The Delhi Hustle

This wasn’t apart of the plan.
“Do you have any idea what goes on in Delhi?” his voice tightened.
I didn’t.
I tried to explain to the man in front of me that I was a relatively seasoned traveler. I had lived in NY and other major US cities and completed several solo journeys across the world.
But he cut me off. “You’re alone and you’re a woman.”
And, for the next 9 hours multiple men echoed that reality for me.
They yelled that women “half-naked” like me (I had worn shorts) got raped all the time.
They separated me from two other young women travelers from France who similarly were in this vulnerable place and called me a troublemaker.
And, eventually, they pushed me out into the desolate streets of Delhi so “I could learn a lesson of what Delhi does to stubborn women.” It was 3 AM.
But not before they tried to do everything to intimidate and sell me multi-day tour packages around India.
I was led to this office, a tourist office, because a security man at the train station informed me that I required paperwork to gain entry to a neighborhood. “There’s been riots and the Indian government wants to protect the tourists. You need a permit. It’s very dangerous,” he explained.
By the time I realized I was being hustled, it was too late.
When the “bad cop” finally grabbed my arm and backpack, I climbed inside a rickshaw and we sped off into the dark night.
The driver, without telling me, changed addresses. Instead of taking me to my requested hotel, he led me to another tourist office in the dead of night.
This time, I played my cards the best that I could, careful not to upset the men but strategizing a ruse where I took my time – praying it’d be long enough to wait for the sun to rise. It wasn’t too long until the front door swung open and I heard familiar voices.
I gasped “Helene!” and I ran out to see the two French women from the first tourist office. Surprised at our second chance meeting, we embrace and tell each other what had transpired.
What followed afterwards is something that somehow always happens when you set off on a journey on your own. You find and join people along the way.
The three of us, two French young women and a young American, banded together. We took a chance on another driver and found a hotel to sleep in for 3 hours. It was the most costly accommodations we paid during our respective stays in India.
But as soon as the morning sun broke through the sky, we got on the first train. We would see the Taj Mahal, together.