Destination India (7 page)

Trepid (adj.) Timorous; fearful

Fifteen hours later I landed at New Delhi airport.
You can do this,
I repeated in my head, giving myself a pep talk as I traipsed through immigration and headed to the baggage carousel. Steeling myself I grabbed my backpack, wiped my red-rimmed, teary eyes and followed the large crowd to the arrival doors.
Come on, get a grip; you’re in India, not on Mars. It will be fine. You can do this.

However, if I thought arriving into Bangkok airport was overwhelming it was
nothing
compared to here. I stepped foot from the safety of the air-conditioned terminal building into what felt like a wall of noise. People were shouting, smells of spicy, fried food and cow poo mixed in the stuffy, oven-like heat and intimidating stares from strange men made me want to flee back onto the next flight home.

There are more than a billion people living in India and it felt like they had all congregated in this small space to welcome my flight. A pulsating energy was constrained by a weak wire fence just in front of me. Thin brown arms poked through holes, swiping at the air. Voices yelled out ‘taxi’, each competing for the best fare. The knackered-looking railings seemed to surge forward as other passengers walked past. ‘Taxi?’ ‘Madam, good price, taxi?’

My tired eyes stung from the sunlight. I felt like I was in the middle of the stock exchange with people bartering all around me, pushing and shoving for business. I jumped, feeling something touch my arm and looked down to see a small street boy grinning at me with half his teeth missing. He placed his tiny, dirty palm out – wanting cash – but all my money was safely stored away in my unsexy, beige travel belt, which was currently sweating against my stomach.

‘Oh, sorry, erm, no money,’ I apologised and pulled out a handful of boiled sweets from my pocket that I’d been given on the plane. ‘Here, take these.’

‘Bitch,’ he said, chucking the sweets on the floor and spitting at my dusty feet. I gawped back in shock as I watched him scurry off to find someone else to ask.

My head was spinning with all the people milling around me, relentlessly pushing and shoving me. I tried to focus on the many handwritten signs bobbing up and down in front of me, looking for my name or Shelley’s, but they were nowhere to be seen. We expected all the guides on our Lonely Hearts tours to be at the airport meeting and greeting guests as they arrive in their country, to provide safe and preferably air-conditioned transport that takes them to the hotel where they meet the other guests and get their adventure started. I couldn’t even find my way to get from this cattle market section of arrivals over to where an official taxi stand might be. Looking at the chaos before me I was reminded of a quote from one of the awful reviews:
I was left stranded at the airport like an unwanted sales phone call when you’re just about to eat dinner. After a long-haul flight and already feeling emotional it was not the welcome I had expected or paid for. Little did I know that this was a taste of things to come …

Suddenly someone grabbed my bag, almost toppling me over with the force.

‘Madam, I am very sorry but your hotel has burnt down. They sent me here to take you to other hotel,’ a gangly Indian man with surprising strength said, bobbing his head as fast as he was tugging my bag straps.

‘What? Wait. Can you just let go of my bag, please?’ I replied in shock. My hotel had burnt down? Oh my God! I needed him to let go of me so I could breathe and think, impossible to do with the ceaseless caterwauling noise around me.

‘Miss, we need to go now – come, come.’ He had a firm grip on one of my straps and started to lead me away like a dog on a leash when I heard someone else shout out.

‘Miss Green?’ I spun my head to face where I thought the voice had come from.

An old man with peppered grey hair holding a scratty piece of paper with my name scrawled on was waving a thick arm to get my attention. The guy pulling my bag straps instantly let go and scampered off.
What the …?
I elbowed my way over to the tired-looking man with the sign.

‘Miss Green?’ he asked again.

I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me. Are you Nihal?’ Things must be bad as I was positive the guy I’d spoken to briefly on Skype a few months ago was a lot younger and fresh-faced.

The old man chuckled. ‘No, I’m Deepak; Nihal is much uglier than I am. So, welcome to Delhi!’ His wrinkled face broke into a warm grin, flashing his blackened gums.

