Landing in Delhi - My Terrifying Introduction to Backpacking Retold

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Greetings from New Delhi, after some effort, I think I have arrived.

My last three nights before my flight were heavy and left me packing whilst half-cut and I landed in India with a pile of fatigue with some major jet-lag on top. I learnt quickly that this wasn't a good way to land in the capital city of India.

I staggered from the plane and collected my bag, I was officially a backpacker. I arrived in India only two weeks after my decision was made to start travelling and during that brief period I managed to go to the wrong city for my visa, flit around the country visiting friends and purchase endless travel gear. Somehow I managed to pretty much fail at reading about where I was going and the brief amount I did remember was quickly forgotten on landing. I was in the terminal and recalled vaguely something about about finding a government approved taxi and that the office was upstairs. In my tired state I couldn't even find the upstairs and so when I saw other government approved booths downstairs, I paid one of them. This was my first mistake, I assumed in an international airport signs would be genuine, but I was in India and I would learn heavily that here, not everything is as it seems.

And so I was guided through the automatic doors of the airport and directly into the swinging fist of the Indian heat before climbing aboard my beaten up looking tuk-tuk. The tuk-tuk is essentially the product of a hard to imagine relationship between a Robin Reliant and a low quality motorbike, but at least they have no windows which gives them fantastic air conditioning which gave me some comfort, at least until we left the airport. Driving through Delhi is much like driving through some kind of apocalyptic storm which is rendering almost every building on the brink of collapse, the streets in a state of decay, but has exploded the size of the population to a staggering level. I have never seen so many people in my life, they seemed to line the streets doing a mixture of sleeping, squatting (they don't sit, probably because there is endless...), spitting, urinating, defecating, begging and working. The odd collection of vehicles that parade the streets of Delhi all have dents in, without fail, the reasons for which we fairly obvious. All drivers in India appear to be both aggressive and blind, they see the road not with eyes, but evidently by sonar as the endless beeping of a thousand horns testify. Movement is found by a never-ending cycle of aggressive acceleration and aggressive breaking whenever one meanders directly in the path of another or a cow decides it's about time to find pastures new and enters the rocky stream. The open sides of the tuk-tuk provide great air conditioning against the sweltering heat, but let in the foul belches of thousands of low great petrol fumes, causing me to feel both relieved and like passing out, all the while I have to hang on during endless dizzying swerving. I was tired, confused and to be frank, terrified.

The driver shouted above the volume of the traffic to ask whether I had a reservation at my guest house, I did. He responded by telling me that my hostel was probably overbooked and that I perhaps I should go somewhere else. I told him to take me there anyway. He asked if I had the telephone number, I did and he called them, informing me after that they were overbooked and that my reservation was invalid. I told him to take me there anyway. He shouted back once again, this time telling me that he had no idea where my hostel was. I told him the street name (it's a major road from Old to New Delhi) and he kept quiet.

After some time he stopped the tuk-tuk whereupon he let me know that we were going into a travel agency so he could ask for directions. As we did, a rotund moustached man with a creepy long fingernail entered from the back and greeted my in a perfect English accent.

He entered into a sales pitch straight away, letting me know that he'd studied in New York and London, but he had felt an urge to return to his "most amazing country". He made some phone-calls in quick succession, the first to my guest house which he confirmed was overbooked, rendering my reservation pointless. I asked why, to which the first response was "This is India", and the second was to show me a copy of the previous days newspaper whose headline indicated a bomb explosion in the city. Accordingly to him, because a terrorist attack had occurred in the city, all the accommodation was taken because people were leaving the city. It made as little sense then as it does now, but as he said, "This is India".

