Kindness of Strangers

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

There’s no doubt that northern India has been our toughest travel destination yet. At our trip’s inception, we felt Portugal was a bit tough, though manageable, for the independent traveler who speaks a bit of a Romance language. But as we’ve snaked our way through Christian, Islamic, Buddhist, and, finally, Hindu regions of the world, crescendoing in India, Portugal now looks like a cakewalk.

Upon arriving in Delhi from Bhutan, our first order of business was the procurement of train tickets to travel around the “Golden Triangle” cities of Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur. Our trusty Lonely Planet guide warns that trains fill days and sometimes weeks in advance, but that the International Tourist Office, located in the New Delhi train station, offers special seats, set aside by the Indian government, that can only be purchased by tourists. Elizabeth was in the throes of a nasty cold, so I set off on my own.

I hired an auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled scooter that has a golf cart-like appearance, to take me to the train station. We set off, but after a few blocks, the grandfatherly driver pulled over on the side of the road and explained that the International Tourist Office had moved locations to a different part of town and produced an official city map to prove it. Our Lonely Planet guide had made me aware of the existence of scams where auto-rickshaw drivers work with travel agents, hotels, and restaurants, and will lie, misdirect, and confuse in order to get you there, but the map looked legitimate. He graciously offered to take me to the correct location for the same price, as “I reminded him of his son.” The driver was nothing if not charming as we weaved through narrow alleys in who- knows-what direction. We soon pulled up to a narrow store front, with the words “Government of India Tourist Office” printed on the tinted glass windows.

I entered the office, and was soon seated opposite a plain-clothes government worker. After explaining my requirements, he dialed the train station and asked me to speak to the official, who regretfully informed me, in exceedingly good English, that all trains were full for at least the next four days. My heart sunk and a bead of sweat formed on my brow, as our plans for the next week hinged on getting these tickets. Elizabeth was not around to offer her opinion; I felt alone. Before I knew it, the government worker had produced an alternate itinerary for us, including a private car with driver and all accommodations, all for a price of slightly under $700 USD. I felt a pang of uneasiness in my gut, that something was not quite right. Not willing to commit, the government worker became defensive, asking how I could afford my “expensive” Delhi hotel, but not his package deal. Miffed, I shot back with the strong insinuation that his “government” office was bogus. Accompanying me outside, he said something to my rickshaw driver in Hindi, and I began to wonder what their relationship was.

I entered the rickshaw, insisting that the driver now take me to the New Delhi train station. He repeated that the office is closed, but would take me there to prove it. I was deposited in another strange location, but several signs promised the station was nearby. As I walked around, another helpful stranger directed me to the International Tourist Bureau. With much the same feel as the “Government of India Tourist Office,” I immediately felt uneasy, as I was seated across from two tall men who immediately serve up chai. With formulaic delivery, they explained that some of my desired routes were unavailable (though some of the routes from the previous office are now, magically, available). The conversation quickly devolved into the predictable upselling tactics I had encountered in the last location.

My guardian angels came in the form of two English guys who happened into the office around the same time I did. We met outside and they explained that they had spent the entire day looking for the International Tourist Office, being misdirected to strange offices all over Delhi. They were about to give up, but I suggested we form an alliance, much like on Survivor, and look a bit longer. After a half hour, we finally stumbled upon the International Tourist Office, and the sense of relief I felt was probably much akin to what a sailor feels after crossing an ocean and spying that first speck of land. The real office was brimming with nervous-looking tourists deciphering the insane Indian Railway schedule. Otherwise, the office had a laid-back, no pressure feel, a welcome respite from the outside world. In the end, I was able to purchase all of my tickets for us both for under $50 USD. I explained my tale of woe to the real Indian Railways official, who shook his head, but offered a possible explanation. “Those men were just trying to run a business. It will be a long time before the system can change.”

Unfortunately, things didn’t change much upon our arrival in Jaipur. We were led to the wrong auto-rickshaw at the train station’s prepaid stand, which is supposed to be the most scam-free way to gain transportation. Other times, prices tripled upon arrival at our location. Sometimes tour operators appeared out of nowhere when we reached our final destination. And once, when requesting that we wanted to be taken to the movie theatre, we were driven 15 minutes out of the way to “go shopping,” despite our repeated protests. What makes the cities of the Golden Triangle so exhausting is the level of sophistication and pervasiveness of these scams; one must always be on guard. There’s even a Hindi word, dabbabazi, which refers to “the business of scamming tourists.” The difficulty is that these scams are born out of desperate poverty and fierce competition, a way to scrape out a meager existence. (And please don’t get me wrong — not everyone is crooked, and we met some truly wonderful people during our travels which, unfortunately, was often overshadowed by a few rotten apples in the transportation industry, our major interface.) I thought I was prepared to deal with the scams, but I realized that it’s one thing to read about it, and another to live it.

When I returned to our hotel, exhausted and soaked with sweat, I felt triumphant, as if I had just passed a test of biblical proportions. Elizabeth burst in to tears. “I thought something terrible had happened,” she cried. I asked how long I had been gone. “Four hours.”