I smiled back, wiping a layer of sweat and grime from my flustered face. ‘Thank you. Erm, I’ve heard that the hotel has burnt down?’ I asked, wide-eyed.

Deepak huffed and muttered something under his breath. ‘No, Miss Green, that is a scam. They tell you that so they
can take you to their hotel. Please don’t worry; everything is as it should be.’

I smiled weakly. Great. Five minutes after arriving and I’d almost fallen for a classic rookie scam. I bet Shelley would have heard about that one.

‘Oh OK. So, please, how do we get out of here?’

‘Wait, I have here that I need to pick up two women?’ He unfolded a piece of notepaper with Shelley’s name on.

‘There was a problem; it’s just me.’ I felt my eyes prick with tears just saying that out loud.

He gently placed a large paw on my backpack and steered me past the hundreds of other men, their faces throwing envious looks that he had managed to wag a fare. ‘Well, you are the lucky one then.’ He smiled. I let him guide our way, thinking how wrong he was.

It wasn’t long before we were out of the mayhem and in his clean yellow and green taxi, rumbling our way through the busy streets past curled-up bodies huddled together on the pavements, apparently sleeping under a blanket of black diesel fumes. There was noise everywhere, from the constant honking of horns to high-pitched women wailing on the radio to Deepak regularly clearing his throat and hacking up phlegm out of the window.

‘So, first time in Delhi?’ he asked, glancing at me through his rear-view mirror.

‘That obvious?’ I half joked.

‘Don’t worry, Miss Green, I pick up lots of people from the airport who are like you. Nervous, worried and very tense.’ I unclasped my hands that had been anxiously picking my bitten-down fingernails. ‘But then a few weeks later, I take them back to the airport and do you know what?’

‘What?’

‘They don’t want to leave!’ He let out a loud chortle, running a thick finger through his grey, bushy moustache. ‘You’ll see.’ I nodded absently and looked out of the window, thinking about what smug and irritatingly sexy Rahul had told me in the visa office, about how India shows you a different side of yourself. Pfft. Bet he said that to all the women he met and most of them would simper at his feet, but not me. I knew me pretty well; I didn’t have anything else to learn other than how to get back to Manchester as soon as possible.

‘I don’t know about that; I’m not sure how long I’m staying. It might be a matter of days.’ I’d been thinking on the plane journey over here that maybe I should cut my trip short, stay for a week and find out what the problem was, and then head back home to sort it out. Now that I didn’t have Shelley by my side, the fun of this trip had evaporated.

‘Days! No. That is not enough time, Miss Green.’ He almost jumped a red light in shock.

‘Time for what?’ I asked slowly.

Deepak was cut off from answering as another driver beeped us, making me jump. ‘Miss Green, I forgot to inform you that it is better if you lock your door. Trust me.’ I cautiously did as he said, wondering if he wanted to lock me in, or lock someone else out?

We pulled up at a crazy intersection where road markings appeared to be non-existent judging by how close other vehicles were to us. A man with no limbs was begging outside one of many shacks on the side of the road, oblivious to the beeping horns, shouting and engines running so close to him. I was about to ask Deepak if he knew where Nihal was when suddenly ghostly fingers rapped on the dirty glass of the taxi window, making me jump out of my skin.

I looked up at the gaunt faces of two small street children. Their badly cut dark hair was caked in dust; their faces looked weathered with age but their young bodies were so malnourished. They were wearing ripped T-shirts, tinged yellow from sweat and stains. They had bare feet and one of them was awkwardly cradling a baby on her non-existent hip. My heart dropped. The toddler couldn’t have been much older than Cole. Immediately at the thought of his cheeky, chubby, pink face I remembered the hurt look Marie had given me back in the pub. Maybe it was better she wasn’t here; a mother’s instinct would be in overdrive at the sight of these poor street children.

I went to wind my window down when Deepak stopped me. ‘No, Miss Green. Please do not do that.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Don’t give them anything,’ he said eyeing me through the mirror. After the way that boy at the airport had spoken to me I wanted to make amends.

