So if the guy shooting up in the streets of London was a shock to me, then India is a lightning bolt to the brain. London was very conducive to my travel style--to spontaneity and whimsical outings with a minimum of precautions. But I'm in a different world now and luckily (I believe) internal alarms went off before I got myself in trouble--just moments, actually, before I might have found trouble.
Those alarms went off while I was sitting in the back of a car (not a taxi) with a stranger and his friend who had successfully pressured me into a cheap ride from the Delhi airport. For about an hour previously I'd sat in the arrivals/customs area of the airport cramming on the details of getting into town in the middle of the night. Basically it dawned on me--with fearful realization--that I was the prime target for thieves, con artists, and swindlers who (according to the guide and the local newspaper) abound in this place.
The travel guide gave one preferred way to get into town in the middle of the night: a bus. It provided specific directions on how and where to catch it. The guide's first choice, however, for people like me--jetlagged and disoriented--was to sit in the airport until daylight when it's easier to get oriented and avoid getting duped.
But I was feeling emboldened by the trip thusfar and also by the guide's clear directions. So I marched out of customs, past the guard armed with an automatic rifle; I confidently ignored the cries of "Taxi, sir! Hotel, sir!" from a travel desk; and scanned the lobby for the counter for my bus. That's when the thin facade of my confidence began to peel away.
No desk. Look again. No desk. Look closer. Nope. Could it be anywhere else? Outside, past another two guards armed to the teeth, is a throng of people (what time is it? 3:00 AM?!), but a complete lack of bus stops, bus counters, or bus offices. Maybe around the corner outside? But the armed guards seem to be saying "you can't get back in once you leave." Well, shit. Go for it.
So I plunged outside, instantly attacked by a demandingly friendly and solicitous guy who wanted to drive me wherever I was going. He also was curious where I was from, how long I was staying, and why I wouldn't want a ride from him since it would be quicker and cheaper. I ignored him with a polite grimace and scanned the scene for busses, bus stops, signs; anything in English, the official language of this increasingly foreign place. There were only busses marked in Hindi, taxis, and tons of people milling about--not a single reference to this bus service that the guide recommended as the only advisable way into town in the middle of the night.
As I pondered my options, the same guy continued to hound me, yammering in my ear, until slowly my protests grew weaker. He did have a point. If he was genuine and could drive me straight to my hotel (which, incidentally I had neither booked, nor even selected yet--all I had was a couple options from a guide which had promised a bus service that didn't exist), then he would be a great way to find me a bed quickly.
So I agreed and we started walking to his car. We walked away from all the people, the taxis, and the guys with guns protecting those sheltered airport buildings. This guy was very friendly and I suppose it was a naive diplomacy that muffled the alarms that were beginning to ring inside me. I was clear inside the car and shaking hands with my new friend's friend, who had been waiting in the parked car--we had exchanged names and pleasantries--before I heard the alarms at full volume.
My Gut is usually content (if not smug) about not interfering in the stupid things I do. Gut generally prefers to sit back and enjoy the repercussions, but in this case I could feel the alarm deep in the pit of Gut's gut. And for once I heard a clear message from Gut: "Shit! Get out!"
That message appeared in clear bold text, like the headline of the article in yesterday's Delhi paper (which I had read on the plane). The article described a band of con-artist hooligans who suckered tourists (ideally those on their first visit to India) into rides in their car, then drugged, robbed, and dumped them. I describe what influenced me to leap out of that car not as culture shock, but as cumulative paranoia from reading tourist guides and articles like that.
Before leaping out I told them to stop. We were creeping along at no speed at all, just leaving the gate for short-term parking. They turned around and begged to know why I wanted out, what was wrong. I couldn't explain but remained adamant that I was getting out. They eased along, saying they'd take me to the far curb where we'd be out of the way of traffic. I agreed, but we weren't getting there fast enough, so I opened the door and stuck my foot out, both bags firmly in my grip.
Finally we stopped and I jumped clear of the car, both bags in tow, a little pleased to see that I could have rolled out pretty smoothly even if they had decided to floor it for the exit.
