Toto, I Don't Think We Are in Fuzhou Anymore

---

New Delhi, 10:00 at night. I take my first step onto Indian streets and hordes of food carts and tuk-tuks (the infamous three-wheeled Indian rickshaws) are gathered at the metro station entrance. My foot hurts a bit and I figure it might not be best to find my way at night on streets—indeed in a country—I am completely unfamiliar with, so I wade tentatively into the sea of tuk-tuks. It is not long before I am approached. The man seems to recognize the name of my hostel and proceeds to hook me up with a tuk-tuk who is to bring me there—for the reasonable price of 30 rupees (the hostel website estimated it would be this much—about 4 RMB, or fifty cents). I agree. We drive through dark though still bustling streets as the driver banters with me in in broken "Hinglish" (Hindi+English). Then, somewhat abruptly, we pull onto a side road. It seems too short for us to already be there, and when I see the guard post and traffic arms blocking the road in front of us I immediately have a bad feeling.

The Indian manning the guard station makes his way to our tuk-tuk, and what ensues is a conversation that would have been laughable if it wasn't so dumb. Driver and guard team up to tell me that this is a "restricted area" and that we can't go further. I take out the map on my phone, and realize, somewhat to my dismay, that I had been taken in a direction opposite the hostel. The notion, however, that we can’t reach the hostel is ridiculous, as all the driver would need to do is turn the tuk-tuk around and get back on the main road, a short 10 meters behind us. I raise my voice and say we can either turn around and go to my hostel, or I give them no money. But my two new friends are adamant that I give them money "now," because (and this is my favorite part) we were in "the Muslim district" and it was very "dangerous". In reality, we were less than kilometer from the airport. I decide my friends are too bumbling to resort to force, especially with the number of people nearby, so I bid them an early good-evening and simply leave. Finding another tuk-tuk to the hostel wasn't exactly appealing, so I was on foot.

Trash, rubble and homeless people line the streets—more homeless people than I have ever seen in two years of living in China. Trucks and tuk-tuks roar past and I can't quite shake the feeling someone is following me. I finally make it to the street my hostel is on, but because the sidewalk is furnished with an overhang, homeless people are sleeping there en masse. Grey blankets curled up around invisible bodies, with only a protruding foot or strand of cringing black hair to remind you there is a person there. Dim light. The vague smell of urine in the air. Two of them quarreling drunkenly. I make it to the guest house like a lost dog finds its way home, and the upbeat atmosphere of the hostel—it's primary colors shouting bravely against the mumbling black and streetlamp-yellow—seems like a veritable oasis after the evening's skulduggery.

I had been up for nearly 40 hours straight (the night before leaving Fuzhou was some party), and to my shot nerves and exhausted body, sleep seemed like an exceedingly welcome respite.The question of what Delhi held in store for me in the morning drifted into my head, but before I could begin to imagine an answer, I was out.

●

The evening had been quite an introduction to India, but at least I was safe and did not, after all, lose any money. To lose money I would, as it turned out, have to wait until my first day in India.

The question of who to trust out of the wide milieu of people you meet in travel is a delicate one, especially in the third world. On the one hand, you want believe in people and keep your faith in humanity robust and buoyant on the other hand, you don't want to get ripped off. “Don't make the mistake of thinking this is ‘personal’” the warning voice in your head flashes, but at the same time you know that some of the most meaningful experiences in travel (and in life) happen when relationships with the people you meet cross that subtle line into "being personal." Excessive suspicion or excessive naïveté? Both have their dangers, but perhaps the adage of "keeping your heart open, but your eyes open wider," ＂害人之心不可有，防人之心不可无＂，is most reasonable.

However well I thought I had understood this, my first day in Delhi seemed to prove otherwise.

I was in the city center, midday, trying to rent a bicycle. Quite out of nowhere a young man approaches me, and starts making polite conversation in English. He said that he was a music student, that he had studied with his father who was a music teacher, that he was a native of Delhi, and that, above all, I could relax because he was not going to try to get any money out of me. He asked about my travel plans and I explained that I wanted to stay in Delhi for a longer period to get to know the city better. He urged me to reconsider. Pollution, noise, sickness, a cultural wasteland—this was the picture he painted of his "hometown"—and from what I had seen so far (which granted, was not much) I was liable to agree with him. Delhi, by all accounts, is India's LA—a massive urban sprawl that you may pass through in your travels, but would be well-advised not to linger in. "Go to Rajasthan," he urged, the province lying to the west of Delhi. "See the mountains." He had to go, but he left me with one final exhortation: whatever I decided to do, I should go to the government travel office to book my train tickets. It would be safer and less troublesome than planning an itinerary myself. "And don't try to rent a bicycle," he emphasized. "First of all rentable bicycles don't exist. Second you'll kill yourself on the road." I thought of relating to him my long-running exploits with 小绿 on the streets of Fuzhou, but I'm afraid that even Fuzhou is a gentleman's paradise compared with Dehli, where the twin rules of "Biggest First" and "Fill Every Possible Space" are abided with a religious fervor that only the "spiritual center of the world" could channel daily. He helped me hail a tuk-tuk, and I thanked him.

Who knows the actual reason, but the agency I was taken to was most certainly not the government travel office. It was as private and slick as a hole-in-the-wall Indian travel agency could be. A well-dressed, fast-talking young Indian sits me down, offers me chai, and for a while, I am happy to be his prey. I play fish, he plays fisherman, and if I can nibble at the bait without getting hooked, I win the game. We play until I am out of questions and he starts comparing packages, and I know that it's time for this little fishy to make its escape. I say I need more time to think about it (which in trade lingo of course means "goodbye forever"), finish my chai, grab a free map, thank him and promptly exit. Tourist 1 - Travel agency 0.

