How to scam tourists, dancing boys and getting horribly lost in Delhi

Delhi

You’re kidding me. This can’t be happening. I’m freezing cold. It's dark everywhere. I can't see anything through the fog. We’re away from any signs of life. There are three Indians around. They talk rapidly between themselves. Why don’t you stay with us, they say. You’ll be fine. We’re in Delhi. We’ve been travelling for 40 hours. We're tired. My phone breaks down. They look at me. I don't know what to say. This cannot be happening.
 



The morning after!

…

 

Okay, so, we’re perfect travellers. We arrive in Singapore, get a taxi to our hotel, and squeeze three people into a two bedroom unit (saving costs, you see…). The guy at the counter wouldn’t dare cross us, we’re expert. We go out that night, eating local at a hawker centre, finding our way to Clarke Quay, drinking jugs of cold beer and dining on dumplings. We make it home, get a sound sleep, and next morning, taxi to where the action is, find a café, drink coffee and dine on scrambled eggs.

“Guys, this could be our last Western meal,” one of us says.

“That’s alright,” says one, “I’m ready for it.”

That's right, we're ready for it.

…

 

The instructions from the hotel said to meet their driver outside gate 4 at 8pm. If in the event you don’t make it, be wary of a couple of things. Firstly, make sure you get an official cab. Secondly, they will tell you that the street of the hotel you are staying in will be closed off. Thirdly, they will take you to an area where the police do not go, claim to call your hotel on your behalf, and then tell you that your hotel is now, unfortunately full.

 

Okay, got it.

 

8pm. The plane arrives in Delhi airport, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. We need to head to the Visa on Arrival section (VOA) because two of us don’t have Visa’s. And as it turns out, if you intend to stay for 35 days, and book flights accordingly, they will only let you stay for 30 days. And if you don’t have a flight booked, you need to rebook your flight and show me you’ll leave before 30 days is out.

 

Okay, no problem. Don’t have a phone. No computer. No wireless connection. Don’t know the number of the airline.

 

“Can you show me, sir.” No, we can’t. Okay, next please. Two hours later.

 

We come out with the ingenious solution of changing the date on the form to the 28^th of January, thus giving us, coincidentally, 28 days in the country.

 

“Can you show me please?”

 

“Um, no, my phone battery ran out. But I just booked it. The flight is available.”

“Passport please.”

 

Phew, we got out of that one okay.

Next problem, finding a taxi and trying to get to our hotel and meet my brother before midnight – and the passing of 2013. No problem, we’ve got two hours.

 

Lonely Planet says go to the official police taxi stand and tell them where you are going. I hand over 400 rupees.

 

“Get in one of the black and yellow cabs,” the man at the counter says.

 

“Okay, sir.” We walk towards the black and yellow cabs. They’re easy to spot. There is a long line of them.

 

“Excuse me sir, can I have ticket,” says the man intercepting us on the way to the black cabs. I give him my ticket. “Okay, come with me.” He leads us past the line of idle black and yellow cabs, across the street, and into an unmarked white vehicle. Okay, don't worry, we’re expert travellers.

 

The driver doesn’t speak a word of English, we’re told, and therefore, he’ll be escorted by our guide, who is proficient in all things tourist. Okay, this is going to be great.

 

We drive along the motorway for half an hour. The driver keeps saying “block, block,” meaning the block our hotel is on, even though the address is clearly on the piece of paper I have just handed over.

 

“He doesn’t know it.” Okay.

 

We swap taxis on a desolate, desert-like stretch in the shadow of the Metroline, where a bunch of people hang around and leer at us. Okay, that’s fine. All we’ve done is swapped taxi’s.

 

Along the motorway we go, squeezing between the long line of trucks – which stretch endlessly on the road from Mumbai to Delhi. So many trucks. More trucks that I have ever seen. Who would have thought taxi’s can squeeze between endless columns of dump trucks and construction vehicles.

 

We end up in one traffic jam after another. Down one road, into another. Through one intersection, into another. Pass one police checkpoint, through another. We get stuck in one – then U-turn to the other side of the motorway, enjoying the sudden free flow of open road. It’s been forty-five minutes. 14km isn’t supposed to take this long.

“The road is closed, sir.”

 

“What does that mean,” we say.

 

“We can’t get to your hotel.”

 

Okay, that’s not good. We keep driving. The lights of the street start to dim. Suddenly, there are less people around, less traffic. This looks kind of sketchy. We pull up outside a barren shop front, with no people in sight. The sign above says, “Tourist Office.”

