The TaxiCab Mafia

"Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone else's." ~Billy Wilder

I arrived in Mumbai and stopped at the two most important locations in the airport at that moment – the ladies room and the currency exchange. I changed my last US Dollars for rupees. I would need to use my entire remaining allowance for the trip, but that was OK with me because I would spend most of it on the hotel in Mumbai. If I got what I was paying for, I would have hot water and a comfortable bed in a clean room.

I picked up my luggage from the conveyor belt and headed toward the door to find a taxi. I asked the soldier at the exit where I would find a taxi, and he told me to head to the right. Mumbai has one of the largest populations in the world, so I assumed there would be some sort of organized taxi queue outside the airport. I kept walking and finally a man came up and asked if I needed a taxi. Of course I did. He took my bags and started walking. We walked right past the group of cars I thought we were headed toward so I began to look for the black taxis I had read about. I began to get a little concerned as there were no cars in sight, then a black taxi drove up.

A young man suddenly appeared and helped me put my bags in the car, and then a third man appeared. I asked about the cost, and the first man said it was prepaid. This didn’t sound exactly correct, but it was the black taxi and I knew that is what I was supposed to take.

I tipped the young man who helped to put my luggage in the car and tried to tip the first man. The young man explained they were the “same” and I said OK and got inside. After a minute, the first man got in the front seat and started speaking to the old man behind the wheel. The old man began driving, and the talking man got out a rate card. He showed me “Churchgate,” the neighborhood where my hotel was, and then showed me the rate in the far right column out of three, while he mentioned something about air conditioning and gas, pointing to the gas station we were passing. He sounded like he was trying to get me to pay more for “better” gas and air conditioning. 1,500 rupees. That price was crazy and there certainly was not any air conditioning in that car, not that I wanted it anyway. I had a very bad feeling I had just been scammed.

We followed the traffic away from the airport and all of a sudden the car turned right and the other cars kept going straight. I had never been to Mumbai before, but I knew we were going the wrong way. Why is he going this way? An alarm went off in my head. Snap. This is a some kind of mafia and they’re about to take me hostage or kill me in this alley. How am I going to get out of this?

All of a sudden, the car stopped and the man in passenger seat, the talker, told me to pay him.

“I need to go to Churchgate,” I said.

“Yes, yes – here is the car over here,” said the talker. There were no other black cabs around, just some random cars, villagers and dogs. “You pay me 1,500 rupees.”

Someone took my luggage out of the trunk of the black cab and put it into another car. The car I was supposed to get into. The old man in the front wasn’t saying anything.

“I want a black taxi!” I snapped.

“You already paid me,” said the talker.

“See, your bags are here, right here,” some other man behind the trunk of the other car, already with a driver in it, stated – as if I was worried at that moment about my luggage.

I knew they would not let me stay in the car, and there were far more of them than there were of me. I got in the little car with the air conditioning I was supposedly paying for. They already had my money, so maybe at least the car would take me to my hotel.

The car began driving, and the man pumped up the AC. I rolled my window down, for I wanted to hear the noises of this new city. I was pissed. After a few minutes, I realized we were going around the airport again. We passed a parking lot full of black taxis. I had a gnawing feeling in my stomach.

“Please let me out here,” I told the man. He kept driving. We arrived at the gas station I passed the first time and he pulled in.

“I want a black taxi, let me out here,” I said firmly.

The man at the service station walked up to the car and was about to start pumping. Alarm bells were going off in my head.

“You can keep your money,” I said, “but I want a black taxi.” I picked up my bags, and asked the man to open the trunk. I opened the door of the cab and put one foot on the ground. He kept the car moving slowly.

Clearly he did not want me making a scene at the gas station, so he let the car keep rolling. I had no choice but to remain in the car and close the door. The man at the gas station looked confused, and the driver waved him off. The driver said something about going back to his boss. He got back on the road.

I repeated my requests for him to stop and let me out. We passed the black taxi round up again. He said something about giving me 500 rupees back, holding the bill in his hand. I told him I didn’t care about the money, I just wanted to get out now and get a metered black taxi. I kept up my pleas assertively and firmly, without whining, and he finally stopped right before he turned down that alley again. The driver made mention of telling me to wait so he could call his boss. I opened the door to the car, and put one foot on the ground. I asked him to open the trunk so I could get my luggage out. Once I heard it pop, I grabbed my carry-on luggage and got of the car. I jerked my suitcase and duffel bag from the trunk, figured out how to carry everything myself, and began walking toward the airport with my neon green suitcase rolling behind me on the poorly-paved road.

I passed a police officer, but I was too angry to say anything, and I walked straight to the parking lot with the black taxis.

I got a taxi man, and before he put my bags in the trunk, I tried to get an estimate of the cost to get to Churchgate.

“Metered,” the driver said.

