He’s a young guy in a red Ferrari jacket with close-cropped hair, knockoff Italian shoes and a neatly manicured Tony Stark beard. If he speaks English, he doesn’t admit it. He just bobs his head and smiles warily at my cheery “Good Morning” and insists on carrying my heavy backpack to the car. He’ll be my driver for the next three weeks as I explore the isolated Brahmaputra floodplain, an area sandwiched between Bhutan, Bangladesh, China and Myanmar and connected to mainland India by a narrow sliver of land known as the “chicken-neck.”
Image-wise, Priyom is the exact opposite of Kal, my driver in the southern Indian state of Kerala. Where Kal had been conservative and staid, Priyom is sleek and stylish in a Fast-n-Furious kind of way. I quickly discover that this image also applies to his driving style. If riding with Kal was nail-biting, riding with Priyom is downright heart-stopping. Kal rarely exceeded 50KPH. Priyom rarely goes less than 100 unless a collision is imminent, at which point he jams the brakes and somehow slides between the careening bus and the fully-loaded lorry (with a couple of centimeters to spare), honking furiously and also dodging the inevitable bicycle or scooter. At the time of this writing I’ve been with Priyom for fifteen days, during which not one single vehicle of any kind has passed us. Not one. As far as I can tell, Priyom is the fastest driver in all of India.
Priyom is obviously proud of his driving skills. I’ve noticed a little movement he does with his wrist after each deft traffic maneuver. A flick-and-straighten, as if he’s adjusting the set of imaginary gold cufflinks. I’m pretty sure it’s the same move that Sean Connery makes in the Bond films each time he assassinates a bad guy.
On the road, Priyom does not discriminate. He honks over everybody. Military vehicle loaded with armed soldiers? Blast up behind them, honk them to the side, then zoom past. Loaded tuk-tuk crammed with scowling women? Tailgate-and-honk. A seven year old on a rickety bike? HONK! Today he even honks over a police interceptor, who obediently moves to the side to let him blast past. I guess tourist taxis rule the Indian highways. There is no doubt: Priyom is the boss of the road.
Priyom drives a Suzuki Swift, which is a small sedan popular in the Indian market. It’s white, like all the tourist taxis I’ve seen, and he’s decorated it with official-looking yellow stripes and large TOURIST PERMIT stickers plastered on the front and rear windows. The rear seats are cramped, and my wife and I hold on to the “holy shit” handles with white knuckles when Priyom hits a curvy road.
Priyom is a bit standoffish at first, but warms up as the days pass. I notice him interacting with a little girl in one of the tribal villages I am touring. Laughing and smiling, he plays with her with obvious care and affection, as if she is his own child. It gives me a hint as to what sort of dad he is, and it warms my heart a little. Later, as I am slogging through the jungle on a photo safari, he insists on helping me flick the ever-present leeches off my pants and shoes. When my wife buys him a stylish fedora at a roadside stall, he wears it every moment for the rest of our time together.
One day during the Holi festival of color he comes to me and shows me his phone. His wife and kids are on a video Facetime call, their faces smeared with bright purple and yellow powders, their eyes shining with delight. “My family,” he says, beaming, and I wave at the pretty young wife and the two beautiful children. They wave back and shout hello.
Once when he is off duty I stumble upon him smoking a cigarette. He is embarrassed and tries to hide it, flicking it into the jungle and waving away the smoke. I pretend like I don’t see anything. In difficult English, we talk for a while. I discover that he’s been driving for 18 years. He is often gone from home for months at a time, driving for long-term tourists like me. He tells me he’ll be starting another long-term contract the day after he drops me off. It will be weeks before he sees his wife and kids.
The highways in the northeastern states of Assam and Arunachal Pradesh are the most awful roads I’ve ever seen. Car-swallowing potholes, landslides that have buried the road, roads that have broken away from the mountainside and tumbled into the valley; we encounter all these obstacles, any one of which would have stopped me cold. Priyom barely even slows down, once even forging a new road over the top of the rubble of a fresh landslide, a feat I wouldn’t have attempted even in a 4WD Jeep. The roads have taken an incredible toll on his car, but he has never complained, never lost his patience, though I do hear him mutter something under his breath once or twice when the car bottoms out while crossing one of the landslides on the road to the Himalayan foothill town of Ziro.
As a driver, Priyom takes no prisoners. He’s bold, serious, determined, and skilled. If I ever need a driver for a desperate escape during a Zombie apocalypse, I will choose Priyom. He’s a badass.
To see all the posts in this series (Seven Weeks in India), click here and scroll through the post listings.
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