Day 125

The language of beeps and honks. A series of short beeps is a scooter coming through. A single beep is a taxi saying, I’m here. A long honk is – get out the way or hurry up!

The traffic system here is startling. It’s like the vehicles are propelled by intention. Shoulder checks and mirrors are not required. In fact, our driver’s rickshaw mirrors are completely coated in grime and point skywards towards the heavens.

But this does not phase the pedestrians, who also navigate by intention. A vacant glare can stop an approaching rickshaw in its tracks. “She walked out and didn’t even check”, I gawp from the back seat as our rickshaw shunts to a halt. The woman’s look is stoney and opaque. Unfazed, our driver continues to cut through the city, speeding towards gaps that magically expand upon his approach, skirting the railings of buses, and driving towards people who drift out of the way just in time.

Another 3 am finish the night before – we’re apparently reluctant to readjust our body clocks. Today, we continue our quest to acquire insurance. We’re returning to the RTO centre (Road Traffic Organisation, a bit like our DVLA). We arrive at the same booth, as instructed, just before midday. No one is there, so we wait in a patch of shade outside the lavatories, and after about 20 minutes someone arrives and navigates us to a different area of the complex. We are transferred to an official representative and stand in a queue as messages are passed back and forth between us and an important-looking man sitting behind a large desk.

Eventually, they understand our predicament. To import our motorcycles we need valid insurance for them, but to get valid insurance for them, all the insurance companies we have spoken to have requested that our bikes be temporarily registered in India, but to register them in India, we need valid insurance for them… the circle has no beginning and has no end. Indeed, for days we’ve been travelling back and forth across the city in search of motorcycle insurance. We’ve also spent hours hunting online for UK insurance that covers us here, but as of yet, no luck.

Our representative contacts an insurance broker who resides in a booth outside the RTO centre. The broker is solemn and makes very little eye contact. Firstly, he requires documents, so Wiggy passes over his V5 and passport while I look for mine. The broker disappears and the representative explains that we should never part with original copies of our documents. When the broker returns, I hand over backup paper copies of my documents. 

Soon, the broker explains that he needs to take Wiggy to a different office and I should wait. After almost a week in Mumbai, I’m not surprised, I’m commonly treated as only an extension of Wiggy. Even if I’m paying the bill for a meal or hotel room, I’m often ignored and Wiggy is asked if he wants a receipt as they try to pass him my change. Not everyone is like this thankfully, but the masses seem to be so far. 

The insurance broker pulls up on a little red scooter, and Wiggy climbs on the back, his long limbs bow on each side of the short and slender broker. I desperately want to take a photo of the funny sight but resist as this is a Government building. 

And so, I take a seat inside by a window. The room is a large plastered shell painted in magnolia, with splashes of unfinished plaster repairs streaked here and there. Multiple fans hang from the ceiling and spin away to cool the humid, 30-degree Mumbai air, while wires for phantom fans hang loose. A slender calico cat prowls to the window opposite. She jumps up and slinks through the bars, there’s no glass and the shutters are open. From the street, light spills in and the shadows of men walking in and out are cast against the white-washed wall. The men come into view, tunics past the hips or collared shirts. Occasionally a woman enters the building in a colourful sari and scarf or if younger, in space jeans and a crop top.

Wiggy comes back. They cannot insure us but also contacted our shipping agent in Delhi. Our agent, Prashant, initially said we needed valid motorcycle insurance to import the bikes. Now, you’d expect that this meant valid insurance for India. But after a few back and forths, with us explaining that our UK insurance is not valid outside of Europe, he continues to explain that our insurance for the UK is fine. I think he just wants to get us through the loopholes and anything else is our problem. 

After sending over our UK insurance docs, things move very quickly. But because of the delay in sharing our papers, Prashant informs us that our bikes will arrive a week late.