The driver got out and begged to know what was wrong and why I was suddenly so scared. He was a nice guy--or at least played one well. I apologized to him with cryptic explanations and strode for a terminal building with armed guards. "Wow, you're really scared. What frightened you?," he asked. Had I answered, perhaps he'd be better at it next time...
I shakily explained to the guard that I wanted to wait inside. "Yes," I said, I had just flown in. Putting the guard between me and Delhi did something to soothe the panic in me. But the best my nerves could do was congeal into a quaking, confused, directionless mass. I sat among hundreds of people (it's still 3-something in the morning!). On my right was a friendly old man who made a little brief, calming conversation. On my left was a man in uniform with a cold, mean gaze that shattered the calm the old man had brought. I sat and stared ahead.
My first decision was to read the entire tourist guide before moving an inch. I started reading, but couldn't focus on the words. My mind was busy creating inventive, if gruesome, worst-case scenarios.
I bored eventually, but refused to sleep among so many strangers in such a strange place, so I decided to make a hotel reservation and see where that took me. The snacks guy didn't have change for the pay phone. Neither did the gum guy. I really doubted I could get back into the arrivals lobby where the hotel-booking booth had been.
Each setback had me reeling in doubt and futility. By now it was after 5 AM. Sunup was still a couple hours away, but my disorientation and grogginess was increasing the longer I stayed up and panicked. So I braced up, strapped in, said "Creag Dhubh" (a battle cry of "Stand Fast" from the Scottish clan of Glenfiddich), and tried the Coke vendor for change. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, he found 18 rupees for my 20-rupee note. That made three 1-rupee coins for the phone.
The first half-dozen attempts were failures; the instructions were clear enough, I just couldn't get a dial tone. Finally I managed a scratchy local connection to the first "4-star" hotel in the guide. I'd done the math on hotel prices and decided the comfort and security of a decent, private hotel room would be worth the measly 25 extra dollars I'd have to spend.
Somehow through the scratchy phone line and language barrier, I confirmed that the hotel was open, had rooms, and that they recommended pre-paid taxis as the way to get in from the airport at this time of night.
Armed
with new confidence, I rejoined the throng of people outside the arrivals
lobby and lined up at the police/pre-paid taxi booth. As I boldly asserted
myself for a taxi to Centre Point hotel, I began to understand that by prepaying
your taxi fare to a police officer, who then gives you a receipt from which
the driver gets paid upon completion of the trip, the police have a way of
tracking the cab drivers to minimize scams. My confidence grew.
The officer told me the fare was 175 rupees. That's all, I thought. Hah! I've got this all figured out. I plop down two bills with a growing self-assurance. When the officer looked confused and showed me that the second note I'd handed him was for 10 (not 100) rupees, my chuckle was truly one of relief. I can handle my own goofs, but when the things I look up to fail me--oh, say guidebooks and their phantom bus services--and if I don't have a backup plan, then there's cause for alarm.
The officer took my payment and handed me my receipt, pointing to the cab number written in one corner of the receipt: "take only this number cab" he insisted. Other cabbies latched onto me instantly, but I stood firm and wandered among the sea of cabs until the right cabby found me.
Armed with map, compass, and flashlight, my new determination wasn't shattered, even when a second guy climbed in the front seat of my cab. OK, maybe he daunted me a little: "outnumbered again! Was anything easy in this damn country?!!"
When we pulled over at a sketchy-looking shanty town, my shreds of determination stood ready to ignite a determined fight-or-flight response. The driver's friend hopped out and climbed in his own cab parked nearby. Whew! No worries. We were back on the road, headed the right way. There were no wrong turns, and there was no conversation: not exactly friendly, but not nearly as scary as my first few hours in the country.
Inside the hotel they were expecting me, although prices were nearly double what the increasingly inaccurate guide had promised. Still, this 4-star room was only going to cost $60 a night, so I couldn't argue anymore.
I think it was 7:30 AM when the laundry guy finally came to fetch my dirty clothes--that's when I was free to fall sound asleep. I set the alarm for 9:45 AM and snoozed past 10:30.
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