phew...Delhi

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Our plane lands in Delhi, it's 33C, which would be fine, if it wasn't 2am. I'd emailed the Star Hotel to reserve a room and airport pickup, but not having received any reply was not holding my breath. So it's a very pleasant surprise to see the young man holding the sign with my name on it. We'd decided to soften the blow of arriving in Delhi, a destination that seems to fill every traveller with dread, by booking a more expensive hotel complete with aircon and satellite TV. God knows what the cheap digs are like here...the room is OK, but the bathroom is not the freshest I've ever been in...the acrid smell of urine filling my nostrils for the first (but definitely not the last) time. Still, it's late, the room and bed are clean and the aircon means it's possible to sleep long and late.

We emerge from our aircon bliss onto of the streets of Paharganj, a district of narrow dusty streets jammed with bazaars selling fabrics and trinkets. We dodge rickshaws, motorbikes, wandering cows, mangy dogs and open sewers whilst every pair of eyes follow us. To not put too fine a point on it, the place stinks of piss and cowshit, nicely heated up by the sun. The 40C+ heat is intense, but without the instantly debilitating humidity of SE Asia, we kid ourselves into thinking we can head out on foot. It doesn't take long to realise the error of our ways; we make it as far as Connaught Place, the heart of British built New Delhi complete with classical marble colonnades, before wilting. The shops here are all flash international designer stores, but the streets are lined with poverty.

The concentric system of roads, all unsignposted, combined with the heat and hundreds of people hustling the streets, none of whom can give a straight answer when asked for directions, quickly make our minds up for us. We decide to hire the services of a rickshaw driver for a couple of hours; seeing as this sets us back about a quid it's ridiculous that we didn't do it sooner. He's a friendly, chatty Sikh with excellent English who takes us round the sights of New Delhi; down the Rajpath, a grand causeway leading from India Gate to the palace Rashtrapati Bhavan...the whole thing could have been transplanted from Buckingham Gate. Seeing these very British sights from the back of a rickshaw, chatting cricket to our orange-turbaned new friend is a quintessentially India experience. He takes us to a brilliant restaurant which we would never have found, where we eat our first thali (a mixed platter of roti, rice, chutneys and selection of veg curries). It's delicious and we decide that with veg food this good, we'll not eat meat until we know our tummies have acclimatised, if at all.

On our way back towards Paharganj, our driver asks if we mind stopping at a government emporium and a travel agent...both will pay him if we cross their thresholds, even if we buy nothing. He's such a nice old dude that we say ok, and after just 5 mins in each, with no hard sell, we're on our way again...no problem. I keep waiting for the infamous cons and rip offs to kick in, but it has been a surprisingly hassle free first day in Delhi.

Tired but relieved by how it's gone, we go for an aircon cooled rest before heading to a Paharganj rooftop cafe. The dhal and chapatis go down well, but would be even better with a cold beer. Not seeing any on the menu, we ask our waiter who enigmatically whispers, "In India, anything is possible!" Though not prohibited in Delhi, alcohol consumption is treated like a guilty secret, but we find that drinking cold lager poured into mugs from a teapot adds some fun to the occassion. Another cloak and dagger operation is performed when one of the boys back at the hotel quietly asks if we'd like a drink, when we return in time for the Champions League final. Of course we do, and even when the clandestinely delivered brown paper bag holds warmish beer, the naughty nature of the whole thing makes a tepid beer much more enjoyable than it'd usually be. Unfortunately for Ritch, he wouldn't be enjoying much more of that night...Man Utd being totally outplayed by Barcelona. Oh dear. Tears before bedtime.

The next morning we head to New Delhi train station to buy tickets to Agra for the following day. It's times like this when the Lonely Planet's advice is invaluable. Hidden away inside and upstairs of the main building, there's a booking office for foreigners...an amazing perk that means we can avoid the carnage of the main booking hall. No one wants you to find it though; the minute you get near the station you're approached by 'helpful' men who tell you it's closed or has moved to this office round the corner (which sells tickets at inflated prices and pays them a nice commission). Armed with the knowledge of the blag, it's easy to sidestep these chancers and we quickly move through the mayhem into the office...tickets to Agra...done!

As was happening yesterday, I am constantly, unashamedly stared at, pretty much all the time and by everyone. This is going to take some getting used to. I'm being very careful with how I dress; any exposed flesh is considered provocative and so, despite the heat, it's no vests or shorts for me. Ritch is much luckier, if he wears shorts at worst he may be considered low-caste, a risk he's prepared to take. I'd thought I'd got it just right, with baggy 3/4 length trousers and loose black t-shirt with scarf round my neck. As we approach the huge Jama Masjid mosque through the maze-like bazaars of Old Delhi, and up the steep steps, I pull my scarf over my head...surely I've done enough? But I am about to become victim of a fashion jihad.

