Chronicle of a ticket unsold

Elated, we thrust our fists in the air. Never before have two women felt such a sense of achievement, so strong, so resourceful in the face of adversity, so singular in victory.

We have managed to buy two train tickets.

In Delhi. In the heat. Despite the counter-efforts of 2 autorickshaw drivers. Despite the aggression of a woman-hater doubling as a travel agent doubling as Tourist Information. In defiance of two adamant railway officials. In spite of a sanctimoniously insulted man with a pen.

We stood as one, went against the grain and conquered the thronging, chanting masses of humanity that tried to convince us that the International Tourist Bureau does not exist/has been burnt down/has moved/only sells tickets two hours in advance/is in fact across the road and is called Tourist Information Gov. approved/is run by my brother. (... "thronging", "chanting" and "masses" might be slight exaggerations.)

It goes something like this (and is a gentle reminder that one ignores the ancient wisdom "Always read thy Guide Book in Full before embarking on Journey" at one’s peril.):

One sunny, sweaty day in Delhi, the capital of India (pop. 1.2 billion), Amanda and Esther decide to buy a train ticket to visit Mary Singh in Chandigarh, Punjab. A four-hour journey costing 107 rupees (about GBP1.20) – non-AC.

Lesson One
Easy. We get Govinder, our loveable-rogue rickshaw driver, to collect us from our breakfast spot. (Lesson one: recognizing a rogue doesn’t mean he won’t act roguishly).

“Please take us to New Delhi train station, Govinder, we want to buy a train ticket.”

“No problem, but first I take you to tourist information.”

Because we had read some bits of Lonely Planet’s “Scams and annoyances”, we say: “No thank you, Govinder, we would like to go the station.”

“But tourist information will give you all the information for free and you can buy ticket too. You just look”

Because we have read another bit in Lonely Planet which says the only official tourist information is Connaught Place at 88 Janpath – and don’t believe anybody making any claim to the contrary (burnt down/moved/changed name etc), we ask: “Is that the tourist information at 88 Janpath?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Oh ok, maybe we should go there.”

We stop in front of small shop with a sign saying tourist information and Gov approved. (To Govinder: “This is 88 Janpath?” “Yes” To man in shop: “This is 88 Janpath?” “Yes.”)

We look at each other. This is Connaught Place but it can’t be 88 Janpath. “Govinder, take us to the station.” “OK”

Lesson Two
We get to the station, and the first floor (where LP states the International Tourist Bureau is), is in the process of being demolished. Dejected, Amanda goes to man in an official-looking office: “Where is the International Tourist Bureau?”

“It’s been demolished. You must go to Connaught Place – Block N – to the Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation.” He’s so believable, we believe him. (Lesson two: believable people should not always be believed.)

Sheepishly, we say to Govinder: “We must go back to Connaught Place.” So we go back to Connaught Place, Block N. We stop in front of shop saying Official Tourist Information, Gov approved. “Are you the Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation?” “Yes.” “But where is the sign saying so?” Offended, man who clearly doesn’t like women says: “Don’t you trust me? Do you think that all Indians do not tell you the truth?”

So we enter into conversation about good Indians, bad George Bush and other such topics as befit a quest to buy two train tickets to Chandigarh.

I get bored and wander off, leaving Amanda being extolled the virtues of taking a taxi to Chandigarh for a few zillion rupees. Two seconds later I find an official-looking building with an elephant-sized sign stating: Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation. Ah, I sigh with relief. “I would like to buy two train tickets to Chandigarh, please.”

“No, you cannot buy tickets here. One day, yes, you will be able to do so, but at the moment we do not offer that service. You must go to the first floor of the New Delhi train station. To the International Tourist Bureau. There you can buy a train ticket to Chandigarh.”

“But I’ve just come from there. The first floor is being demolished. The man said we should come here.” “No, that man is a tout. The first floor of the back of the station is being demolished. You must go to the main entrance of the station, as if you’re walking onto platform one, then go up the stairs on the right to the first floor.”

I return to Amanda, still having a chat with man who clearly hates women and feel that we are prejudiced against Indians who give false information. “I have found the ITTDC.” Politely we say goodbye and profusely thank man who doesn’t like women for his help. He doesn’t get the irony.

Govinder doesn’t blink when we say: “Back to New Delhi Station. To the MAIN entrance, not the back. You know, on Chelmsford Rd.” “No problem.”

Lesson Three
At the station (main entrance) an official-looking man with a pen tells us the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the road, grabs me by the arm and starts marching me in the opposite direction of where we know we should be going. He looks so official, I feel I should believe him (Lesson 3: Just because man looks official doesn’t mean he is official), but mutter under my breath something like “Does nobody tell the truth in this effing country”.

Indignantly, man with pen and very good hearing shouts: “I am Indian, how can you effing my country? I am official, I tell you the truth, the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the road, not at the station.” For the next 5 minutes I apologise for effing his country, explaining that I’m a little frustrated.

Amanda grabs me by the arm and marches me off, while man with pen and a small crowd, who have now gathered on hearing the raised voices and abject apologies, all agree that the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the street from the train station.

And the final lesson
Resolutely, Amanda steers me towards platform one and up the stairs on the right, following the elephant-sized signs to the air-conditioned, tranquil International Tourist Bureau. (Lesson 4: Albeit not always obvious, always look for the elephant-sized signs.)

Post-script
Entry in Lonely Planet (p106,) read a few hours after the elation of ticket success has worn off: "Train stations also attract rapacious tricksters who feed off the tourist traffic. At the New Delhi train stations, touts may try to stop you from booking tickets at the upstairs (1st floor)International Tourist Bureau and divert you to one of the (overpriced and often unreliable) travel agencies over the road. Make the assumption that the office is never closed outside of normal office hours, isn't being renovated and hasn't shifted."