 

“Why don’t you go in here, and see what’s going on.”

 

Come to think of it, who was our ‘guide’ talking to when he spoke rapidly on his cell phone. Didn’t Lonely Planet say there was only one official tourist office? Surely it wouldn’t be in the middle of nowhere? Surely it wouldn't be as run down as this?

 

“Hello sir, please come in.” We walk in. There are two men inside. It’s awfully quiet. They invite us to take a seat. There is a phone on the desk.

 

“Let me call your hotel.”  

Wait a second.

 

“Sir, can you please give us a second, we would like to call the hotel ourselves.” We go outside. I tell the ‘escort’ to buzz off. He’s good at hanging around.

 

So I do have a little bit of phone battery left, and I call the hotel. First problem, my phone has to be on speaker to enable us to hear each other. Not helpful. Secondly, the hotel manager can’t understand me. I can’t understand him. The phone goes dead.

 

This cannot be happening.

 

I didn’t think Delhi was so cold. I’m shivering. It’s dark all around.

 

“What would you like to do, sir?” What would we like to do.

 

It happened like that. We told him that a) no matter what, we had to get to our hotel, and b) we’ll get in the taxi right now, and you take us as close to our destination as you can, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.

 

“How far away is it?”

 

“1 kilometre.” What? 1 kilometre?

 

We drive for about five minutes. The wind has gone out of our friendly ‘escort’. He stops in another shadow of the old metro line.

 

“We can walk from here.”

“You can walk, sir, but it’s not safe, drunks, fights, bad people. Not safe.”

 

We get out. They drive away. There’s a friendly police man with an AK47 strapped to his chest. He tells us to walk down this road, and turn right. We begin the walk. Trash lines the side of the street, smouldering away in small piles, the rotten small of burning trash and stale piss passing across the air.

“Why you look at me like that,” a drunk stumbles out of the shadow, lurching towards us. Head down. Say nothing. Speed up. Walk. Dogs pick through the trash. People look at us curiously. Chill in the air all around. Still shivering. Move.

 

And suddenly, like the lifting of the fog, comes “Everest Café.” We know this from googling the street back home. We slap each other on the back. The relief rains down. There he is, my older brother, standing outside the front of our hotel. We’ve made it. We’ve made it.

 


…

 

“You learn the scams pretty quick,” older brother says, “they’re harmless really, as long as you know what you’re doing.” Wise words from the older brother. He’s been here three weeks.

 

…

 

There’s a certain technique to dancing with males, and if you happen to be the unfortunate soul on the other side, there’s a technique to getting out of it.

 

The G.A.M. bar – the only one open in the hour past midnight – is full of dudes. And not just ‘mostly’ dudes, but 100% dudes, and not just 100% dudes, but dudes going crazy, throwing their huge bodies across the room, grappling each other, crashing over tables, smashing bottles, dancing with each other with excited passion, and filming everything. The whole room could fit about twenty people, yet there are at least 50 people around. Dance music thunders through the speakers, distorted and vibrating, quickening the sweat on your brow. Fourteen people on side of the wall crash over each other to capture it all on their cell phones straight out of 1999.

They spot the four westerners walk in, grab our hands and drag us into their stinking mosh pit of male hormones. They go to work. Girls don’t come to these parts; No, only sweaty, overweight males allowed round here. 

The technique perfected. Make sure there is a layer of sweat on your brow. Look lovingly at the male opposite you. Bend your knees to get to eye level. Bring your hips in closer. Move them up and down. Take your arms and try to grab your partner; if he doesn’t oblige, move your arms up and down in time with your hips, trying not to make it look like an awkward non-stop motion. Inch your fee in closer. Keep sweating. Smile. Yummy. He likes me.  

 

Meanwhile, the seedy looking guy with the ponytail puts his arm on your lower back and starts moving it down. 

 

Right. Game plan. fake a smile, put your oversize beer bottle up to your mouth, and barge on out. Walk down the stairs. Don’t look back. Ever.

 


We're back in the streets. Piles of burning trash glow through the dark. Dogs pick through small piles of rubbish. The fog is everywhere. People let off fireworks, loud bangs smashing through the night. People stare at us, in and out of the shadows. We look at each other.   

 

That’s right. We’re experts. We’re ready for this.

We’re ready for anything.




Crackson... ready for anything!