Delhi madness

Delhi is insane. Arriving from Almaty via a bumpy but pleasant flight, C and I grinned at the thought of arriving in India again, the pinpricks of lights wheeling far below us in the darkness of the Delhi landscape through our round window. We sort of knew what was to be expected – two years ago we'd skipped up from Trivandrum on the south coast, hugging the sea line as far as Goa, then took a train to the chaos of Mumbai. Most people on our odyssey had never been to India and were in for a shock – the dirt, the food, the culture, the religions.

C was met at the airport by a driver to take her to her friends' house. Waving goodbye, her and Carolyn shuffled off like turtles with bleary eyes into the noise beyond the arrival gate. I glimpsed two rows of people, holding cards, like some paparazzi gauntlet. I hoped C had a name card waiting for her as the doors shut and I turned to the pre-paid taxi driver to organise our journey to Hotel Good Times.

“Yes sir, ten minutes, no problem.”

Forty minutes later we were outside the airport in a small carpark. Michael S was crammed in the back of a nova, bags piled on top of him, whilst Treanor stared out of the misting windscreen, obviously enjoying the airconditioning. Others were squashed in a six seater, bags on knees, waiting patiently in the cool breeze from the dashboard ports. Meanwhile the rest of us were outside in the clammy closeness of nighttime Delhi air, batting flies and awaiting the next six seater. The Indian taxi men stood with me, smiling nervously and shuffling their feet, as I badgered the main guy about the missing car.

“Very bad traffic sir. It will be here soon.”

The taxi ride was surreal – people sleeping on the sides of roads clad in rags, tuk tuks lurching across junctions like flying beetles, cows aimlessly wandering through traffic with a somnambulent air of invincibility. We sped under flyovers to find a five storey orange god staring down over the train tracks at us, lit up like some supernatural vision. At least the roads were empty at this time of night. We checked in, turned up the airconditioning, and fell into a well earned sleep – we'd been travelling for about 18 hours.

The thumping I could hear wasn't my heart. I finally realised this after ten minutes of disturbed nightmarish sleep. The banging seemed to be travelling down the entire of the hotel, shaking the foundations of the building. Eyes half open I stumbled down to Pavan, the manager.It was 7:00AM

“Very sorry sir, they are demolishing a building next door. There is nothing we can do.”

Little did I realise that the chaos was just beginning. My mission for the day was simple: buy fourteen return tickets for the group to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. I thought I was prepared, I'd handled Mumbai, etc. But by the end of the day my character had been tested more times than I could count.

Taking a tuk tuk down to New Delhi train station at 11:00AM is an experience you don't forget. Growling and sputtering the engine stuttered us into the main traffic just beyond the hotel and my knuckles went white. Vans careered centimetres from the thin metal box I was trapped in, competing with the buzzing motorbikes loaded with three or more people like some hideous parody of Ben Hur. We screeched to a stop as a cow wandered aimlessly into our path, nearly causing a bus to collide into the back of us. There was the giant orange god, overlooking the roundabout, smiling down at the situation below. Perhaps he was there to give hope to the victims trapped in this viscious metal torrent. I gritted my teeth and stared at the buildings opposite: anything to keep my eyes off the traffic.

“Where you from sir? Are you married? We say in India 'no wife no life,' sir.”

The tuk tuk driver dropped me off at New Delhi train station and disappeared into the nexus of green auto-rickshaws behind me. Ahead lay the station itself, a large flat-faced building with a metal awning thronged with thousands of people in long lines, all jostling to get to the stone mouths in the wall for a ticket. I felt a shudder run through me – if I had to queue in these lines it would take me all day, at least five hours to get under the awning and out of the glaring sun. I wandered up and down the end of the lines looking further ahead to the wall where English instructions labelled the different queue line. Where would I start? Dodging a grumpy looking family, elbows out like battering rams and stopping for no-one, I managed to catch the eye of a friendly looking man. Did he know where the tourist queue was?

“Yes sir, up the stairs, straight along, ask in there.”

I buffeted my way through the clamour to the stairs, and made my way past the beggars and the old women with canes, wheezing up the flights towards some unknown destination. A long gangway stretched out ahead to more sets of stairs labeled with different train platforms, through a wooden door-frame next to some guards and a large man in a shirt. Keeping my eye on the signs I wandered towards the frame when a hand came out and stopped me. It was the man in the shirt, his belly sticking over his trousers.

“Where are you going sir? The tourist office is closed,” as he gestured towards the building site to the left of me, concrete pillars with steel rods sticking out like badly plucked eyebrows. “You need to go to government block N, tourist travel centre. Let me take you to autorickshaw.”

