Indian Officials (Try To) Put a Stop
To Risky Overcrowding of Three-Wheel Taxis
By SUDEEP REDDY
May 29, 2008; Page A1
HYDERABAD, India -- Mohammed Usman used to cram as many people as possible into his motorized rickshaw -- up to eight adults, twice the legal limit.
But not anymore. "If I put more than one extra person, I know I'll get a ticket," he says. "The risk is too high."
Tiny, tinny three-wheel taxis, known as autorickshaws, are ubiquitous in South Asia. They are nimble, cheap and popular: A ride costs just pennies.
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Sudeep Reddy
Passengers leaning out each side of India's crowded auto rickshaws risk being hit by passing vehicles; they can also make the auto unstable.
But they are also dangerous, and as Indian roads get increasingly crowded, passengers are paying with their lives. Here in the southern state of Andhra Pradesh, autorickshaws are involved in one-third of all accidents, even though they account for only one out of every 20 vehicles on the road.
So the cops are cracking down. Police are enforcing long-ignored laws against overcrowding, and officials are rounding up drivers for training sessions. Drivers must sit through an educational video and view gory photos -- autorickshaws crushed between buses, and mangled on roadsides -- to qualify for a free lunch.
Several thousand drivers have shown up for the training so far, including Nara Krishna Choudary, who has piloted autorickshaws for 25 years. But he isn't changing his driving habits. "If I try to stick to the rules, I won't get anywhere," says Mr. Choudary, 54 years old, because "everybody else is breaking the rules."
The tickets, however, have forced him to cut down on overcrowding. "The police have become very strict" about that, he says.
Fines can take a bite out of drivers' pay. Tickets start at 50 rupees (about $1.25) for each passenger over the limit, so a single ticket can erase one-quarter of a driver's typical 200-rupee daily profit.
One goal of the state's antiovercrowding effort is to persuade drivers -- and passengers -- to respect rules limiting autorickshaws to just six children at a time, instead of the dozen or more routinely carried to and from school. Officials hold meetings in schoolyards telling stories about youngsters who die when packed vehicles crash.
'Tips From Tinku'
The state has also printed 2.5 million comic books aimed at children. In one, "Traffic Tips from Tinku," a boy named Tinku nags his uncle, Chandu, about wearing seat belts and other traffic-safety issues. During a ride to meet Chandu's bride's family, he sniffs his uncle's breath to be sure he hasn't been drinking. He also warns against crowded autorickshaws: "If an accident happens, no one will be left alive," he says.
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The state of Andhra Pradesh has printed millions of comic books to teach children about traffic hazards, including autorickshaws. Read along with one of them.
The government of Andhra Pradesh has also trained thousands of teenagers to be "Traffic Commandos." Wearing blue vests and badges, they keep watch near school grounds to be sure autorickshaws don't pack children in unlawfully.
"In my school, [overcrowding] is under control now," says K. Vamsi Krishna, a 16-year-old Traffic Commando at St. Marks High School in the suburb of East Marredpally, Secunderabad.
Mr. Krishna admits he used to ride to school in rickshaws stuffed with 10 children. Now he takes the bus.
Plenty of other people still take the risk because autorickshaws remain one of the cheapest and speediest ways to get around India. The vehicle's simplicity has provided millions of young men with a steady job. Many drivers receive the three-wheelers (which can cost more than $2,500) as part of a dowry gift from a bride's family in marriage.
Drivers say packing in passengers is win-win: They get extra fares, and riders get affordable transportation.
In that camp is Mohammed Shabbir, a driver who pulled up to the main bus station here in an autorickshaw that was clearly breaking the law. A startling number of people emerged: a mother and her son, a young man and his luggage, and then several women in saris. In all, nine people.
Mr. Shabbir is unapologetic. His passengers are too poor to worry about the danger, he says, and he needs the money. "What can I do?" he says. "I have a wife and six kids."
Game of Chicken
The city's 1,200 traffic cops have their work cut out for them in a region that's home to roughly 10 million people. Driver Abdul Raheem, 32, still packs his vehicle, but only when he thinks he can get away with it. "Everybody knows that during lunchtime," he says, "the police will be away."
Overcrowding can be particularly acute in rural areas. Nighttime routes between far-flung villages can turn into terrifying games of chicken with massive trucks that dominate the road.
One recent evening in Thirumalagiri, a village 80 miles from Hyderabad, autorickshaw drivers gathered along the main street, calling out their destinations. Driver Nagulagari Baburao carefully seated 18 people in and on his autorickshaw for a 17-mile run to a village nearby. Five passengers sat on the main bench, and three children squeezed into a space behind their heads. Three people sat on a ledge on the back of the autorickshaw, dangling their legs. Three more sat on the rails of the vehicle, and another three shared the driver's seat (not including the driver).
Each person paid five rupees, or about 13 cents.
Mr. Baburao estimates that he has been stopped by police 30 times or so for overcrowding. Sometimes, he offers the cop a share of his fares -- in other words, a bribe. "I cannot live like this," he says he tells the officer, in a pleading tone. "I'll give you a little bit."
But that doesn't always work, he says, so he pays the fine.
Riding in an autorickshaw is a cheap thrill. The vehicle has a roof but no doors, and drivers use a squeezable horn to honk as they weave in and out of traffic, ignoring lane dividers. Dirt and fumes are constant travel companions.
For many passengers, however, that doesn't sound so bad when "the alternative is hanging out of a bus," says S.V. Subramanyam, a doctor in Hyderabad. "So we prefer this," he said recently, as he squeezed into an autorickshaw with a half-dozen other people.
--Lison Joseph contributed to this article.
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