TRAVEL WARNING

When people advise you before you’ve travelled that when you get to India, you should get out of Delhi as soon as you can, you have no real understanding of what they actually mean. You think they mean, Delhi is hot and busy and there’s not that much to see; spend a night or two and then head off. That’s not what they mean. What they really mean is: Get the hell out of Delhi as soon as is humanly possible.

Arriving in Delhi is the equivalent of being woken from your sleep at 5am on a Tuesday and parachuted into a Visigothic death metal club with strobe lighting, a temperature of 50 degrees Celsius, nothing to drink and not enough room to move your arms. Even if you’re the most devoted clubber on the planet, this is not something you’re going to be ready for.

Quite apart from all the things you might expect, one of the main reasons for this inordinate sense of disorientation is the fact that your first port of call, the hotel, your supposed safe haven, turns out to be your point of greatest vulnerability. Delhi hotels are run by some of the most dedicated capitalists alive. In their eyes you’re not a hotel guest. You’re a walking cashpoint. They know that Delhi is not what you had in mind when you decided to travel to India with vague notions of spirituality and locating your soul. You’re naïve, disorientated and willing to do almost anything financially necessary to get out of town. They have a plan to suit you. And most of all, they have a plan to suit them.

After arriving at 6am, we were in the hotel by 7. The free airport pick-up sounds like a wonderful part of the deal, and it has its obvious benefits. What you don’t realise is that it’s also in the hotel’s own interests to make sure you get to them, and don’t find yourself being hijacked and shipped off somewhere else. After we checked in, an attentive man appeared and suggested we have breakfast, saying he’d check to see if it was included in the price, (which he knew it wasn’t), and in response to my enquire about trains to Haridwar, saying he could get me tickets, and I should come and see him in his office after breakfast. As I went to change money he helpfully advised me not to change as much as I intended to, saying it was risky to carry too much cash in India.

After breakfast, in his office, he asked about our travelling plans. Within minutes he’d translated our vague notions of wandering around the Himalayas into a fixed itinerary for every night of our stay, at a price which included a driver, hotels, and train journeys for the return to Delhi. All fleshed out on a piece of paper. You could sense he also had a sub-itinerary for each individual day. When I asked him about the chances of getting a train to Haridwar, he said the earliest we could leave would be in two days time. His package didn’t seem unreasonable, but so soon off the plane, we asked for time to think about it. He was reluctant to let us leave before committing, but I promised to get back to him that afternoon.

After heading out into Delhi for a few hours, we went back to the hotel to catch up on some sleep. At 2pm the phone rang. It was the itinerary man. He wanted to know if we’d decided. By now we’d already made other plans, (or had them made for us). The moment I revealed this, he attacked, demanding to know where we were going, who we were going with, when why and how. I told him we were catching a flight. He told me he could get it cheaper. He’d undercut any package we’d bought. I needed to go and see him. I needed to go and see him now.

We sneaked out of the hotel to do some more sight seeing. When we got back, exhausted, I could feel the eyes of the staff following us. We walked up a flight of stairs. Someone chased after us. Another man, older, barged towards us. As we stopped, he stood there a moment, and we were trapped in a silence which hinted at violent, deeply unhealthy outcomes. Then he asked if anything was wrong. We assured him there was nothing wrong. Another silence, as he worked out how to broach the issue. Then the floodgates opened. Where were we going? Why had we gone with someone else? Whoever we’d chosen wouldn’t be reputable. They’d rip us off. Or decapitate us. We didn’t understand. This is India. You can’t trust anyone. They’ll take advantage. We should have stuck with what we knew. We should have trusted the hotel.

In the face of his prophesies of our imminent doom, the vast neurosis of being a Westerner adrift in the seething mass of Delhi gathered shape. He was right. We’d been stupid. We’d been screwed. There would be no flight tomorrow. There was no way out. Delhi is the dead end. Day after day would be spent being pursued by vultures, cowering in hotel rooms, fearful of ever going out.

Finally, the man left. When we checked out the next morning, one of his staff began to ask where we were going, what we needed, how he could help. Then the older man walked past and just shook his head, resignedly. His member of staff backed off and lost all interest. We headed out into the street, and waited for the car to arrive to take us to the airport. Still fearing, as we stood on the corner, protecting our rucksacks, members of the hotel staff coming out to stare at us, children asking our names and rickshaw drivers accosting us, that our lift would never come.