Hitching a ride on a 12-wheel "Dumper"

This past weekend was the wedding of Ravi, the manager of one of my NGO's primary schools and a friend mine. At this point I've been to more Gujarati weddings than American ones, so a bit of the novelty has worn off. But I knew that a lot of the other teachers from the primary schools would be going, and they've all become such good friends of mine that I didn't want to miss it.

I made plans to meet some of the other teachers at the NGO's primary school just outside of Katariya, a small village in Surendranagar District, about 100 or so kilometers West of the vocational training center. Getting to Bavla, the town 8 kilometers Southwest of the center, is no problem at all, and just involves taking a shared rickshaw and paying the driver 5 Rupees. Getting from Bavla to the school, though, is slightly more complicated. You have to stand by the bus stop and try to flag down buses, trucks, or shared jeeps in the hope that one of them will be going to your destination.

I had no luck with the first few buses, none of which were going all the way to the school, which is about 12 kilometers just before Limbdi, a major town in Surendrangar. A man operating a small soda stand heard me asking the bus conductors where they were going. When a big, 12-wheel "Dumper" (the local term for a dump truck) slowed down to take passengers, the soda man told me that this truck would be going to Limbdi. I went over to the truck and confirmed that they were going there, and climbed in.

Generally I don't like to take rides in trucks alone, but at this point my Gujarati is good enough to navigate without any real problems. Plus I was in a bit of a hurry, because it was already 2:30 and I had told my friends I would arrive between 3 and 4 in the afternoon. I sat in the front cab of the truck with four or five other passengers, along with the driver. The other passengers were middle-aged men dressed in white cotton kurtas and loose slacks of the same material, and a few younger men in Western clothes. Surprisingly I didn't attract much attention at first, which was nice.

About ten minutes down the road from Bavla, the truck slowed again so the driver could talk with a potential new passenger who had flagged us down. I couldn't hear what they were discussing, but the driver seemed hesitant to accept. The man talking with the driver said he wanted to go to Katariya, and the driver hadn't heard of the village. I was surprised to hear that this guy wanted to go to Katariya, where I was going, but didn't say anything. Soon the man offered the driver 300 Rupees, which sealed the deal. He climbed in the cab.

I was caught off guard when the truck then took a left off the highway and into an area housing what appeared to be a series of large warehouse-like shops storing agricultural products. The truck stopped, and all the passengers got out. Next to the dumper, a huge semi was being loaded with dozens of 50 kilogram burlap sacks filled with rice. A wooden plank was set up on the ground leading into the rear of the truck, and two or three huge, sweaty men hauled the giant sacks up on their backs, dropping them on the floor of the truck.

This went on for about ten or fifteen minutes until the rice had all been loaded. As it was happening I looked around. Inside each of the shops there were huge sacks piled high, straight up to the ceiling. Some contained rice, others fertilizer, and others some other product I couldn't identify. Outside one of the shops a burly man was positioning a 50 kilo sack of rice on a giant scale of the type held by lady justice. A very large iron weight was placed on the opposite side of the scale so that the sack of rice and the weight hung in perfect balance.

Despite the assurance of the driver that the whole process would only take five minutes, the time continued to drag on. First one of the younger men wandered back to the street in search of alternative transportation, and then the cotton-clad middle-aged men did the same. I waited, taking into account the hassle of hailing a different bus or truck and going through it all again.

Eventually, the plank was moved to the dumper, and two men started climbing up and back down, tossing in huge sacks of fertilizer. Once that started, in only took 5 or 10 minutes before the dumper was loaded with all 28 sacks and was ready to depart.

"Majaave?" The driver, grinning, asked me as we climbed back into the truck. "Did you enjoy that?"

I smiled back and answered yes, I did. "Where are you going again," he continued, "Limbdi?"

"Actually just next to Limbdi," I said. "Katariya."

"Katariya!" That was one of the guys responsible for the fertilizer. "That's where we're going. Why are you going there?"

"It's my friend's wedding."

"Your friend? What caste is he? A Vankar?"

"I don't know."

"No, I mean what caste."

"I don't know."

"What's his name?"

"Ravi."

"And his surname?"

"I don't know. I just call him Ravibhai."

"Ravibhai. I wonder who that could be."

Normally I take every possible opportunity to tell people that I work with a Dalit organization, but I was hesitant to in this particular circumstance. I was alone, in the front cab of a dumptruck with 5 men I'd never met before. I have not encountered much hostility from anyone who finds out I work with a Dalit organization, but I've heard that it's a possibility, particularly around the Navsarjan schools which were intentionally established in areas with high levels of discrimination. The man had probably first thought that I was going to the Navsarjan primary school, which he associated with Vankars, the biggest Dalit sub-caste. That was probably why he asked if my friend was a Vankar. But then again, maybe he was a Vankar himself, or was just curious. I didn't want to test it, so I lied.

I continued the lie when they asked where I lived and what I was doing. I told them I lived in Ahmedabad, stayed at Gujarat Vidhyapith University, and I was doing a doctorate in psychology, inventing it all as I went. It seemed to satisfy them.

The dumper moved quite slowly, about 60 kmph. Along the way we picked up a few more people, some of whom offered me some gutkha chewing tobacco and implored me to accept it since I was their American guest. I politely declined.

I counted the kilometers on the signposts that appeared ever kilometer as we approached Limbdi so I knew when to expect the school, and gave the driver 20 Rupees in anticipation of the arrival. (Hitched rides are not free -- you have to pay an amount comporable to the government buses). Eventually I saw tge school's green-domed outdoor science lab, built last year and hard to miss, and told the driver to stop. He did.

"No," the man going to Katariya said, "Katariya village is further down. You want to go there."

"No," I said, now outside the truck and feeling more confident. "I want to go here. Thanks. Bye."

That was that. I crossed the street, met my friends, and soon left to attend a thoroughly enjoyable wedding.