an airport with a strange man, provided he was flashing the right sign? The horrific gang rape and murder of a young girl on a bus in New Delhi had occurred only a month prior. Stories of attacks on women in India had been bombarding the news, and phrases like “rape culture” were being used. I hated to generalize or stereotype, but it was the middle of the night and I was alone, tired, and distraught.
I walked until I found a place to sit to phone Sahil.
Two men, both small, came rushing toward me. One wore a Sikh turban; the other held a “Cultural Volunteer Vacation” sign in front of his chest. Without thinking, I stood and said, “I’m Teresa.” Too late I realized it would have been smarter to let them identify me. If they knew who I was, knew who they were there to pick up, it was likely because they had indeed been sent by CVV. These two could have just made that sign in the bathroom and sat waiting for some idiot to volunteer to be kidnapped. Like I just did .
The Sikh gentleman introduced himself, but I did not understand his name. Nor did I catch the name of the other man. They grabbed my bags and began quickly walking out of the airport. I followed, my vague sense of possible danger increasing. Now not only was I following strange men (but with the right sign!), I was heading to a parking lot and had willingly handed over my luggage.
Naturally, they were driving a white van ( the better to kidnap you with, my dear! ). One lifted my luggage into the back while the other held the side door open for me. I climbed in. ( It’s what my paperwork said to do! ) We drove for about half an hour, but I had no idea where we were. It was drizzling rain and very dark, even on some of the larger highways. My initial impression of India was simply gray. I had expected bursts of color and vibrancy, but everywhere I looked was gray, beige, and wet, as if my mood had colored it all.
The two men made the usual small talk about my flight, whether this was my first time to India and some tidbits about the others they’d picked up before me. Aha! So there are others . I hoped he meant other members of our group and not other human-trafficking victims. Whoever they were, a few of them had been there for a day, one had arrived a few hours before me, and another two would be coming later that morning. The rest would arrive, like civilized folks, the following afternoon. If these men were kidnappers or rapists, they were very organized and chatty.
We drove into a large apartment complex through a security guard station (I noted the guard waved like he knew them… but he could have been in on the whole crime ring! ) and turned down several narrow streets of identical muted yellow buildings before stopping in front of one of them.
“This is your apartment. You are just down there.” The Sikh man pointed down a dark walkway. “I’ll show you.”
In for a penny and all… I got out of the van and followed him.
My apartment, my home for the next two weeks (or a lifetime, depending on how this went), had a large metal door with several locks. It was four in the morning—anything would have looked ominous to me, but if there was a bed inside, I would be relieved. He opened the door and moved my luggage just inside. I stepped through the doorway and, noticing the pile of shoes next to the door, stepped out of mine. Since I’d been in the same clothes and footwear for well over twenty-four hours, that too came as a relief. Unless I needed to run .
But then Terri stepped out of a doorway and into the living room. This trip was her vision, her dream. She was the one who had put the trip together, interviewed the applicants, selected the group, and was now here, standing before me, smiling and welcoming, though it was four in the morning for her too, of course. I felt comfortable that this was not a coincidence.
Terri and I said our hellos and my driver departed. “Three of our participants are in that room,” Terri said,
I walked until I found a place to sit to phone Sahil.
Two men, both small, came rushing toward me. One wore a Sikh turban; the other held a “Cultural Volunteer Vacation” sign in front of his chest. Without thinking, I stood and said, “I’m Teresa.” Too late I realized it would have been smarter to let them identify me. If they knew who I was, knew who they were there to pick up, it was likely because they had indeed been sent by CVV. These two could have just made that sign in the bathroom and sat waiting for some idiot to volunteer to be kidnapped. Like I just did .
The Sikh gentleman introduced himself, but I did not understand his name. Nor did I catch the name of the other man. They grabbed my bags and began quickly walking out of the airport. I followed, my vague sense of possible danger increasing. Now not only was I following strange men (but with the right sign!), I was heading to a parking lot and had willingly handed over my luggage.
Naturally, they were driving a white van ( the better to kidnap you with, my dear! ). One lifted my luggage into the back while the other held the side door open for me. I climbed in. ( It’s what my paperwork said to do! ) We drove for about half an hour, but I had no idea where we were. It was drizzling rain and very dark, even on some of the larger highways. My initial impression of India was simply gray. I had expected bursts of color and vibrancy, but everywhere I looked was gray, beige, and wet, as if my mood had colored it all.
The two men made the usual small talk about my flight, whether this was my first time to India and some tidbits about the others they’d picked up before me. Aha! So there are others . I hoped he meant other members of our group and not other human-trafficking victims. Whoever they were, a few of them had been there for a day, one had arrived a few hours before me, and another two would be coming later that morning. The rest would arrive, like civilized folks, the following afternoon. If these men were kidnappers or rapists, they were very organized and chatty.
We drove into a large apartment complex through a security guard station (I noted the guard waved like he knew them… but he could have been in on the whole crime ring! ) and turned down several narrow streets of identical muted yellow buildings before stopping in front of one of them.
“This is your apartment. You are just down there.” The Sikh man pointed down a dark walkway. “I’ll show you.”
In for a penny and all… I got out of the van and followed him.
My apartment, my home for the next two weeks (or a lifetime, depending on how this went), had a large metal door with several locks. It was four in the morning—anything would have looked ominous to me, but if there was a bed inside, I would be relieved. He opened the door and moved my luggage just inside. I stepped through the doorway and, noticing the pile of shoes next to the door, stepped out of mine. Since I’d been in the same clothes and footwear for well over twenty-four hours, that too came as a relief. Unless I needed to run .
But then Terri stepped out of a doorway and into the living room. This trip was her vision, her dream. She was the one who had put the trip together, interviewed the applicants, selected the group, and was now here, standing before me, smiling and welcoming, though it was four in the morning for her too, of course. I felt comfortable that this was not a coincidence.
Terri and I said our hellos and my driver departed. “Three of our participants are in that room,” Terri said,
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