Tag Archives: Delhi

Old Delhi:  hidden worlds

[Note: in “real time” I’m now in McLeod Ganj, in the cool and clean air of the mountains. I escaped Delhi – its intensity, pollution, dust, mud, noise, heat, and humidity. It still lingers after a 12-hour bus ride: my nose won’t stop running, my throat is scratchy, and it will take days to wash out the inner and outer filth.]

Monday, August 2, 2010 – Delhi

I couldn’t sleep last night to save my life. As soon as I turned off the light, all the voices of India were inside my head: the hawkers, the touts, the vendors, the beggars, the pushy travel agents, the “tour guides,” the rickshaw drivers, the in-your-face intensity of every encounter. The voices were loud, insistent, pleading, cajoling. I tried to calm myself by reading The Way of the White Clouds, but it just provided a momentary distraction. I turned off the air conditioner; I was beginning to get a sore throat. At last I slept, to awaken again at 3:30 AM. Damn.

The sleep gods finally granted me relief, for the next thing I knew, it was 10:30 AM. My throat was now raw from dust, pollution, air conditioning, and ceiling fans spinning like high-speed airplane propellors above my bed for nights on end. I was a wreck – nervous, exhausted, overheated, my psyche stretched to its limit. Who said travel was relaxing?

Pahar Ganj, Delhi – textures

I’d just finished Sarah Macdonald’s  Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure, a superb account of one Australian’s life in India with all of its madness and intensity.  Maybe, as she finally found in her Indian adventures, it was ME who had to change. That’s it: it was my stubborn, Midwestern, mule-like obstinacy, my insistence on having my American senses of privacy and personal space honored. Who was I kidding? India was a whole new ball game – everything about it was maddeningly different, and I was completely unprepared for the place. I resorted to the 12-Step Serenity Prayer: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Did it help?  Hell, no. I needed out.

Worst of the worst: stuck in a traffic jam in Old Delhi in an autorickshaw. I’d already promised the driver 200 rupees; he kept turning around and trying to extend our contract: waiting for me outside the Friday Mosque, a tour of the monuments, etc. All I could do was keep saying “No, no, no….” while trying not to puke from all the exhaust I was inhaling.

I’m now in Cafe Festa, awaiting my Spanish breakfast of omelet and cappucchino. The part of New Delhi I’m in is a funky blend of hip coffee houses, restaurants, rutted dirt streets, and collapsing buildings.  In fact, it seems that half of Delhi is falling down, and the other half is being repaired or propped up. Part of the reason for the chaos is the upcoming Commonwealth Games 2010, for which Delhi is tearing herself up and giving herself a facelift that refuses to “take.”

My tender constitution has also been compromised. You see, I swore off Indian food 3 days ago, in Varanasi. The last straw was a morning trip to Sarnath that was so hot, the sun so scorching, that I fried from the inside out. That afternoon I began to feel strange, and by evening I was bedridden. I had the Double Whammy: Delhi Belly and heat exhaustion. I’d spend most of the afternoon in the bathroom, until the Imodium started to kick in.

At last, I had to stagger outside the hotel and down the dark, narrow lanes in search of sustenance, something bland. I settled for 2 Granola Fruity bars and a bag of dry, white-bread chips. Apart from a bowl of porridge the next morning, this would be my only food for 2 days.

By Saturday morning I was feeling partly human, and at 9 AM took an autorickshaw to the Varanasi train station – my same driver from the Sarnath trip yesterday, Manoj, was waiting for me! See, people are good after all.

Blessing of blessings, the train station had a tourist office and waiting room for foreigners, and it was air conditioned. In front of everybody, I peeled off my gross, soaking wet T-shirt and put on my flowing, cool white hemp shirt from Kathmandu.

The train arrived an hour late, and I located my space in the air-conditioned 3-tier sleeping car. After a few hours I retreated to my top-level bunk, which required skills in acrobatics, contortion, and mountain-climbing to reach. For the rest of the 17-hour, all-night journey to Delhi, I was gently rocked by the the train’s rhythm. I have no idea if I slept, but our morning arrival seemed to come sooner than expected.

It was now Sunday morning, 4:45 AM, and midway through my 6-week holiday adventure. It was still dark, and rather than trying to negotiate a strange nighttime city, I sat in a chain restaurant at the front of the station. I drank two “cappucchinos,” emitted in black and white streams from twin plastic spouts, and tried to eat a samosa, but it was too spicy. I still haven’t reconciled myself to the fact that everyone in India insists on serving you your food with their bare hands. God knows what they’ve touched beforehand, but I see many of them also handling money, the filthiest thing on earth. I have half a mind to travel with a box of disposable food-handlers’ gloves.

On the plus side, Delhi does have some great food: a superlative & succulent Tandoori Chicken, near my hotel (with palak paneer and butter naan)

I’m getting long-winded, so I’ll condense the story. I asked an autorickshaw driver to take me from the station to a moderately-priced hotel.  Get this:  I ended up at the Hotel Snow White, in the Pahar Ganj district of New Delhi. Would I wake from a poisoned sleep to live happliy ever after? Would I finally realize my inner fairy princess?  (Answer: NOT.)

The Jama Masjid (Friday Mosque), the principal mosque of Old Delhi. It was commissioned by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan, builder of the Tal Mahal, and completed in 1656.

The watcher, Jama Masjid

Jama Masjid, repeated arches

Narrow street in Old Delhi

Hello, Delhi, GOODBYE!

I lasted exactly 3 days in Delhi, and the last one was mainly improvisation, since my hotel made me check out at 6:30 AM (!), the same time I’d checked in after my all-night train ride. By this time I’d learned to use the Delhi Metro, a complete contrast to the rest of the city: cool, quiet, efficient, speedy, and understated. I spent my last morning at the bus terminal trying to figure out how the hell to get to Dharamsala. As always happens in India, I was approached by a man who was Only Too Glad to Help. He led me to a tiny box of a building that was a travel agency, where I bought a 900-rupee ticket for an air-conditioned bus to Dharamsala that evening at 6:30 (air conditioned? Hah! I was duped once again.) I checked my backpack at the station, and for once, did an intelligent thing: I bought a Day Pass for the Metro.

I cruised in air-conditioned comfort to my heart’s content, only surfacing into the steamy city when absolutely necessary. I spent a couple of hours at the Lavazza coffee bar in Connaught Place (one of those sections of the city that had been completely torn apart for the Commonwealth Games “sprucing up”). I talked to a friendly man about the insanity of Indian bureaucracy and the evil of George Bush, until I was cooled off and my sweaty shirt had evaporated. I then discovered a good bookstore and a superb spice shop that I will re-visit in 2 weeks when I return to Delhi for my return flight to China. I plan to be overloaded with English language books, curry powder, and lime pickle – with plenty left over to give to my friends in Chengdu.

Next chapter: Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj, heaven on earth, or something close.

The fugitive from Delhi finds peace and quiet: the view from my balcony, Hotel Ekant Lodge, McLeod Ganj.