What a nice man, I thought, as he escorted me through the human maelstrom towards a tuk tuk with bright pink seats. “10 rupees” he told the guy, gave him the address, and waved me off. What was that nagging feeling in my head? Must be the heat I thought as the tuk tuk turned into a small alley marked Block N. 10 rupees paid, I wandered in the direction the other westerners were taking.

Inside the office was gloriously air-conditioned. Young men in starched shirts, no ties, welcomed me in and sat me down. What did I want? Tickets to Agra. How many people? Fourteen. "Wait one moment, sir." Five minutes later I was escorted into a large office at the back of the shop, sat down on a comfy chair, and introduced to Paz.

“Where you from mate?” he said confidently in an American accent, offering a hand with a beaming grin. “Ah Manchester, 'diamond geezer,' 'cheers mate,' 'apples and pears.'"

Ignoring the glaringly obvious I enquired about the tickets. After a quick check on his computer Paz turned with a frown. “Sorry mate” (emphasis on the mate,) “no tickets available for travel tomorrow.” Ten minutes of patter later it did transpire that he could offer me a minibus to Agra, complete with guide, for 140000 rupees (way over our budget.) There was that nagging feeling again, itching away at the back of my head. Ignoring it I decided to check with the group first, took his number, and left...

... to find the same tuk tuk driver who's driven me into town that morning! Strange coincidences in this town. “What are you doing here?” he asked. After telling him the story of the station he laughed. “This is not right,” he said. “This private company, not government.” Glancing at the “Government Block N” sign painted on the wall it slowly dawned on me that everything was not as it seemed in Delhi, and that it was time to start second guessing everything. “I will take you to government place” he said with a beaming grin, the tuk tuk swinging quickly around. What a nice man, I thought, as we headed once more into the smog and the noise.

Pulling up next to a glass window marked “DDT Government Tourism - government approved” the driver turned off the engine. “I will wait for you” he said, and went off to speak to a friend. Feeling happy about avoiding a scam I entered the air-conditioned office and chatted to a young man who wanted to practice his English. Eventually I was led into a similar office, big desk, tall thick-set Indian man scowling at his computer screen and on his mobile phone. I sat down and waited.

“Hello, how can I help? Train tickets? Let me check.”

The Shabtih express wasn't running on a Friday he said, slowly inching the computer monitor towards him and away from me. As he checked other trains the screen was slowly being pulled out of my eyesight. There was that funny feeling again, I thought, and leaned right across his desk. What's that? The Taj Express? Can I get tickets on that?

“Ah,” he said frowning at my invasion of his desk and monitor space, “You see, there are only six tickets available. You need fourteen.”

And indeed there were only six on the screen. I sat down and narrowed my eyes. He sat back and clasped his hands over his belly, smiling at some unknown thought, until his mobile phone rang. Picking it up, he eyed me slowly as I took out my notes from the previous place and checked the minibus figures. He put the phone down.

“Yes sir, I can offer you a minibus with a guide. 13500 rupees. I think this would be the best option.”

I exited the shop. There was my smiling tuk tuk driver. Resigning myself to the lack of train tickets, a feeling of letting the group down, and the fact we wouldn't be going to Agra to see the Taj, I asked for the “Good Times Hotel” and braced myself for the craziness of the Delhi highway.

As we drove through the dust and the wheels, exhausts bellowing fumes across the street stalls and the pavements, I took a look around with different eyes. This city was enigmatic, too crazy for analysis, too different. It was like the muck and the filth covered everything with a film that the western gaze couldn't penetrate. Who was honest, who was not? How much of the friendliness was real? What was the scam going on? Where did the scamming end?

As I ran through the events of the day, the tuk tuk driver reached under his handlebars and turned on the radio. A thick slooshing bass noise blared from the speakers, sounding like a wet rope of porridge being pulled through a subwoofer at high volume. We stopped at a crossing and a skeletal man wearing only a loin cloth and holding an emaciated baby wove through the shining new cars and the tuk tuks arm outstretched. He lingered at no windows but came straight for me, his eyes like a magnet. Reaching the side of the tuk tuk he pressed his hand to his lips and stared at me hard, a long dark stare speaking of hunger and need. The baby started crying, adding the treble to the rasping whoosh of the speaker. I sat there staring back.

I am the target, I thought. The stupid western target. I have the money and the naievety. I am prepared to take things at face value. I am the tourist, the prize. It was time to wise up: all relations, all events, should be treated with this in mind. Normally I would give the beggar money and not think about the consequences. Not think that the money I give him is far more than he needs to survive, upsetting the local economy. Not think that he might spend it on drugs rather than the baby. Normally I would go into New Delhi train station and take the nice man's word at face value, go to block N, and book an outrageously overpriced minibus to Agra.

And everyone here knows this.

“Turn around. Take me back to the train station. I wan't to check something out.”