He called another couple of hostels, announcing that they were fully booked and furthered the pretence by calling the Marriott and Hilton to claim that both of those had space but were $1000 a night. This ridiculous pretence was for one purpose only, "I think you need to leave Delhi today", "Maybe you should take a tour". It had finally begun ans my first comment was a request for anywhere to sleep once again, my lack of sleep made me pathetically weak. He presented me 21 days in Rajasthan by personal driver for £700.. Unsurprisingly I was surprised and I said that it was too expensive. To me the idea sounded horrendous and I told him that I wanted to take trains. He had a line for everything, somewhat curiously like someone in a call-centre and told me that the trains in India were too dangerous. I reminded him of the recent London bombings and said that I wasn't worried about the trains in India too little effect. I was growing wearier and wearier, not just of the situation - all I wanted was sleep.

A cheaper alternative arose, a week long trip to the Indian Himalayas, all inclusive for £200. This included a nights accommodation in the city (go figure), a flight the following morning and eventually a bus back to Delhi. I didn't know where I was, I was bored of the situation and I was ridiculously tired. I agreed to go. I needed sleep and I justified breaking with an excuse of having flown to India in search of adventure, I may as well start with this risk. It appeared on my bank statement a £300, I don't know how they did that.

The second the transaction went through another rotund moustached man walked around a corner in the office as if he'd just been selected on Blind Date and informed me that he'd take me to his guest house. Everything was a set-up.

We headed out in the tuk-tuk in a direction I don't know to a point of the city that is completely unknown to me. After, I was led on foot through a suburb that was visual chaos theory, up some stairs and into Farooq's guest house. There were no guests. The first room was empty outside of a few limp mattresses stacked in a corner and a small television at the opposite end. The second was something of a corridor which led to a tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom and another room that would have been empty if there wasn't a walk in wardrobe. I was in someone’s house.

Farooq moved a mattress and asked me to sit down before he begun to talk a little about the trip up North. My eyelids were drooping low when he began, but I awoke a little when he began speaking about picking me up from the bus station on my return so we could discuss what other tours I could do. This freaked me out and I broke the conversation by asking if there was somewhere I could sleep for a little while. He let me know that because he liked me, he would 'Treat me like a son' and led me to the room with the wardrobe, his room, where he set out a mattress and left me alone.

I didn't sleep much, perhaps an hour, but it allowed my head to stop thumping and I managed to compose myself well enough to send my parents a message to let them know that I was in someone's house and wasn't really sure what was going on, other than I knew I was in a scam. The message went and the network promptly crashed for several hours, rendering my parents CATATONIC with images and worries of exactly what was happening to me and why I wasn't responding to their attempts to contact me.

I was awake for some time before I felt I was ready to brave going back into the other room. When I did, I walked into my biggest nightmare, a cricket party. India were playing on the television and the room was populated accordingly - the room was packed. Fortunately I was quickly given an escape route, perhaps Farooq saw my terror and I was sent out with one of Farooq's three sons.

I re-entered the carnage with little idea of where I was gong, being led through streets that were as crowded as the the power lines were tangled and overcrowded and overloaded. We arrived at a mosque where I was greeted and handed some petals before entered. I had absolutely no idea what was going on as I was led into a small room with a crypt and began to walk around it, scattering the petals on top as I feebly copied those around me. After, I was led out and into the XXXXX and stood for a while completely bewildered as the son knelt upon a mat to begin his prayers. My part of England isn't exactly known for it's multi-cultural-ism and in my dazed, lost and confused state I took my place upon the mat next to him and copied motions, prayed that I would escape my strange situation.

As we were leaving the mosque someone approached me, holding out his hand and in heavily accented English, told me to look after my camera better. I looked down, it was in his hand. I thanked him, shook my head a little, utterly confused and wandered out into the crippling heat once again.

I wandered crookedly through the decaying streets of Delhi before stopping to eat some unidentifiable meat that I was offered by the son. I didn't want to disrespect so suffered the incredible burning of the meats toxic spices as locals laughed at me. Once I'd recovered we shifted to a clay pit oven, built into the street and purchased some fresh breads before seemingly arbitrarily walking, yet arriving back at the apartment. During this strange ramble, the only words I'd heard in English were those from the man who returned my camera.

