Ricky Ponting doesn't seem to have problems with rickshaws, unlike my experience with taxis © AFP

To prepare for two weeks in Delhi I read William Dalrymple’s City of Djinns, a book about his year in one of the world’s great historical cities. Early on he introduces International Backside Taxis, his charming, unpredictable, but usually tardy, couriers for the duration of his stay. My welcome to Delhi felt like it came through International Sh**head Taxis. For the second time in a week there was no driver waiting to take me to the hotel, as promised. Which is not such a big deal, except it leaves you vulnerable to the demands of whichever hawker/helper/tout offers assistance first. I’ve been caught like this a few times so know some of the tricks, but at 10pm the options are limited.

So I was relieved when this short, young guy with a heavy growth said he was from “tourist information” and took me to an office of the same name. Except it wasn’t the type of helpful, often free, service offered in other countries. This one seemed to specialise in overpriced taxis, foul-mouthed employees and phones that didn’t work.

After waiting for about 15 minutes while they tried to convince me that my hotel didn’t exist, the original guy took me to a taxi where a homeless man was sleeping in the back. Like a WWE wrestler, the driver wrenched the guy out of the car and threw him to the footpath. “My brother,” the driver said, stepping over the person on the ground.

It’s easier to squeeze through a thumb hole in a dike than to get out of an Indian car-park, and after another 15 minutes we were on to the exit road when the driver stopped at another tourist shop. He yells at the young boys at the front to bring their manager out, while beeping his horn with every tap of his fingers. At this point I realise that despite showing the address of the hotel about five times, the driver doesn’t know where he’s going. “Karol Bagh, yes, sir,” he says. “Karol Bagh, yes, sir.”

If anybody is reading this (Hi Mum, Dad and Sister), you’re probably wondering why I didn’t get out. I’d thought the same thing at each step too. But now I’m at stage 15 of about 18 and the other option is to head back to the start and repeat the experience. So I sit, without a seatbelt, and pray.

After hearing the stream of yelling from the street, the busy manager on the inside explodes, shouting words only sailors and taxi drivers understand. It was clear he didn’t want to help and even the persistent driver knew it was time to do some driving instead of more stalling. I don’t like young drivers. They go too fast, don’t use the brakes, and most probably won’t make it to old age. Ten minutes later I'm at the hotel, paying the guy far too much in the hope I never see him again.