‘Why not?’ I asked, watching a young boy wandering over to the cars in front of us, stepping on the crumbling concrete and picking up a discarded plastic water bottle before cradling it tight in his skinny brown arms. The girl was almost pressed up against my window and her eyes were large puddles of sadness. In the quick eye contact I’d made with her they spoke of the things she’d witnessed, things I couldn’t imagine seeing at any age.

‘Their pimp will be watching,’ Deepak replied firmly but sadly, before pulling away once the light had changed to green.

‘Pimp?’ I parroted back in shock.

He nodded despondently. ‘All the children of the streets have pimps. Men who force them to beg, to perform or to collect bottles left over by rich tourists to make money,
but the kids never see a penny of it. I understand it must be very hard for you to see but for us it is a way of life.’ He spoke calmly, narrowly swerving past a malnourished cow that was blocking the exit and lazily chewing on something, blissfully unaware of the danger it was in.

‘Oh my God. I didn’t realise.’ My eyes filled with tears.

‘If you want to help them then you need to go direct to the many charities that work with them; we have lots of people doing very good work here. They take the children in and clean them, feed them and educate them. Very good. If you give your money to them then you know it will go to the child and not some nasty, evil man.’ He wound his window down and spat on the pavement as we drove on.

Ben had been working in a charity before he started Lonely Hearts Travels with me. He’d spoken so highly about the things he’d done, the work he’d helped with and the families whose lives had changed because of it. He’d never once mentioned the dark side of it all and I’d never thought to ask. The vacant eyes of that little girl were now burnt for ever on my eyelids.

It was like watching one of the many charity appeals back home on their fundraising days; we would put on silly fancy dress outfits, take part in sponsored silences and bake fairy cakes at school then watch harrowing footage of malnourished dying children from all over the world, unable to believe we were all sharing the same planet. However, the thing was that once the TV got switched off all of those children, the upsetting faces you’d just been staring at, would disappear from your mind before you’d finished your next cup of tea. I never imagined that I would be face to face with children just like the images I’d seen on TV – with our faces separated only by a piece of dirty glass. This was why I needed Shelley to be here with me,
to be sharing this with me, to give me someone to talk to about it all. I wasn’t strong enough to cope with this by myself.

‘Do you know if we’re nearly at the hotel?’ I asked Deepak as we headed back onto what looked like another motorway, suddenly desperate to be tucked up in bed, to wake up and find out that this was all a nightmare.

Invidious (adj.) Unpleasant and causing bad feelings

Standing in the small but clean reception of the hotel it was as if the volume had been muted on the chaotic, busy street outside. Now I was here I needed to toughen up and get things sorted, starting with my new persona. I’d been thinking on the journey over here about using my middle name, Louise, and telling everyone I was a hairdresser from Manchester. I figured that Green was a common enough surname; no one would put two and two together if who the CEO of the tour group company was ever came up in conversation.

After a smooth check-in and only tearing up once more at the fact I wouldn’t be sharing my room with Shelley I was feeling slightly more together, although I still hadn’t seen any trace of Nihal or the rest of the tour group. The friendly receptionist with slicked black hair told me that the tour guide preferred to let the guests arrive separately so they didn’t feel too overwhelmed and that the welcome meeting would take place later. I’d nodded as if I understood but surely there was safety and security in numbers, especially battling through the bedlam of the New Delhi airport arrivals hall?

After a refreshing shower and a little nap I was as ready as I would ever be to take on my challenge. I’d changed
into a light and floaty cream-coloured dress that I hoped would be both cool and smart for the restaurant. I’d wrapped a Primark scarf around my shoulders and headed back to reception to finally meet this elusive Nihal and the other guests.

I knew we had five guests booked on this tour: Oliver Chalmers, Christopher Kennings, Rebecca Jackson, Liz Lowes and Felicity Black (Flic). I’d met Liz before when she came into the shop – a willowy pale thing – but the others had reserved the tour either online or over the phone so I didn’t have much to go by. I was hoping that Liz wouldn’t remember who I was; Ben had been the one who’d booked her trip after all.

