It all began at the palace. It was my first night in Mysore, and I wanted to see what time the gates opened for tours the following day.
A kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, approached me with a wide smile and a boisterous, “Hallo!”
I’m used to this. Usually the kids want to practice English, or they are curious about other countries.
His name was Mustafah, and he was one of the most charming boys I’d ever met. His wiry frame was topped with a mop of shiny black hair, and he had a smile as long and rambling as the Ganges.
He told me there was a market in Old Mysore, which only takes place once a week. There I could find people making incense, making saris, turning flowers into essential oils and rolling beedi Indian cigarettes. He gave me directions and told me how to find the place.
Then Mustafah said he was headed the same direction. We could split a rickshaw, he suggested.
I agreed, so he hailed someone down.
Several kilometers outside of town, we finally arrived. Mustafah entered the market with me, but the place seemed vacant and isolated. Only a few customers trundled between rickety stalls, selling hardware, rice and dried beans.
It didn’t have the sweeping excitement of the boisterous city streets, where fresh fruit, sunny jasmine blossoms and elaborate sandalwood carvings overwhelmed the senses.
I asked Mustafah if this was really the market — and if so, where we were the people making incense, essential oils and beedies?
“Oh, that’s down the street,” he said.
We ended up even traveling even further from town. Up a slight staircase and inside a shadowy room, we found a group of men sitting on the floor, making beedies.
Mustafah said the incense factory was another kilometer away, so we hopped into the rickshaw again.
I began to feel incredibly uneasy. The market wasn’t what I had expected at all. I was being swept from one place to another, traveling farther from my hotel all the time. Also, I was getting the distinct feeling that the rickshaw driver and Mustafah were in on this together, because they were a little too friendly, a little too conversational, and the driver knew all the stops without Mustafah ever saying a word.
I asked them to take me back to my hotel.
Instead, they offered me a milkshake.
I declined and said I don’t like dairy.
Again, they offered me a milkshake, but this time they were a little more forceful.
I declined. This time I was a little more forceful.
“You like coffee?” said the driver.
“Yes, I like coffee.”
“I bring you to coffee shop,” he said. “Mysore is very famous for our coffee shops. We’re like Amsterdam!”
I said I wasn’t interested. “Please, just take me to my hotel.”
“No, no. You will like the coffee shop very much. We have many types of hash, many things for you to enjoy,” he said. “You will be so high and so happy.”
Finally I said if they didn’t take me to the hotel, I would find another rickshaw driver who would.
Reluctantly, he drove me back.
The hotel manager was sitting outside when the rickshaw pulled up. As I walked inside, he shook his head.
“Verrrry bad men,” he said. “Let me guess, they found you at the palace?”
It turns out that this is a common scam, and it happens frequently to solo female travelers in Mysore.
The rickshaw drivers/unauthorized tour guides pick up women, coerce them to go outside of town, then give them drinks laced with drugs.
In my case, it was a milkshake.
When the woman is thoroughly stoned out of her mind, the guys use the opportunity to beat her, take her things and leave her stranded.
I got out of there unscathed, but other women aren’t so lucky. The manager said an American woman was found passed out and naked near the beedi factory just last month.
I told the hotel manager I appreciated him telling me these stories, but it would have been more helpful to hear them earlier in the day. I made him promise that the next time a woman checks in alone, he’ll give her a warning.
I also felt incredibly stupid. I’ve been traveling for a long time now, and I thought I knew all the scams. They say there’s a sucker born every minute — and sometimes that sucker is me.
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