As we entered I felt a little achievement of survival and was happy to see the apartment had quietened a little, but this was short lived when I saw the blanket spread in the middle of the room and realised that it was time for dinner. Farooq's wife laid curry’s, chicken, rice and dips across the blanket, along with our breads and so began my first attempt at eating a meal like an Indian. Over here, people don't use cutlery to eat, no forks, knives, spoons or chopsticks - they use their hands, well hand, lefty is only for bathroom detail. It was a strange sensation, the feeling of several pairs of eyes watching me as I pathetically attempted to use my untrained hand to tear off a typically stretchy piece of naan bread with little luck. They didn't laugh aloud at least for the impossibly long time it took for to finally tear of a piece, something which I hugely appreciated. I gratefully and enthusiastically shoved it into some sauce before my mouth and swallowed quickly before I began to cough from the spices. That's when they laughed.

I didn't eat much, jet-leg, and after I sat in a corner of the room as the family and their friends interacted, watching the cricket. I sleepily tried to pay attention and sound interested when they mentioned English players they liked - I know nothing about cricket. Eventually I was granted the freedom of the night as the match came to an end and the foam mattresses were laid out across the floor. I took up my spot next to my backpack, my comfort, in the corner whilst Farooq's three sons and two family friends promptly fell asleep like sardines, leaving me peacefully bewildered.

As the other slept noisily I was finally able to process things. My phone kicked back into life at last and a flurry of panicked messages arrived from my parents. They were on the verge of calling the embassy when I finally managed to send them a message back. I grabbed a guidebook from my bag and read through the list of airport and arrival scams, I'd been hit by all of them in the persuasion of buying my tour. Not being able to find my hostel, the lack of accommodation, the trains being dangerous, taking me to the tourist agency, everything had been a lie and part of a long and successful effort to get me to part with my cash. It was oddly comforting to read it and know that I was not the first.

During the day I had pieced together how my time would be spent up North. There was no hostel, it was house of Farooq's brother. There were no other tourists. He spoke no English. I would spent my week in his house and wandering around some of the mountains, alone and cut off from the world. I planned my escape route.

I left early the next morning in a taxi with another of Farooq's sons for the airport. I was happy to be in the taxi, it felt far safer than the tuk-tuk and I was moving after an insane first day. It was short lived though as we stopped at a set of traffic lights and a haggard women in a crude sari approached my window with a baby in her arms. She didn't speak in Hindi or another language, instead she opened her mouth and a horrendous wailing sound came out, hitting me violently. I’m a little ashamed to say that I could only look ahead whilst she hit my window, my body was stiff with terror and I have never felt so uncomfortable in all my life.

After an eternity the lights turned green and we moved on towards the airport. The son wished me the best and waited as I entered the airport. I had no idea he spoke any English until that moment. I stood inside the entrance of the airport, waving goodbye to the son until he got bored (and probably confused) and left in the taxi once again. I was free. I exited the airport to the confusion of the AK47 clad guard and hurriedly made my way to a pre-paid taxi booth I'd seen on the way into the airport. In no time at all I found myself at the hostel I should have been staying in the previous night that wasn't overbooked, but whose entrance was populated by goats and some sleeping people. It looked close to falling down and once I checked in I realised quickly that I'd made yet another mistake - it was not a backpackers place, it was an Indian travellers house and I was 3-4km away from the backpacker district.

I had arrived. To celebrate I spent the next few days cowering in my room, afraid of the outside and with nursing myself through my first case of travellers sickness.

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Comments

[Pete]

Thanks for re-living your nightmare!
Will never tire of hearing that story, epic introduction to the professional travelling career that you now have! Having first hand witnessed your anxiety at the time of leaving the UK as Ines and I left you in Hereford I can't imagine the terror that you (and your parents) were likely living on that joyful day! Great writing. Safe onward travels buddy.