I was the first one to arrive so awkwardly sat on a beige leather sofa near the front door. Ten long minutes later a guy with short, messy strawberry-blond hair, freckles scattered over his chiselled cheeks and toned, pale arms straining under his T-shirt strode into reception. He caught my eye; relief spread over his handsome face as he briskly walked over to me.

‘Alreet! You on the tour too? I’m Ollie by the way,’ he said in a friendly Geordie accent. The cute Ed Sheeran lookalike stuck out his hand and grinned, revealing perfect straight white teeth.

‘Hi, yep I sure am. My name’s, erm, Louise. Nice to meet you Ollie.’ I shook his hand.

‘So, you know what the plan is?’ he asked sitting on the sofa opposite me and rubbing the back of his neck. ‘First time I’ve ever been on a tour and wasn’t sure what to expect to be honest.’ His voice was deep and friendly. His light green eyes creased as he smiled and he had two adorable dimples in his unshaved cheeks.

‘Yeah it’s a little nerve-wracking isn’t it? The first day always feels a little awkward.’

‘Oh, so you’ve done this before?’

‘Erm no, well I travelled with a tour to Thailand last year but not this kind of tour,’ I blustered.

He nodded. ‘Ah, I think here are some more of us now.’

I turned to follow where he was staring; three women had walked into reception looking as apprehensive as we did. They headed over to Ollie and me.

‘Hey, I’m Bex. You on this sad and solo tour too?’ the shortest and roundest one of the trio called out before laughing. The other two sort of hid behind her ample frame.

‘Yep, I’m Louise and this is Ollie.’ I smiled and shuffled up the sofa for them all to sit down.

‘Blindin’. Well this is Liz and Flic.’ Bex did the introductions and waved a chubby arm at the two women behind her. Liz nodded hello, holding a crumpled tissue in her hands. Her watery eyes grew wide at seeing Ollie. With her high cheekbones and willowy frame she could have stepped off a catwalk in Milan, but judging by the way her shoulders hunched and her hands trembled she had as much confidence as a kitten at Crufts.

‘Hey, welcome to the club. Shit I hope I’m not the only bloke.’ Ollie laughed.

‘You scared about being in touch with your feminine side?’ the other woman, Flic, said sharply before slumping on the sofa next to me. I suddenly got a strong whiff of ylang-ylang; it smelt like the stuff my mum used to slap on her feet after a hard day at work.

‘No, no. I’m fine around women, very happy in fact,’ Ollie replied sheepishly under Flic’s stare.

She was what you would call a typical hippy backpacker. Sun-lightened dreads were piled on her head and her tanned arms were covered in bangles and tatty threaded bracelets. The brown sack she was wearing just nailed the
whole boho chic look she was aiming for. I suddenly felt very clean and overdressed next to her.

‘I was only joking with you,’ Flic said before stifling a yawn and titling her head back so her nose piercing glinted in the light. Ollie mumbled that he knew that. ‘So, any of you know what we’re doing tonight?’

Liz – who was perched on the arm of the sofa and fidgeting with the hem on her sleeve – shook her head. Her long, light brown hair danced with the movement. ‘I forgot to print off the itinerary we were sent,’ she half whispered, staring at the polished floor.

‘I think we’re meeting everyone before going out for dinner,’ I said.

Where the hell was Nihal? I really hoped he wouldn’t be late as by my count there was one more tour goer left to join us. I tried to catch the receptionist’s eye to see if he was sorting out a welcome drink for everyone, as we expected on all of our tours, but he was staring intently at his computer screen.

‘Good, I’m starvin’. That stuff they serve on the plane weren’t food. I wouldn’t even give me dog that,’ Bex said. ‘And Barking Brenda eats everythin’! I once found her chewing on a box of tampons, happy as Larry she were. Don’t worry, they weren’t used ones,’ she added catching Ollie’s shocked and awkward expression.

Flic frowned. ‘You know you shouldn’t be so dismissive of the time, effort and cost that went into preparing that
dog food.
People starving in Africa wouldn’t turn their noses up at it.’ She shook her head and lightened her tone; her plummy English accent seemed so alien compared to her hippy dress sense. ‘This is just another example of the western world brainwashing us through our stomachs. Just because it doesn’t adhere to our prescribed cultural norms or look like it does in a supermarket doesn’t mean it tastes any worse.’

