Midnight Madness

The decision to return to India was not an obvious one. After three earlier trips to shoot films, Peter and I thought we were done with the noise, confusion and the never ending challenges of accomplishing even the simplest task. India was clearly not done with us, however. I had had a story accepted into an anthology about India and, in the re-writing and editing of that piece, we became preoccupied with the notion of going back, one last time.

We were somehow charmed by the idea of travelling to a place we hadn't seen, with few plans, lots of time and the ability to wander wherever we wished. I had been to Kolkata and the Bay of Bengal; together we'd been to New Delhi, Agra, and north to the foothills of the Himalaya. This time, we opted to head south to Kerala, with its charming backwaters, hill stations, and tropical beaches.

We decided not to make too many plans. A flight to Mumbai via London seemed like a good place to start. Most importantly we knew from earlier misadventures that we didn't want to arrive in the middle of the night...that was a certainty. 

We recalled our last trip to India which got off to a pretty shaky start.

After a flight to Delhi via Amsterdam, we touched down at Indira Ghandi International just after midnight. We'd loved staying at the Blue Triangle 'Y' on an earlier trip but this time had booked at the Yatri guest house based on the good things we'd heard about it. We were to be met by their driver and sure enough, as we emerged from the stifling heat of the arrivals hall, there was a sign:"Mr. Beverley Reid." Quickly, we were on our way.

The streets were pitch black and deserted, the only light coming from a sliver moon high in the sky. We hadn't driven far before the driver acknowledged that although he'd been sent by the guest house, he wasn't at all sure where it was. By the time we entered New Delhi proper around 2:00 AM, he was hopelessly lost.

We were exhausted and gradually, as time wore on, became suspicious about what was happening. At one point we were driven down a dark, dead-end alley and I wondered if we were being set up for a robbery. Finally, we pulled up to a shuttered guesthouse in the centre of the city, not the Yatri but a place our driver assured us we could stay. Quickly, he unloaded all our luggage and in a flash, was gone, vehicle and all, into the night.

A taxi sat idling across the street. Throwing ourselves on the mercy of this new driver, we asked him to take us to the Yatri guesthouse which, miraculously, he did. Once there, however, we were turned away by the night watchman who told us there was no room.

Our new driver knew of a "reasonably priced" hotel, not too far away. By now it was 3:30 AM and we were desperate. Yes, they had a room, and yes, we could have it for only $140US, slightly more than the $25 we'd paid in advance for the Yatri. Angry, tired and completely discouraged we said "OK" making it clear that we would only be staying for one night.

The next morning at breakfast, Peter received a mysterious phone call.

"I understand you are looking for accommodation," said the anonymous voice.

"We were," replied Peter,"but it's been taken care of by friends." He had no desire to involve us in any further expensive misadventures and was justly suspicious of this stranger on the phone.

In the light of day, we hired a car to take us to the Yatri. The manager was as bewildered as we were as to what had happened the night before but slowly it all became clear. There was little doubt that everyone from the original driver down to the taxi which had taken us to the expensive hotel was part of an elaborate scam.

Once again, I've made arrangements for us to be picked up at an airport in India. Once again, I'll look for the sign which says "Mr. Beverley Reid." We arrive shortly after noon. I'm optimistic that we'll be taken to our hotel without incident.