who cares! The more garish and cluttered, the better.
A visiting foreign tourists had once said, the Andaman auto-rickshaw is not just a mode of transportation—it’s an adventure, a cultural experience, and a lesson in resilience. Whether you’re braving the elements, the fares, or the music, one thing is certain: you’ll never forget your ride.
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