‘Right …’ Bex humoured her. ‘Here I was thinking it was just high-altitude mush.’

Ollie stifled a laugh as Flic rolled her eyes. ‘Is that like those weird-shaped carrots that get chucked away ‘cause no one wants them?’ he asked faux innocently.

Bex laughed. ‘To be fair I do love a knobbly parsnip.’

Flic tutted and mumbled under her breath that she doubted Bex would even know what a parsnip looked like. Liz, who didn’t seem to know where to put herself, smiled gratefully at a man I hadn’t noticed before who emerged from behind a tall white pillar.

He was wearing khaki shorts that flashed his hairy pink legs and was looking down at his phone with his tight face creased in a frown.

‘You all right, mate? You on this tour too?’ Ollie called out, pleased to have a break from the politics of airline food and not to be the only male.

The guy – although he looked only a few years older than me – was completely grey, which added to his severe look. He spun his head up and looked at Ollie, put his hand up as if telling him to wait then went back to his phone and tapped out a short message.

‘Oh, right then.’ Ollie shrugged, looking embarrassed, and quickly sat back down.

Fifty-shades-of-grey man finished his text before slowly walking over to us with a painful smile on his drawn face. I could see deep purple bags under his light, almost grey, eyes; his sallow face was such a contrast to Ollie’s cheeky grin. Ollie had bounded over full of excitement. This man looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, as if this was some sort of huge inconvenience. I tried to shake this out of my head. Maybe he was just tired; he’d had a long journey and was probably feeling overwhelmed like the rest of us after landing here. But for some reason I had
to shush a prickling feeling that I was forcing myself to believe this.

‘This the tour group meeting place?’ he asked, his voice as monotone and grey as the rest of him.

‘Well if it’s not then we’re in the wrong place.’ Bex grinned, flashing crooked front teeth. ‘I’m Bex, this is Ollie, Liz, Louise and sorry I’ve forgotten your name …’ She gestured to Flic who seemed highly unimpressed.

‘Flic,’ she replied tartly.

‘Right. I won’t remember any of that. I’m Chris,’ the new recruit said curtly, giving us all an intense look before checking his watch. ‘Where’s the tour guide then?’

‘Erm, he should be here soon. Sit down if you like,’ I said, trying to see if these bloody welcome drinks would ever materialise. I’d never needed the social lubricant of alcohol more. Chris muttered something under his breath about timekeeping and stayed standing up. Something clawed at my brain; he looked familiar but I could swear I’d never seen him before.

I was just about to go over to see the receptionist when an Indian man rushed through the entrance doors, sweating and wheezing. He raced over to the reception desk but stopped when he noticed all of us waiting on the sofas. Taking a deep breath and wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead he pulled himself up straight and wandered over to the group.

‘Hello. Lonely Hearts Travel Club, yes?’ We all nodded. Chris rolled his eyes at the state of this flustered, red-cheeked man and I took a sharp intake of breath. This couldn’t be …

‘Nihal?’ I boldly asked, ignoring looks from the others that I knew his name; Nihal didn’t seem to register this.

‘Yes, I am Nihal, your tour guide.’ He stretched his clammy palm out to shake everyone’s hands before
unsubtly wiping them on his trouser legs. ‘Fantastic, erm, welcome to India.’ He cleared his throat as if remembering what to say next, although judging by the state of him he may have just rolled out of bed to be here so probably hadn’t woken up properly yet. ‘If you want to follow me we’ll be walking the short distance to the restaurant. Let’s get going.’

I got to my feet as uncertainly as the rest of the group. A quote from the travel review flashed in my mind.
The tour guide, not that you could call this waste of space that, was late, lazy and had the social skills of a drunken sloth. For the first-timer in India he was not the man you wanted to be in control of your safety and enjoyment. Seriously.

I gulped and steeled myself for what this evening would hold.