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My Room
First base in IndiaSettling In
Having had a rather hectic first day, I proceeded to have a terrible first night's sleep. I don't know if it was the jet lag (4.5 hours ahead), the heat (28 degrees minimum in the night) or the noise (whirring fan on the ceiling above me, car horns honking, cows moo-ing and people shouting in the streets and alleys below my window), but either way it took me 4 or 5 hours to get to sleep. Once I did doze off, I awoke every hour or two with a terrible thirst. Dehydration is a constant state it seems; I'm drinking well over a gallon of water every day and still have a perpetual thirst. The heat leaves you in a 24 hour sweat and the additional exercise of walking around during the midday heat only exacerbates the rate of dehydration.
Anyway I was in no rush to get out of bed as I was shattered. In the end I stayed in bed until lunch. I was so tired by the morning that sleep was taking me away whether I liked it or not, despite the increasing heat; I wasn't going to try and fight it.
I'd
My View
A little slice of Delhi out of my grated window been told that trains were booked solid up to 90 days in advance and that the only way I could move on at short notice was by tourist bus. I suspected this wasn't actually the case, but before I went across the city to the bus / train stations I wanted to get a price for the tourist buses as a benchmark. The hotel I'm staying in has it's own “rep” who will take you to his mates' tourist offices to arrange things for you. As I've done my own thing since I got here he's not massively helpful to me, but I figured he'd be the best person to ask about tourist buses. Unfortunately he was asleep when I went down to find him at around 1pm so I opted to go and wander round the local bazaar for a while and see if I could pick up some cheap and light clothes.
As my day-pack was out of action I also needed something suitable for carrying my essentials around with me each day (guidebook, water, glasses / sunglasses, pen & paper and some Immodium – because you never know when Delhi-belly might strike!). As luck would have
Prayer Flags in the Morning Sun
Colourful prayer flags adorn the rooftop Everest restaurant it, after about 3 stalls I spotted a shop in a little recess with various bags hanging outside. I wandered into the small space the store occupied – down 3 steps into a shop about the size of a large wardrobe – and started to poke around in the piles of bags that were stacked about the place. The goods on offer were a feast for the eyes, all sorts of fabrics, silks, colours and patterns in all sorts of shapes and sizes. The shop keeper was eager, but not pushy enough to make me leave, so I had a good rummage. I soon found a bag I liked and began bartering. In the end I got the bag and a colourful coin purse (to keep just enough accessible money in for each day) for just over £1.50. I also stopped to pick up a pair of “Ray Ban” aviator sunnies, as I only had a set of Oakley riding glasses with me and I looked like a bit of a clown wearing them just to wander the streets. I paid about a fiver for these, which in retrospect wasn't a very good deal, but can be considered another learning
Breakfast Self Portrait
Waiting for breakfast, as I sport my cheap new top and fake sunnies experience at least.
I popped back to my room to transfer my stuff from the broken bag to the new one then set off back down the streets of the bazaar, spending another hour or so browsing the stalls before going back to a shop I'd spotted earlier in the day and picking up a light hemp-fabric shirt. I once again returned to the hotel, it was now around 3.30pm and this time “Lucky” was awake and milling around reception in the bright blue T-shirt and black Alladin pants he seemed to be always wearing.
I dropped my old T-shirt in the room and threw on my new top. This was a lot lighter to wear in the heat and would hopefully blend in a little more to stop me getting quite so much hassle. When I got back down the 4 flights of steep and broken white tiled stairs to reception, Lucky was still around.
As it happens, it was a fruitless exercise. The place I'm trying to get to is off the regularly worn tourist track and so no buses on which he might earn commission were going there. Thus, he was no further help
Crazy Taxi
Shot from inside the rickshaw as the mental driver began the short but life-threatening ride to Paharganj main bazaar and I left.