First, the gatekeeper puts a sarong around Ritch to hide his sinful knees and then it's my turn. Before I really know what's happening I've been swaddled in a psychedelic mu-mu dress and look completely ridiculous. Satisfied with his work, the evil gatekeeper steps aside and we are free to enter. I'm convinced that if I'd been allowed in wearing my own clothes I would've been less intrusive, but in my circus tent getup I am the fun new freakshow. People stop their prayers to look and I'm soon a kind of Pied Piper, followed by an ever growing group of boys. I give up and leave the mosque. Maybe the ritual humiliation by mu-mu is their way of saying that I'm not really welcome?!

It's a shame as the mosque is spectacular, the biggest in India and built at the same time as the nearby Red Fort, in the mid 1600's. As I sit on the steps outside, waiting for Ritch to finish taking photos, I contemplate my fashion crisis. Determined not to end up dressed like all the "hey...I'm in India" hippy wannabies, but desperately needing wardrobe reinforcements, I decided leggings under dresses with scarf/shawl combos are the way forward through this cover-up minefield. Just kill me if I end up in a pair of MC Hammer-style harem pants!

The rest of our afternoon wanderings around Old Delhi, though less hectic than expected, are exhausting in the heat. When we see that the Red Fort has a sound and light show at 9pm, we decide to return then instead. It's a good choice...the show is excellent and really brings the fort to life. The rich-voiced narrator takes us through the history of the Muslim invasion and subsequent Mughal empire, through British occupation up to Independence in 1947. It's a far more enjoyable way to visit the fort and we decide that from now on all our sightseeing will be done either very early or very late...it's just too hot to enjoy anything but lounging in the mid-afternoon.

Feeling pretty smug that we've come through Delhi unscathed, we head to the train station with a good half hour to spare before our 1.30pm train to Agra. Let the chaos commence. We look for our train number on the departure board and it's nowhere to be found. We ask countless India Rail guards which platform, and only get the non-commital head wobble in response. We turn to the public for help and our survey says the most common answer is platform 3, so we haul our packs there and join the few thousand people filling every available space. Time ticks on and there's still no sign of our train on the departure board...worried we're on the wrong platform, Ritch leaves me with the packs and hurries off for more infuriatingly inconclusive encounters. I speak to a few porters who assure me that all Agra trains leave from this platform...it's typical that these, the worst paid and worst treated of railway employees are the only ones that have any clue what's going on. A group of soldiers eventually tell Ritch that the train is delayed by 4 hours. We feel a mix of relief that we haven't missed it, quickly followed by annoyance...4 hours?! South West Trains eat your heart out!

After some soothing time spent in an cool restaurant and then wasted hours in an internet cafe, we return to the fray. This time our train is actually on the board, but then a very nice sounding lady with a very calming voice announces that there will be a further 3 hour delay, however India Rail deeply regrets any inconveinience! Joining the throng to wait it out on platform 3, I pass the time reading but mostly people watching...might as well, everyone is watching me! I'm struck by one of the strange contradictions of India...whilst revealing my shoulders would be shocking, it's perfectly acceptable for old ladies to hitch up their saris to relieve themselves on the tracks. I'm confused.

Everyone is clearly used to such long delays; patiently sat on blankets, supping chai from thermoses and snacking from stacked tiffin boxes. After a few more misleading announcements which make us think we've missed it, our train eventually pulls in 7 hours late. Everyone rushes the doors in a scrum of pushing and shoving despite it being a reserved seat carriage. We keep calm and wait our turn, and happily don't have to boot anyone out of our seats. Turns out the reason for the chaos is that hundreds of people without tickets board every train and spend the first hour hunting out unsold seats and any other available space. We're in a 3rd class sleeper carriage, the third option down in a choice of 6 classes, starting with private 1st class aircon cabins, down to the cattle trucks at the other end of the scale. It's fine for short journeys but we resolve to pay for the best if we ever have a long overnight trip.

A few ticketless men set up a card game in our carriage as we chat to an engineering student, who will be on this train for over 30 hours as it continues on from Agra. We get a little insight into the, very much in force, Hindu caste system when at one point he dismisses "these low-caste people" with a sweeping gesture. I'm glad that I feel so uncomfortable with his casual classism; it's just so rude to me, but an unconcious thing on his part...it's the way things are here. People are born into one of four castes, which dictate your social status and cannot be changed. Your caste restricts everything from who you can marry to what career path you may take. Below the four castes are 'the untouchables': the poor souls who must undertake the worst jobs or are limited to a desperate existence of begging. Officially caste discrimination is now illegal, but in reality little has changed. Outside of all this are sadhus, a small number of Hindus who renownce all wordly possessions to become wandering holymen in search of nirvana. There are a few of these orange-robed men on our train, sleeping on the floors of the corridors. I'm a little surprised to see one sporting shiny white Reebok with his holy robes. I'm really tired by now and can only conclude that the more I see, the less I know.

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Comments

[Cessna152]

Very well written account of your time in Delhi. Brings back memories from when my wife and I were there. Loved it though!