The only way to travel

You’ll have read the occasional passing reference to tuk-tuks in this diary already, but the three-wheeled vehicles have become such a part of my everyday life around Colombo that I felt they deserved an entry of their own. The question is really, where do I start? Is it the hair-raising cornering? The total disregard for the rules of the road? Or the confrontations with traffic many times bigger and stronger?

Well, there are no two tuk-tuks, or trishaws as they are also known, that are alike. Some are fairly bland, just there to do a job, while others are lavishly decorated with loving care and attention. Some drivers have family pictures in their cab and brightly coloured fabrics covering the seats. Some are kept in top-notch condition, others, you think, must be about to fall apart around you.

One thing I learnt early on is that negotiating the price for a ride is very much like buying a house, you never accept the first offer. Once you have done a journey a few times you have a bit of bargaining power and it is often possible to force the driver down a few notches. One thing they aren’t so good at is having change, so when you offer a 1000 rupee note it begins a drawn out process over who is going to sort out some smaller notes.

However, the fun really starts when the driver sets off. The first thing they will often do is tear up the wrong side of the road – or even the duel-carriage way – instead of finding the next turning spot. Road signs mean very little and traffic lights sometimes even less. Creeping while the light is on red is seen all over the world, but these guys take it to a new level. By the time the signal changes, they are often halfway across the junction, revving their engines as if about to launch into a drag race with their mate opposite.

Size certainly doesn’t matter in the case of tuk-tuks. They hold no inferiority complex over buses, lorries or cars and are quite happy to take any of them on in a duel to reach that next gap in the traffic. You see, they are all equipped with that one vital piece of equipment for driving in Sri Lanka – the horn. If you aren’t hearing them there is something wrong, if you do hear them they are invariably trying to prevent something going wrong. If your horn fails you may as well not bother trying.

However, the drivers have been doing this for years, who am I not to trust them, and most know what they are doing – but not all. When you say your destination there will always be a nod, smile and acknowledgement that they know exactly where it is. I have found, in reality, that isn’t quite true all the time. So there is often the situation where the driver pulls over to ask directions, sometimes two or three times in a ten minute journey.

But for all the turns that surely can’t be made, sideswipes and collisions that seem inevitable, I have yet to see a tuk-tuk crash. There is time, of course, and the odds of my next entry here being about a broken leg have probably shortened, but it wouldn’t be Colombo without the tuk-tuks. Taking a taxi will seem quite the same again.