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Published: April 9th 2011
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Namaste, (Friends & Family)
The First 24:
Thirty-three. The exact number of perpendicular lines on the ivory ceiling of my simple, but cheap Indian hotel room. How do I know this? When fighting a losing battle with the infamous Delhi Belly (food poisoning) you have little else to do than lie on your back and stare at the blood reds, forest greens, and baby blues of the painted utopia glaring back at you. The only break in this seemingly endless 24-48 hour cycle of hell is the frequent mad dash to the water closet for gut wrenching relief. If I had a gun I would shoot myself (and the street vendor who made the damning falafel and/or tea that put me in this predicament). Considered a right of passage by many travelers, it is not as luxurious as it sounds. Still, with time on your hands you think to yourself, “How did I get here?”
The early morning call to worship of loud speakers meant that the humidity in the air was not that of the southern U.S. Only hours before in Chicago I had been in a holding pattern, but after a 14 hour red eye flight,
a white knuckle taxi ride from the airport under the cover of darkness, and 2 hours of searching downtown Delhi for an over priced shitty hotel room I had come to realize that I was indeed in India. Two hours of restless sleep had gotten me nowhere and as I stumbled through the sparsely lit lobby of my establishment I realized that the object I had kicked was indeed the hotel manager. It seemed that the entire staff had laid out bedrolls and were asleep in the lobby. After several more boots of the shoe I was able to rouse the not so sleeping beauty from a deep slumber and find yet another over priced taxi to carry me through the empty streets of the Indian capital.
Two weeks before it had seemed like a good idea. Signing up for the New Delhi 50k would be the prefect way to start things off on the right foot, but now that same ambition had stayed behind in the states along with my favorite pair of running shorts. Rickshaw drivers asleep in their parked vehicles and Delhi street dogs seemed to be the only ones out at this hour. However, I
could think of no other place I would rather be.
The park that I was to race in seemed just as desolate. No cars, no people, no problem. Right? I had copied down the race director’s number so I borrowed the taxi drivers mobile to call. Apparently he was on his way but it sounded more like I had woke him up. I decided to wait regardless and 30 minutes later, true to his word, he arrived.
As the course was prepared, which consisted of little more than placing a banner in a tree that read, “Finish” and laying out bananas, water, and an assortment of other items one can purchase from any convenient store, I ate a package of cookies bummed off of another racer. One hour the symbolic gun sounded and the race began. It was 0530. I had been in India all of 5 hours.
Burning through the course I stayed with the leaders for the first 11 of the 19-lap course, fought a bout with the cramps, and then limped it in at around 1130 for a time of 6 hours and 1 minute. Not my best time, but considering I could still
feel the swelling in my lower extremities from the night before, I was just happy to be done.
One of the reasons that I had chose this race was the chance to use it as a meet and greet. Not to disappoint, before leaving I was invited to a late breakfast by a leggy blonde American journalist working for the Wall Street Journal, an older but athletic Canadian in oil and gas, and one other American working for the U.S. Embassy in Delhi. A cramped taxi ride through the organized chaos of the Delhi streets led us to her swank antique furnished apartment. While my initial impressions of India was that everything was cheap, it seems that real estate is not so. For such an apartment she must fork up $6,500 monthly, putting it on par with an apartment in Manhattan or multi-million dollar listing in California.
We spent the evening dining on delicacies that lined the 10-foot long vintage table and reminiscing of our past. As I departed before dark I thanked them for their hospitality while the Tibetan housekeeper flagged down and negotiated a rickshaw that would be my mode of transportation for the night.
Delhi for Dummies:
Babies don’t sleep this good. After a beer, a bath, and bed, I awoke to the 95 degree heat of bustling downtown Delhi. Luckily, the room that I had occupied did have AC, even if I had to kick it twice to start it up. After eggs and coffee, a survey of the landscape seemed in order. However, to understand the scale of what I observed one must realized a few things first.
The world’s population is currently estimated at just shy of 7 billion people. India alone holds 1.2 billion of that 7 in an area these size of 1/3 of the U.S. What does this mean? People on top of people. I can’t through a rock without hitting someone and they all are trying to scrape out a living any way possible. This becomes relevant when they see white bread (i.e. me) walking down the street. I am petitioned to buy everything from shirts to chicken tikki masala to flash drives to a ride in a rickshaw (and they all want to make a special price just for me). How thoughtful. Still, with the exception of a few restaurants and higher end stores,
everything is up for negotiation. This can be good and bad. Sometimes you get a cat that is desperate, but more often than not they try to take you for all you are worth. So for all intensive purposes you either get smart or get a plane ticket home (before your money runs out). I have talked to several other foreigners that have been taken for a ride and you really feel for them.
Something else that one must realize about Delhi and India’s bigger cities is that they are still a developing country. This means city services, such as trash pickup, are all but non-existent. There is rubbish everywhere (and this isn’t the half of it). I can’t tell you how many streets I have had to play hop scotch down because of cow crap. It seems that the beloved and worshiped Hindu cow roams freely throughout the streets eating trash, naan (Indian flat bread fed by locals), and what ever else they find before running it through their system and leaving it on the street.
The people are polite and genuine, but most expect something in return for their generosity. Still, if I was in their
shoes and had to survive here, I would do the same.
To give you an idea of the prices a coke costs 45 cents, my hotel room for the tonight costs $4.50, the world’s cheapest car is made here (TATA; around $2,000 new). India holds the world’s largest number of people living below the poverty line ($1.25 a day). So when you think you have it bad, think again. All this sounds disheartening, however, people here seem happy. This could be because they know nothing else and have no other real alternative. Or this could be because they realize that there is something deeper to happiness. Whatever the reason, one must look on the bright side. I saved a lot of money by switching my car insurance to GEICO.
Check out other adventures at our new site
Ultra Expeditions and see what we are up to.
The Quote:
"Mr. Churchill, if you were my husband, I'd poison your tea!”
“And madam if you were my wife, I would drink it!"
-Lady Asher to Winston Churchill
The Plan:
After having my fill of Delhi, I headed southwest by train into Rajasthan (via Agra and Jaipur). Recovering
in the smaller town of Pushcart was a welcomed relief. Currently, I am in border town of Jaisalmer. A small town known for its camel fair that is only about 150 kilometers from the border of Pakistan. After Jaisalmer I will stop off in Bundi and Udaipur before turning south to Mumbai (Bombay).
Namaste,
Jason
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