“Yes, but cost?” I asked. I wasn’t budging until I got an estimate.

The driver shrugged. “350?”

“OK,” I said as I handed over my luggage.

I got inside the car, and he began driving. We drove past the alley, and I saw the “boss” standing at the edge of it, scanning the scene and talking on his cell phone. I looked away from him, wondering if he saw me.

We were soon on the road. I felt safe and excited as we drove through the bumping, crowded city away from the airport.

We were driving along and I was taking in the sites of Mumbai. All of a sudden a thought occurred to me. I had given those men my name, my country of origin and the name of my hotel. They knew where I was staying – and I had pissed them off. Could I sign in under another name? Should I switch hotels? How am I going to decide on another hotel? I decided to worry about it once I’d seen the hotel I had reserved.

After asking for directions a couple of times, we arrived at the Astoria Hotel. I asked the cab driver to wait so I could go inside and check out a room before I took in my luggage. I wanted to make sure it was clean before I committed to staying there.

I went inside and I was quickly reassured by the look of the lobby. I gave the man behind the desk my name, and after a few minutes, he still seemed confused. He asked a woman across the lobby. She came rushing over.

She explained, rather briskly, that because the hotel was under renovations, they had switched me to a different hotel about 10 minutes away. She claimed it would be the same price and would also have the Internet. They had a driver for me, and she had spoke to my friends already, and they would be at the same hotel once they arrived. I was skeptical. Was this all part of the same convoluted plot? Who was this driver? Was it the same mafia that assailed me earlier?

“I have a taxi outside,” I said. She replied that they had one for me.

“A black taxi?” I asked. “My luggage is in the car outside.”

She spoke with the man who was going to take me to the car. I did not know what they were saying.

The man took my bags, and we walked outside to the taxi I had waiting. Since my luggage was already in the first taxi, it appeared the two men worked out the agreement between them and that my taxi driver would just take me to the next hotel, the Ascot. I got back into the car, and looked in my Lonely Planet book for this hotel. It was in the Colaba district, the one district neither Matt nor I wanted to stay in. Not because we were afraid, but because our loved ones would feel better if we were not staying in the same district where last month’s terror attacks occurred.

After asking for directions a couple of times, and about a ten to fifteen minute drive, we reached the Ascot. I went in, and I was satisfied with the lobby. I asked to see a room before I agreed to stay there. After I inspected the rooms, which did in fact have decadent bathrooms and looked quite refreshing, I asked about the Internet (yes) and hot water (yes) and finally agreed. The security guard got my luggage and brought it inside while I check in.

After giving the woman some basic information, she said I could go up to my room, and they would send my passport up in a few minutes. I looked to my right. The bell boys had already loaded my luggage into the elevator and they were waiting for me. I looked at her – you’re going to keep my passport? I thought…She repeated the sentence and after a brief pause and a moment of staring at her, I agreed.

I settled into my room. I had the bell boy come and show me how to work the television and figure out how the Internet worked – it wasn’t wireless, but that was fine. I found CNN International and the BBC World on the television and tried to relax.

Within a half hour, someone buzzed my door. At the same time, the phone in my room began ringing. I answered the telephone. It was the woman from reception. She said there was a man here from the airport who wanted me to come sign something for the vehicle. Someone continued to push the buzzer outside my door.

“I am not signing anything. What does he want me to sign?” I was irritated and a little concerned. They had found me pretty quickly. “Can someone escort me down there?” She said she would send someone up.

The buzzer continued to ring. I still had my dress on, but I had to put my tights back on and then my shoes (I could not walk around with bare legs). I opened the door. The young bell boy who helped me with the tele and the Internet was outside my door with a receipt. He said the man from the airport wanted me to sign it. I glanced at the slip of paper before walking with the young man downstairs.

“I am not signing that,” I said. I continued down the stairs and into the lobby. The “boss” was standing there.

“I am not signing anything,” I said looking at the woman behind the reception desk.

“He wants you to sign it saying you arrived here safely,” she replied earnestly.

“I did not ride with them,” I told her. The man looked at her and tried to explain something. She looked at me.

“He is going to give you your money,” he interrupted her, “some of your money back (500 rupees) if you sign saying you arrived here.”

I looked at the receipt. It had a name on it – something to the effect of Vishals AC car rentals something or other. He showed me the 500 rupee bill. I wanted him to go away.

“That’s all?” I said. They agreed.

I went ahead and signed as illegibly as I could, and the man handed me the 500 rupees. He took his receipt and walked away. I was out 1,000 rupees, but I knew I would rather be safe than sorry.

I looked at the woman and told her the story of what happened. She understood. She said he does run a travel company, but I was still skeptical. I asked her if she thought it was OK now, and she said she did. I went back upstairs to my room, so I could finally take that shower I’d been thinking all day about.