Bhanged Up Abroad
I’ve never been a huge fan of the term “developing”. This is especially true when it’s used as a euphemism – most often to describe countries struggling to restabilise after being systematically dismantled by colonising nations.
When it comes to describing railway systems, however, I can think of no better adjective to qualify Queensland Rail.
Pay $10 for a train in my home state of Queensland, and you’ll be sitting in graffiti-stained seats getting fined $261 for sneaking a bite of an apple. Pay $10 for a train in India, and you get to kick back in an actual bed and dine on a selection of curry whilst your phone charges alongside you.
My friend Paige and I were feeling a little shell-shocked after several days of Diwali celebrations in Udaipur – an exuberant Hindu festival of light renowned for its 24-hour firecracker displays. Our plan was to take a train 300km north-west to Ajmer, then get a ride to the lakeside city of Pushkar and chill the fuck out.
In pursuit of this desire, before leaving Udaipur, we filled our flasks with some bhang chai from a local vendor: a surprisingly tasty combination of masala tea, milk and cannabis. Bhang, a ground paste made from marijuana leaves and stems, has been approved for sale by the Rajasthani government and is even said to have the blessing of Lord Shiva.
Not one to argue with politics or religion, we figured it would make our five-and-a-half-hour train journey even more pleasant than usual.
Snuggled into freshly washed sheets in top bunk beds opposite each other, Paige and I were very much at ease, and coming into the peak of our high.
A small frame stretched up and peered into my bed with inquisitive eyes as the Aravalli Range whipped by through the window behind him. He was a dabbawala – a lunchbox delivery man – and he couldn’t have come at a better time. Behind her turquoise-rimmed glasses, Paige’s pupils had pooled as large as mine.
“Two vegetarian,” I slowly replied.
From the bunk beneath me came a voice.
“Do you girls want Domino’s instead?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you would prefer western food, I can order you a pizza,” offered my bunkmate, an Indian man in his 40s, as he brandished his phone.
“It will be no problem. Someone will deliver it to the train by 8pm.”
My mouth hung open as I struggled to process his futuristic suggestion.
“Oh wow! Um…. Sure,” Paige chirped.
I knew it was the bhang talking; there was no way Paige came to India to eat Domino’s – even when it cost the equivalent of $2 and would essentially materialise onto our moving train.
“Nah let’s stick with the veg thali,” I said. “Thanks though! We actually love Indian food.”
The rest of the trip to Ajmer passed in a lovely haze of warm dahl, gentle naps and partnered toilet visits, and when the phone alarm I’d set for 10:25pm went off, we rose from our beds and got off at the station we rightly figured to be ours.
I couldn’t help but giggle a bit as we moved across the platforms and into the throngs of people huddled around the exit. Sure, I was functional, but I felt a lot like a giant slug with a head full of fairy floss wearing a backpack. Ajmer was by far the biggest Indian city we’d been in.
A man in his 20s approached us through the chaos. He was attractive and mean-looking, surrounded by a clad of other drivers who stared at him agog, almost as though they had a crush on him. It was clear he was the alpha of the crew. I briefly wondered whether he was a bully.
“We actually do need a lift, yeah. To Pushkar,” I replied, glancing around to see if anyone less forceful was going to offer us a ride.
He insisted on charging us 600 rupees, the equivalent of $12, which we knew to be double what it should cost. None of the drivers around him dared undercut his price. Paige tried unsuccessfully to bargain, but my brain couldn’t be bothered to haggle, so I sighed and got in the rickshaw.
“Okay, we’ll pay you 600.”
“Why didn’t you barter?” Paige hissed.
“Too high,” I shrugged back.
She rolled her eyes at me. “I did it so they knew not to fuck with us.”
In our relatively vast experience with rickshaws and tuktuks across Asia, our driver was the wildest Paige and I had ever encountered. He sped the whole way, pushing his engine to its limits, flying over potholes and speed bumps and taking corners so aggressively that we wondered if we’d tip over.
Not usually one to panic, I double checked the progress of our ride on my phone’s maps application. Satisfied that we were going in the right direction, I slipped my mobile back into my bag, and when the driver lit up a cigarette and the smoke blew back in our faces, Paige and I laughed.
Half an hour into the journey, I estimated that we had 10 minutes to go. We were on a highway: a wide empty street on the outskirts of a town. The unshouldered road was lined with what looked like hardware stores, and it was very dark. There were no streetlights and no other cars. Then our rickshaw slowed down and skidded to a halt out the front of one of the stores without any warning.
Like moths, eight men flocked to us. They clambered onto the front and sides of the vehicle and stared at us with hyena-like expressions.
We said nothing; I clutched my bag to my chest.
“There’s a tax for visitors,” said one, licking his lips.
The men got closer.
“You’re foreigners. Not locals. Foreigners must pay us a tax.”
After a drawn-out silence, Paige handed over a note. One of the men took it and presented her with two small pieces of paper.
The tension did not ease, nor did the lecherousness. More men came over to the rickshaw.
“Where are you from, girls?”
“We’ve paid the tax. Can you please take us to our hostel?” Paige asked the driver.
The men continued to lean and leer. Our driver smirked ahead, refusing to look back and engage with us as the gaggle of men slyly peppered us with questions.
“It’s really late. We’d like to go,” I reiterated.
“What’s the rush?” the driver said lazily.