Feeling smart about myself I started looking for some lunch, when another Indian man approaches me right out of the blue, a virtual replay of that morning.

He introduced himself as Pawan, an insurance agent from Tamil now living in Delhi. He had a round face and plump belly, was dressed business casual and spoke English with an eloquence noticeably superior to your average Indian (most of whose English is already decent). Something about his open and amiable demeanor drew me to him immediately, and I thought that if there was a chance the music student had been trying to rip me off (by sending me to a pricey, private travel agency), surely the chance with Pawan was trifling.

I mentioned I was hungry. He said that if I didn't mind vegetarian food, there was a close restaurant nearby. We sat down in a hustling and bustling southern Indian cuisine chain restaurant, and Pawan and I began to talk with the kind of depth and intimacy one occasionally finds in like-minded strangers—covering travel, education and our respective life journeys. Pawan seemed to see something of himself in me, explaining that he had also been extremely fond of travel as a youth, and had been backpacking all over India. He said that he had grown up poor in the countryside, but upon meeting and coming under the wing of a generous benefactor from America—a man whom he considered his second father—found greater opportunity for himself. He was very proud to relate that he his now able to send both of his kids to a private English school, and as a result his kids are more fond of speaking English than Hindi, though know nothing of Pawan's own mother tongue, Tamil. Pawan was intrigued by my stories about China and views on travel, and in a moment of voluntary vulnerability he opened up about his recent struggles with alcohol, which have intensified as stress from work has mounted in the past few years. He struck me as an honest, simple, pious man, and that he had admitted his own weakness seemed to reinforce that evermore so. We finished eating and he payed for the meal.

Pawan had about an hour before he had to go back to work, but before he went back he said he would like to leave me with a final entreaty: I should go to the government travel office to book my train tickets. Presumably, the real government travel office. He hailed a tuk-tuk, and this time, we went together.

With my new friend with me, I relaxed. I figured that whatever price they pitched, Pawan, an experienced traveler in India, could make the final judgement on whether or not it was fair. The agent, jovial and rotund, sat the two of us down, offered chai, and presented a package that was 10,000 rupees cheaper than the first agency (that’s $150, or about 1,100RMB). Altogether, the package came down to about 500USD, covering sleeper trains to three cities I was interested in and three nights in a hostel. I turned to Pawan, and he said he thought it was fair. I agreed, signed the paperwork and handed over the money.

Pawan, meanwhile, had already delayed going back to work by ten or fifteen minutes, and so after I signed he said he must excuse himself. I shook his hand and he said in what I couldn’t help but feel was a sincere and heartfelt way "God Bless You," before turning and walking out.

●

Altogether I was decently satisfied with how things turned out. The agent had even “thrown-in" a free driver who would take me sight-seeing for my remaining day and a half in Delhi—though later I found this really meant making various "stops" at bazaars whose sole purpose is selling foreigners things. The next day I saw the India Gate, the National Museum and my fair share of pricey Persian rugs, but pretty soon it was time to check out of my hostel. We swung by the agency to that I could pick up my itinerary, and I shook hands with the agent one last time. Then it was straight to the Delhi train station.

On the road, I reasoned with myself. It’s true the package was a little pricey, but it was still much cheaper than the first agency, and probably not much more expensive than if I had done it myself. This way I didn’t have to tackle the daunting learning curve of navigating the Indian Railway system, and would not have to worry about being placed on waiting lists. This is peak travel season in India, and so the danger of being stuck in India’s LA on train ticket waiting lists was actually very real. My whole tripped was outlined for me—train times and all—and this way at least I wouldn’t have to think about things.

But the driver, a talkative fellow, presented things in a different light. He said that he works for a lot of different travel agencies and that all of them, including the one I had just done business with, are private. “They’re in it to make money” he said, and as if to prove his point, he pointed out the window to the "real" Indian Government Travel Center on our left, which was clearly different than either of the places I had been to. I said that I really didn’t mind whether it was private or government because the price seemed fair. He asked about my itinerary and how much I payed for it, and said cooly that the real price probably would have been about 10,000 rupees cheaper than what I paid. Reeling, I insisted that I still thought it was a decent price, especially considering I had brought an Indian friend with me. He asked, “When did you meet this Indian friend of yours?” Sheepishly, I confessed it had been only yesterday.

Smiling, he turned to me and said in that unmistakably Indian accent,

"It's OK my friend, just don't be fooled next time."

●

The first thing you see on the train as you pass through the outskirts of Delhi are the slums. Hovels literally made of trash; children running around barefoot. Crows circle the skies by the hundreds, drawn to prime scavenging grounds. Well aware that for these lower caste or casteless Indians tens of rupees a day may be a normal wage, I couldn’t help but wax pensive in my sleeper car. 10,000 rupees goes a long way here, and the more I thought about it, the more ashamed I felt. Fish and fisherman is a lovely game to play when it is your luxury to lose. Whether or not I consider $500 a "loss" for the package I paid for, the truth is I hadn’t bothered to educate myself. Tuk-tuks or travel agencies, music students or Pawans, it is just when you feel comfortable that you need to be most vigilant.

I don’t want to give you the idea that my only experiences or impressions of Delhi were of crooks and scammers, but as we hurtled westward in the train, that was what was on my mind. That, and the images just outside my window. Dusk came, and the curtain of night fell softly on the sobering urban landscape. I nestled up in the economy sleeper’s rather spartan accommodations—

Morning would be a new city.

---