They go in your pockets, they steal from you
At the nearest main road I took an auto-rickshaw towards the main bus station by the Red Fort in Old Delhi city. The driver agreed to a suspiciously cheap price, half of what I was expecting to pay, but I decided to go ahead with it. We got chatting en-route and he pulled over and advised me that the best place to get bus and train timetables was in fact the tourist office I'd been to the day before. I hadn't asked for any last time and this seemed reasonable enough, so we diverted for the tourist office. As we alternated between weaving through the chaos and sitting in roasting hot choking fumes in deeply stacked traffic, he began to explain to me how taking a public bus in India was a bad idea. “Indian people are poor” he tells me, “when you sleep, they go in your pockets, they steal from you. Indians rob you – you better on tourist bus”. I realised at this point that I was unlikely to get dropped at the right tourist office, but beyond that I felt a little
A Quiet Spell
A lone pedal rickshaw makes its way past in the quiet of morning in Paharganj saddened that this driver had felt it OK to slight his own nation of people, the reputation of his country, for the sake of a couple of rupees commission. I can understand how his situation might call for it, but I still found it a shame.
As predicted, the tourist office we arrived at wasn't the government one and, fearing a repeat of yesterday's farce, I made it very clear I wanted to go to the official government office, at number 88 on Janpath road. He insisted this was an official government office also (which I knew for a fact wasn't true as there is only one in the whole city) but agreed to take me to 88 Janpath. The drive there was manic, heading through the main business district of the city during rush hour in a flimsy auto rickshaw, weaving furiously amongst Bentleys, Mercedes, 4x4s and a thousand other rickshaws – though not one of them had its bodywork intact. Huge badly repaired crash wounds on the side of luxury cars seems to be the norm. In fairness, I imagine paying for a proper repair job is pointless if you intend to take the car back out
Towers of Red Fort
Silhouetted in the midday sun, the imposing towers of the Lahore Gate at Red Fort loom high above on the streets of Delhi afterwards.
As we approached the government tourist office, the driver swerved unexpectedly down a side street, beeping frantically at the pedestrians ahead as they dove out of the way in panic. The driver ignore the office on the main road and instead stopped outside a white gate downt he side street. He pointed upwards at a sign - “88 Janpath” he exclaimed. No I knew this wasn't the right place and a glance at the sign served only to re-affirm this. A small white sign stuck out of the side of a flaking wall by the gate, similar to one you might find poking out from a newsagent. On the sign, somebody had written, badly, in an old marker pen 'Government Tourist – 88 Janpath'.
As I explained to the driver that I was going to take a walk to the end of the street, he became insistent that I go in this tourist office, warning me the other one, the real one, was a fake – a private firm intent on taking extra money from tourists. I appreciated the irony.
Despite recent events, the driver offered to wait around to take
Best behaviour
As sentries stand guard around the fort from sand-bag machine gun turrets, no one seems to be messing about me to the Red Fort in the far north of the city for another bargain price (we were about 25 minutes or more away in the south and he agreed to drive for about 50p). He was trying to tell me something dubious about parking restrictions near the office I was visiting and instead told me to find him around the alley we were currently in. The area was safe enough, but I wasn't entirely convinced this guy was going to turn over a leaf and be honest on the next leg of the journey.
Leaving the driver to do whatever he intended, I strolled back up to the main road and back into the tourist office. Unfortunately the actual tourist office could be of no help with bus time tables, instead advising me to go to the main bus station by the Red Fort in Old Delhi...
