T A B L E_T A L K Do you love the Big Apple? Discuss life in New York City in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y In shackles with the Freedom Bag By Carol Lloyd The perfect luggage -- for a pygmy (09/17/98) Where am I gonna go today? By Aaron Paulson Finding a job overseas through the Internet (09/16/98) No man is a garden By Simon Firth Treasures of the English gardener's art -- and the spirit at its heart (09/15/98) Chili con carne, anyone? By Vijai Maheshwari In Moscow, buyers are snapping up whatever's on the shelves (09/14/98) From nudism to Buddhism By Tanya Shaffer Desperately seeking solace in three European retreats (09/11/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		----------The heart of a tourist hustler Lonely in India, she befriended the local playboy. Who could have anticipated what would happen next? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY LISA DREIER "Excuse me -- excuse me! Is your father a thief?" I pause in the street, somewhere between a stray dog and the open sewer. A young Indian man is calling out to me. "Uh, no ... Why?" "Because," an easy smile spreads across his face, revealing nearly white teeth, "someone must have stolen the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes." His fingers flit upward, then out toward me, acting out his story. Oh, God. It's another tourist hustler. Raking my eyes over him in an instant, I see that he fits the bill. Young, handsome, dressed in the entirely Western clothes that are de rigueur for this type: tight Levis, a macho belt buckle, an imitation Polo shirt. He smiles again, expectantly, as I collapse into predictable laughter. Maybe he wants to sell me some miniature paintings -- the specialty in this town. Or he'll try to bring me into a shop, where his 25 percent commission will be added to the price of anything I buy. He may have a similar arrangement with several hotels -- all run by his friend or brother or cousin. Or perhaps he's hoping for an easy romance, or the prestige he'll win among his peers by just taking me out for a drink. You see them in every town -- veering toward you on the streets, calling out from the doorways of souvenir stands. They speak English, maybe a little French, a sprinkling of Italian. Their behavior is so suggestive, so forward, they seem to be a breed of their own -- sprung incongruously from the traditional culture that surrounds them. "Where do these guys come from?" I would think, weaving past a pack of them who staked out the narrow alleyway like a testosterone-fueled obstacle course. I'd respond with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, occasionally tossing some ironic banter their way as I moved past. "Oh, very nice with the tourist ladies," I said sarcastically to the "stars in the sky" guy. But I couldn't help smiling. Until I met Rakesh, I couldn't see why this phenomenon had sprung up not only throughout India, but on every continent where I have traveled. But after hearing Rakesh's story, I gained a new understanding of the tourist hustler. "Hello, will you come and look in my shop?" These were the first words he spoke to me. Another strikingly handsome hustler -- I was familiar with this one. "Oh yeah, your shop, right," I retorted, never stopping as I headed up the cobblestone road. At first glance Rakesh seemed typical -- but something about him was special. I was alone in his city, spending my days writing, and the evenings yawned open like a blank space. After he helped translate a lengthy argument between me and an auto-rickshaw driver one night, I let him take me out for a soda. It was the start of an unusual friendship. Steering clear of prying eyes and the red-lit restaurant where Indian men were known to bring foreign women, we'd meet across town each night after his shop closed. Over unlicensed beer and spicy dahl, we spilled our stories to each other. A strange agreement sprung up between us: total honesty, and no games. My new friend surprised himself by telling me the truth about his life, and this is what I heard. Rakesh first entered the tourist trade at the age of 13. "I didn't know anything," he said. He was from a poor, traditional family, and spoke just a few phrases of schoolbook English. A friend who owned a hotel began to teach him the ropes. Rakesh helped out in the restaurant and began to observe the strange new breed of people who ate there. They were foreign, they had lots of cash and the women were both captivating and accessible. Rakesh earned no salary, but when he brought tourists to the hotel, he received a small commission. This was a nice perk for his family -- some nights he'd walk home with an extra 50 or 100 rupees for his mother. He began to work the streets, convincing tourists to shop at places where he'd earn a 25 percent commission. His good looks gave him an edge -- women and gay men responded when he approached them with all his charm turned on. Off they'd go, in search of rugs or clothes or paintings. Afterward, the shopkeeper would slip some folded bills into his palm during a brief handshake. For a big-ticket item like a rug, this could be as much as 8,000 rupees. It was far more than he could have earned at any regular job, and several times what his father would earn in a month. Inevitably, Rakesh became acculturated to the people who formed the center of his working days and his personal economy. His English improved, and he picked up slang and a cool demeanor. He took up smoking. With some of the extra cash, he bought new blue jeans and button-down shirts. And eventually, after watching the easy laughs and tantalizing expanses of skin, he learned to try his luck with the women. This brought spectacular success. Rakesh was handsome by anyone's standards. Like most young Indian men, he had almost no opportunities to relate to Indian women outside his family. But the tourist girls were easy. They laughed, they looked, they responded to his touch. They were young and unchaperoned, sometimes lonely, often full of desire. He learned to size them up in a glance, and could spot the willing ones instantly. One-night stands were simply arranged, and after meeting a girl in her hotel, he could still be home in time for his parents' curfew. Sometimes he'd be seeing several different tourist women at once, all staying in different hotels. Occasionally, this backfired. One girl came back to see him two days after she'd left, only to find him already sleeping with her friend. Another time, he invited his four current girlfriends to meet him at a restaurant at the same time. When he came through the door, all four -- none of whom knew about the others -- turned to say hello. "Who are you?" he said to one. "And you? And you? And you?" then he turned and ran. "I was crazy, you know?" he says to me now. "Like this," he taps his forehead. "Not good. But I tell you these things honest, OK? I was very bad." N E X T+P A G E | Drugs and marriage