The gap is tight. Too tight. I’d never go for it. He won’t.—Oh $^@#!
He will.
I’m clenching the rear of the motorcycle with white knuckles as the poor thing labors to carry us along the shoulder and the rough edge of the road fights to push the bike off the road. The driver keeps it straight and—-HOLY. THIS IS TIGHT. I’m puckered up like a steel drum, and trying to stay straight so I don’t shoulder the bus an inch to my right.
Whew! We clear the gap, but remain on the shoulder, as we skirt past the TukTuks, small cars and buses. Then he turns into the traffic and begins lane splitting amongst the other vehicles.
Horns assault my ears, and cars of every size wiggle amongst each other for gaps.The heat radiating from the laboring 125 cc engine heats my ankles, and the sun roasts the tops of my sandalled feet. I look right, and grandma smiles at me, her family of five struggling not to fall out of the small green and yellow TukTuk. Light green jeweled dresses (called a Sarees) flap furiously in the wind.
I thought I was being scammed earlier, when the three young indians walked me away from the Uber pickup area in the Airport, a solid 100 yards passed the airport toll
“I need you to cancel your uber, and you will pay cash.”
“The F**k I will.”
We keep walking.
“Why are there four of you?”
No answer.
We keep walking. It’s 11 am in the morning. It’s a busy airport. What’s the worst that can happen? Just don’t go anywhere private, I tell myself, to prevent from bailing back to the airport for a safer (but much more spendy) taxi.
They finally bring me to a shaded area across the road where a gang of motorcycles sit in the shade, and a group of young Indians share flatbread and some sort of curry from styrofoam plates.
After seeing the motorcycle, a rinky-dink 125 cc ride, and striking a price (380 Indian Rupies (IR)), I finally agreed to cancel the Uber ride. I’m given a cheap plastic helmet and ushered on the back of the small motorcycle, and we’re off. It’s a one hour trip to Old Delhi, and I’m hoping the rider—who can’t be a day over 17—knows what he’s doing.
It’s a fine line to walk, trying to get a deal, while avoiding scams.
In Fiji, a bit younger and more naive, I once found myself at a McDonald’s, sitting with a man claiming to own a private island. I nearly paid him. But instead left with the fijian equivalent of a Big Mac.
Due to research beforehand, I arrived in India with a heavy distrust of locals, at least in Delhi, the big city. In other countries like Mexico and Spain, my initial skepticism was eroded slowly after being proven wrong by helpful locals time and again.
So, India, what will it be?
OOLIN | Delhi, India