Dusty, smoggy, funny Delhi

Nov. 7, 2008

I have arrived in India and wow! This place is a slap in the face.

India peels your eyes, drums your ears, waters your mouth and tweaks your nose. It is stressful and dirty and too-close-for-comfort. But at the same time, this place is a good shock to the system, one that can save you from slipping into a cultural coma.

Arriving in Delhi on Oct. 30, panic set in as soon as I stepped off the plane. Everyone was supposed to queue up to get through customs, however Indians don't seem to believe in lines. They are much more comfortable in a close, pushy mass.

After getting through immigration and retrieving my checked bag, I stepped out of the airport into the hot, smoggy morning in India's capital city. I did what all the guidebooks say and sought out a pre-paid taxi that would take me to the hotel of my choice. My guaranteed taxi instead took me to a different hotel than where I wanted to go. When I complained to the driver, he turned off the engine and then pretended like the car wouldn't start again. Anxious and overtired and on the verge of tears, I climbed out of the cab and walked into a guest house called Hotel Blue.

As I signed the guest book where they overcharged me for a prison cell with no bathroom, I shot the cabbie a look of death. It wasn't just death, though. It was the look death might have after traveling for 24 straight hours and spending a six hour layover trying to sleep under some chairs in Dubai's airport. I saw fear in that cabbie's eyes when I looked at him looking back into my eyes. It gave me a bitter tinge of satisfaction.

The Hotel Blue is officially a flea-bag hotel. On the bed and walls were giant winged bugs flitting about. I was tired and freaked out and had no real idea where I was. For the first time on this trip I actually broke down and started crying. What the hell was I doing in this mad, mad country? How could I fend for myself against hawkers, scammers, cabbies, malaria, and massive fleas?

But exhaustion overtook me. I cursed the bugs and wrapped myself tightly in my sleep sheet and slept all through the day and the following night.

The next day, I promptly checked out of Hotel Hellhole and hoofed it across Connaught Place to a funky-sounding place referenced in my Rough Guide's book on Delhi called Ringo's Guesthouse. The book touted the cheap hotel as a famous meeting place for backpackers from all over the world. Great, I thought. Travel companions.

This is where I learned the importance of having an updated guidebook. The one I had dated back to 2002. A lot can happen in six or seven years. Ringo's is officially over. The place was dead. Regardless, the rooms are cheap, so I decided to stay.

That second day in town, I took my first autorickshaw ride to India Gate and visited the National Museum, a rundown showcase of mostly Hindu artwork in the middle of a rundown city. Later I wandered around Connaught Place, the supposedly ultra-modern, metropolitan district in town, which is really just a giant, trafficky round-about. All day I spent ignoring people left and right saying, "Hello, Where you from? What is your name? You want tour to Agra? You want rickshaw?"

As I headed back to the guesthouse that evening, I was within meters of the place when someone behind me said, "Hello beautiful. You want a tour?"

I couldn't help but laugh. I felt insane. Enough. Stop trying to sell things to me. But the person who spoke to me, a young Kashmiri man seemed kind and spoke decent English. I kind of wanted someone to talk to.

His name is Rafiq, which in Kashmiri means "a kind friend" and he turned out to be a good and helpful guide over the next few days in Delhi. Yes, I had to sit through a pitch from his brother to hire a private car to go to Agra, Jaipur and the Pushkar Camel Festival, a deal which I turned down. But over the next few days, Rafiq showed me around the neighborhood and took me to Paharganj, a vibrant marketplace and hippie alcove near the new train station. He also took me for a ride in Delhi's new metro system which turns out to be the cleanest thing in the whole city.

One day I stopped at an Internet cafe to look up information about trains and travel around India and to catch up on e-mails. In a flustered state, I left the cafe forgetting my iPod behind, still plugged in to the computer I was using. I didn't realize what I had done until late that evening. Kicking myself for such a stupid, stupid forgetful thing to do, I wrote the iPod off as lost.

The next day, Rafiq met me for breakfast and I told him about losing the iPod. He said we would go inquire at the cafe to see if it was there. When we got to the place, Rafiq said a few strong words in Hindi. The cafe clerk shot me a look like "Stupid white girl" and retrieved my iPod and headphones from a locked cabinet.

I couldn't believe it. Rafiq laughed and lightly slapped me on the head. Things seemed a lot sunnier in Delhi, in spite of all the smog.