The tuk tuk man dropped me around the other side of the station and waited. Walking in it was quieter than the other side. A large man in a shirt walked straight up to me.

“Hello sir, can I help you? You want tickets to Agra? You cannot buy here, the tourist office is closed. They are rebuilding the station. You must go to government block N, tourist travel centre. There you can buy tickets.”

So this was it – the nagging feeling. These men were employed to turn the tourists towards the private companies, government approved or not, so that the tourists could be fleeced for much more than the train tickets. No wonder everyone was so friendly, so accommodating. I knew the score now.

“Thanks my friend, but I must meet my colleague in the station.”

He smiled and watched me go. I walked through a doorway almost literally onto the train tracks, where blue train cars waited patiently and men wandered about their business. I started walking in the direction of the main station, down the sides of the railway tracks, where wooden shanty towns housed thin brown people in rags. Naked children no more than five or six ambled over the metal rails as the sunlight flitted over the green trees and piles of rubbish.

As I was walking I fell into step with a fat, buck-toothed man. Well dressed and frowning he was talking with animation into his mobile phone. I watched him out of the corner of my eye with amusement – he seemed like a cartoon character.

“Oh my dear,” he said as he put his phone down. “My wife is giving me much trouble today.”

We struck up a conversation. He worked for the railway company in management and was off for his lunch. His wife wanted a ring to be bought for her because he had done something wrong at home. His work were giving him hassle over some documentation that needed to be completed. All this was said in a hurried but happy voice. Occasionally he would punctuate his problems with a high pitched laugh, a bit like a Jimmy Saville affectation, making me smile.

We walked for about five minutes. He wanted nothing from me other than conversation and did much to dispel my foul mood at being scammed all morning. This was the India I wanted to see, I was pleased it was out there still. He led me to a tourist office just outside the station and promised me in there they would help me. He left, probably searching for his lunch and a suitable ring.

The office was empty apart from a large man, grimacing over his computer with a world-weary face. He looked up with tired eyes and asked if he could help. Taking me upstairs to a small desk blown with air from a wall-mounted fan, he sighed, opened up his computer, and clicked the keyboard with big fingers. Train tickets? Let me see.

As he deliberated over his slow internet connection and asked where I was from, the sweat patches stood out against his patterned shirt. He had been to Middlesex and had several girlfriends from England. Yes he liked to travel but now he was getting married. An arranged marriage, for the good of his family. Family is everything. He exuded an air of intelligence and sadness.

Taking a risk I told him about my day, leveled with him. Explained how I knew the scam worked. Explained the two scenes in the different offices. Showed him the scribbles I'd made and the calculations. He looked at me and sighed again. The air blew across us from the fan, blowing his cigarette smoke in curling wisps across his desk with a map of India stuck under the glass.

“I hate this,” he said, tapping his fag into an ashtray. “These people don't understand how to do business. Take me for example. I rather give you a good deal so you will pass on the business. I don't lie. There are train tickets, but you can only buy them six at a time. It is an E ticket. The Taj Express will run tomorrow, and we will buy you the tickets now so you can go. All of them. And the returns. How does that sound Mr Croft?”

A smile spread across my face. I liked this man, with his depressed honesty, his tired eyes, and his train tickets. We sat and talked as his slow system struggled with the tickets, typing out the names of the group into the machine. A worker next door brought us tea. We discussed religion and cricket.

Until the power went off.

It had gone in the whole block. We had all of the tickets to Agra, but mine and Alexa's had crashed during the blackout. Just as the day seemed to have been saved from spiralling down some plughole of doom, it had caught in another eddy. Still, I told myself, at least we could get to Agra, and I could just get tickets when there for the train back.

Then Mushtaq restored my faith in Indian hospitality completely. Spreading newspaper over the desk he had several tins and bowls brought out, plates were presented, as well as knives and forks and water. It was his lunch, there was enough for everyone, and would I honour him by eating with him? Mutton curry with rice, a potato dish with daal, all cooked by his brother's wife. It was delicious, and with full stomachs we awaited the return of the power.

Which never came. He promised to ring me at the hotel if it came back on, shook my hand, and I left. I returned later after the phonecall at about 7PM to pick up the final two tickets and bade this interesting and friendly man goodbye for the second time. Somehow I had survived Delhi, had claimed the 14 golden return fleeces, and it had only taken between seven and eight hours.

After leaving Mushtaq's office for the first time I bumped into the second “Block N” man. He approached me cautiously as he could see the massive grin on my face. “Hello my friend. Did you get your tickets?” he asked with a knowing glance. As he shook my hand and told me “well done” I couldn't help feeling quite proud of myself. He seemed impressed I'd negotiated their scheme. I jetted off into the tornado traffic clutching most of the tickets, heading for the feet of the orange god, the promise of a well-earned beer, looking forward to the Taj Mahal.