Delhi airport is in a state of some disrepair. Come to think of it, so are the staff. The amount of cracked concrete on the walls is matched only by the amount of cracked rouge on the cheeks of the aged passport control women. We are granted entry to India, receive a stamp, collect our bags and meet our driver Raj in the arrivals lounge. Raj is short, stocky and very friendly. Once locked into his small Suzuki Rascal minibus, we are subjected to the kind of white knuckle ride that Chessington's health and safety officials would never dream of on the worst of their rollercoasters. We dodge errant cows, buses, mopeds, Enfield Bullets and all the while Raj points out monkeys, soldiers, police and repeatedly remarks on what a 'nice couple we are'. The only
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