Day 1: The Scammery's Begun

I’ve arrived in New Delhi and I’m staying in what they are calling a “hostel”. I have been scammed. It’s fine. I didn’t sleep on the plane. Or for the past two nights, really. So hopefully tonight I get some rest in my windowless room. There is AC and a fan so that’s nice, and much needed, as it’s positively steaming in Delhi right now, the kind of heat that causes severe cognitive impairment. I am not my sharpest right now. Ever since I left the safety of the airports doors it’s taken me an average of 30 minutes to form a decision on what to do next. I used the airport wifi to get an Uber because the airport taxis seemed a little pricy. I didn’t realize the Ubers had to pick you up at a specific spot and I schlepped myself and my bike box across three other terminals to arrive just in the nick of time. I had a 40 minute drive here and the driver didn’t say a word to me, even though I sat in the passenger seat. I made several attempts at light banter and was rebuked with irritated grunting sounds. I didn’t have internet once I left the airport so I had no idea where the hostel was. I had assumed it’d be like, you know, on a street, with a sign outside of it saying this is the hostel and a bunch of raggedy people with big backpacks playing hacky sack and such. The driver pulled over in the middle of absolute vehicular anarchy in a narrow chaotic filthy dust cloud of a street with no sign whatsoever of a hostel and he said “this location”. I asked for any kind of help he might be willing to give and he just repeated “this location” and glared at me. Not the most hospitable welcome so far. So I was ejected with my two carry on panniers and a rather unwieldy bike box. I was in a state of shock and panic. I was drawing a lot of attention with my huge cardboard box and felt defenseless. Thankfully, Google Maps in its infinite thoughtfulness saves your maps and shows you your location without internet, and I could still see the red marker of the hostel in relation to myself. It was nestled deep in an alleyway off the road that reeked of urine where men and dogs were laying around half dead being picked at by flies and such. As I entered the alley of doom a man excitedly grabbed my bike box offering to help despite my pleas that I was fine and led me into the hostel. I clearly was doing all the lifting in this affair while he was doing all the dragging and I did not tip him. He left looking sort of defeated, which I feel bad about in hindsight but I needed to make it clear to New Delhi that I’m not some chump tourist ready to shell out all my cash. When I reached the “hostel“ at the end of the piss covered alleyway, the man at the desk informed me there was construction and I had to be relocated to their other hostel. Another hostel worker helped me carry my bike box through the wheeled anarchy that I had just sought refuge from, which is just an average street in New Delhi. The sidewalks are all covered with the wares of commerce, parked cars, and garbage so we are pushed into the street, neck to neck with the tuk tuks and the cabs and the motorbikes and other equally aggressive pedestrians. New Delhis calmest area would resemble the Port Authority bus terminal bathroom at rush hour. The porter of course demands that I tip him several times along the way, making a big show of how heavy the bike box is, even though no part of this detour was my fault whatsoever. But I slipped him 200 rupees when all was said and done.

It was not a hostel. Generally, when you walk into a hostel, there should be a smattering of international folks gathered around talking, playing guitar, cooking in the kitchen, looking at maps, playing board games etc… The receptionists should be young travelers volunteering who speak English and are excited to help you figure it all out and give you the hot tips. I walked into an uninviting flourescent tiled floor sad place where dreams die with a soot-covered locked refrigerator that had 5 or 6 dusty water bottles in it. Greeting me was a middle aged Indian man who spoke nearly no English. To add insult to injury it was decorated with some pathetic “hostel-like” trimmings that cheaply imitate the aesthetic of a real hostel, giving it an offensive artificiality that laughed in the face of its victims. The “travelers lounge” area is a windowless unwelcoming space of about 6x5’ with one bean bag chair, and no travelers were found lounging there. The WiFi password was “thisisnotfree”, but I was assured that it is free so it’s terribly misleading. Just a couple hours in and I’m already genuinely wondering what the hell I’m doing here and why I decided to go to India. I really need to find someone who speaks English to advise me because walking around in the city is a nightmare, everyone wants to take advantage of you, and I need to figure out the complicated process of taking a bicycle on a train. I’m taken to my quarters and I need to shower. I am afraid to bathe. From what I’ve heard the water here is full of opportunistic bacteria and fungi, which I’m sure would delight to find a home in my fragile microbiome. There is a bucket in the bathroom with a faucet over it, nothing else. I know what I have to do but I don’t want to do it. I manage to splash cold water awkwardly onto my body. It’ll have to do for now.

Laying in my bed in the timeless artificial light of a windowless room, looking at the fan, I’m trying to figure out what I need to do next. I may have put too much faith in the good will and helpfulness of folks. It’s worked out for me in other places, but this is different. This is… going to be hard. I am really hoping that this trip won’t make me bear ill will towards India, because so far, it’s been an exceedingly unpleasant reception. I recall that eerily quiet Uber ride, Modi’s creepy unsmiling face haunting every corner of the city on giant posters welcoming diplomats to G20. Everything is written in English, but nobody speaks it, not a word. I am now on duolingo learning Hindi. It’s not the easiest language in the world, but my guess is if I can say a few cheeky words it’ll make people less likely to want to harvest my kidneys. I know some folks here like me because the lady who sat next to me on the plane was very sweet. I did find it unusual when she decided to nap horizontally and her head found a home over my armrest, resting her pillow on my right thigh, her hair splayed out on my lap, without warning or apology. But I’m glad she felt safe around me.

After napping deeply and soundly from 4PM to 9PM, which probably wasn’t a wise choice, I have higher spirits. I talked to the men downstairs, and though their English did not improve during my odd hour siesta, they appeared friendlier. A rested mind can really change perceptions. They have a little pug named Max who adores belly rubs and, like all pugs, seems on the verge of death by asphyxiation. Tomorrow morning I will endeavor to find a SIM card so that I can be a little more self reliant and I will try to secure train fare to Amritsar, and another night in what I can only assume will be a fake hostel.