By now, we had probably been pulled over for five minutes. In desperation, I looked around at where we were, looked for a woman or a concerned looking shop attendant to call out for help to. More people were slinking to the shadowed doorways of the buildings around us to see what was going on. They were all men too. We were surrounded.
All of a sudden, everyone drew back from the car jeering, except for one. Clad in a red turban and also in his 20s, he swung himself around to sit in the front passenger seat and trailled his hand around the back of the chair. The rickshaw took off.
“Where are you from, girls?” he said with a slimy look. “What are your names?”
It was clear he was taking great pleasure in our discomfort.
“Paige,” said Paige, her voice wavering slightly and an idea forming in her head. “This is Rebecca.”
“Rebecca,” I echoed. With quivering hands, I took my phone back out and, in my lap, started dialling the international calling code for Australia.
“Can you please take us to our accommodation? We’re staying at Zostel,” Paige lied, knowing full well we had a booking somewhere else.
“Sure. Zostel,” cackled our new passenger.
Half a kilometre ahead of us glittered a mass of lights – the town of Pushkar and our salvation. We began to putter down the main road towards it, picking up speed, and relief flooded my limbs. But it was short lived.
Less than a minute later, the driver took a sharp left down a coal-black alleyway. Our headlights shone on the wall rushing towards us; clouds of dust billowed in the air. Paige and I were certain it was dead end.
I dialled my dad’s mobile number. It didn’t work. I dialled it again.
The mobile number you have called is currently unavailable.
At the end of the alley, instead of ricocheting off the wall, the rickshaw took a hairpin right turn and rumbled dangerously into a dark compound. The road was unsealed, uneven and twisted like a corkscrew. We could barely make out what was around us, but I was sure it was industrial, not residential. We were inside a high wire fence surrounded on all sides with what appeared to be sheds and factories. Nothing was lit, and there wasn’t a single other human in sight.
“Stop the car! Stop the car now!” I commanded hysterically.
We teetered around a walled corner and I made mental calculations about what we would need to do to escape. Jump out and run on the next left bend, I thought. Leave our bags. But how would Paige go jumping out on the inside of a turn? Plus, the darkness was thick as wool, and we were now five minutes deep into an industrial maze that would be impossible to navigate quickly or even at all if we were being pursued.
Whatever the outcome was going to be, I was sure it would be grim. Each bone in my body shrieked with alarm, fuelled to the extreme by bhang-induced paranoia. Images of robbery at best, gang rape and murder at worst fluttered in my mind’s eye.
“Take us to Zostel! Take us to Zostel” we cried. The driver laughed cruelly, and we pointed over his shoulder in desperation at the lights that had materialised ahead. I stuck one leg out of the car, ready to drag it on the ground, and dialled my parents’ home phone number.
It rang. It would have been 5am where they were; for Paige and I, it was nearly midnight.
“Gem?” answered my sleep-filled mother.
“We’re in a tuktuk halfway between Ajmer and Pushkar,” I said in as clear a voice as I could manage. “The driver is supposed to take us to our hostel, but men have climbed into our car and we’re in an industrial area on the outskirts of a city. We don’t know where they’re taking us and they won’t let us out. Stay on the phone.”
The man in the turban looked back at us and said something to the driver. The driver slowed down, and the passenger leapt out of the rickshaw.
“Take us to our accommodation!” I shouted. “Take us there now.”
“Yes,” he growled curtly.
A few quick turns and another surge of adrenaline later, we were out of the industrial area and headed back towards the lights.
From the front of the hostel, on wobbly legs, we stumbled inside.
“Our rickshaw driver…” I panted. “That wasn’t normal… we think our driver was going to hurt us. Was that normal?”
The man behind the desk looked bemused. Paige shoved 600 rupees in my hand and gestured to the door. The driver had turned his vehicle around and was in the gloom on the edge of the driveway, poised ready to re-enter the road and trying to stay hidden from the line of vision of the hostel employee. I walked over to him clutching the money, ears thumping in rage and fright.
“I make you scared,” he sniggered.
I threw a 500-rupee note down on the back seat.
“Fuck you. That is not okay to do to people, you fucking arsehole.”
“It’s 600,” he said, and narrowed his eyes. I thought about how identifiable Paige and I were as tourists in this tiny town – a blonde and a girl with a shaved head – and decided to toss the other hundred at him.
Inside the hostel lobby, the night-shift employee seemed to think our concerns rested on the fact that we had been overcharged.
“300 rupees, not 600,” he explained.
“We’re not even staying here. We need to get to another hostel down the road. Can you help us please?” asked Paige.
“Do we have to get another rickshaw?” I added faintly.
Seeming to finally cotton on to our mania, he phoned us a lift, guaranteeing us the driver was his friend and that we would be safe.
As we stepped through the door of our actual hostel, there was a soft clunk, and all of the electricity in Pushkar went out.
“Hello?” we called.
A woman came forward to greet us clutching a phone light. She could instantly tell how shaken we were. Genuinely alarmed, she listened to our recount and whispered words of comfort, clicking her tongue at her partner.
In response, he shook his head. “Sorry for that,” he offered. “It is late, and you came from Ajmer.”
With an outstretched hand, he offered us the handle of a dog lead attached to a panting Labrador.
“Ask the dog any questions and he will help you. His name is Google.”
Paige and I laughed weakly and collapsed onto the floor.
Cover by Rishi Deep
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Gemma Clarke is the editor-in-chief of Global Hobo. She spends her time contracting tinea in foreign countries, taking afternoon naps in her van and drinking red wine through a (bamboo) straw.