Queue Jumpers
I was aiming for the Jim Corbett National Park, the largest wild tiger reserve in the world. To get there I needed to get to Ramnagar, the hub town for arranging trips into the park. The grumpy man behind the desk then mentioned that you could do
Popular Place
Throngs of Indian tourists stream into the Red Fort complex in Old Delhi it on a train and was able to bring up an availability checker for me and confirm there was in fact a direct overnight sleeper train to Ramnagar and with a wave of his hand, that was as good as saying “p*ss off and leave me be”, he instructed me to go to the central train station. This was good enough for me and after a quick look around the corner to see if my last dodgy driver was around, I began bartering with the next set of drivers to get a good price over to the train station. After some raised voices on their part, we agreed a reasonable 40p for near the station or 50p for in the station (the traffic directly by the entrance can apparently take 20 minutes to battle through). I took the rickshaw to near the station and, head up and sunglasses on to help deter the touts, I headed for the International Tourist Bureau – the booking office for foreigners. This is apparently another minefield of bogus shops and friendly touts, but perhaps through some good fortune I managed to avoid all the hassle and find my way straight to the proper office.
Towering Ceilings
The first building you enter from the gates of the Red Fort is a vast sandstone structure, with high reaching and intricately carved arches. Two young Indian guys walk along hand in hand in what is a common show of same sex affection between men On entering the office I was a little surprised; it was the nicest room I'd seen since I left the airport and contained the first wide mix of races I'd seen since I arrived. Nice of course is relative. The walls were adorned on the lower half with 80's looking wooden panelling and above an old dado rail the deep blue paint was slowly flaking it's way to the floor – but it looked clean and orderly, with a long bank of clerks desks along the back wall. The spacious room was packed with people, seated side to side along every wall but the back one and in a further row down the middle, the last few of which being sat on a sofa while the rest wriggled on flat metal chairs. A short set of enquiries with some American girls in the middle line revealed that they were near the front and the queue in fact extended from there, along every wall and back to the door and took approximately 3 hours. Instead of queueing, I simply dawdled, now joined by another English speaking girl with the same idea, and joined the queue where I was stood as
Lavish Columns
Intricate columns are replete throughout the complex soon as the front pack shuffled along. No one seemed to notice and the next twenty minutes flew by as we all sat and exchanged travelling tales and recommendations of places to visit.
After being called to desk 7, I soon realised how the queue had escalated to such proportions, as the clerk serving me managed to do everything at the slowest possible pace, despite me having already written down the destination, time and class of the train I wanted. We got there in the end and I left with a ticket for an air conditioned bed on the overnight train 15013 to Ramnagar. The night will be passed travelling and the moving accommodation costs little more than five pounds. I learned in Thailand that travelling by sleeper train was the best way to get around and I still firmly believe it; you waste no daylight hours travelling and you get your accommodation thrown in to boot!
From the train station I knew it was just a short walk back to the main streets of Paharganj. Unfortunately I didn't know which direction to start in. I crossed the extremely busy main road, dodging the 5 or 6 lanes
Reaching to the Gods
Elaborate domes and spires reach skyward from the more opulent buildings in the Fort of randomly weaving and beeping traffic on either side and found myself stood facing a wall of street vendors and market stalls; for whatever reason I decided to head north.
Shiny Shoes & Crazy Taxis
I meandered along the street for some time, walking casually so as not to appear lost and invite unwanted attention. After about 15 minutes however I realised I still didn't recognise anywhere and was about to turn back when a pedal rickshaw driver hollered at me. Against my better judgement I asked if he could point me in the direction of the main bazaar. In response I got a tirade of numbers mixed in with a heap of words that were well outside my linguistic capabilities. The guy seemed to be a little unhinged, so I used my best sign language to say “I want to walk, which way?” and after some time “No thank you, I will walk”. I turned down the street by which I was stood to give that way a go, but the rickshaw driver was soon hot on my heels. With a laboured pedal he came up beside me and matched my pace. “No thank-you” I said repeatedly,
Tourists Everywhere
More tourists make their way around the Fort complex gesturing him politely away with my hands to re-enforce the point. In fact this seemed to encourage him to try harder. “50 rupee Paharganj. Sir. Sir. 50 rupee, please sir, my wife. 40 rupee sir, sir my wife, my children, pleaaseee sir. OK 30 rupee, 20 rupee, sir 10 rupee Main Bazaar, pleeeaassssseeee sir my famileeeeee...” He was cut short at this point byy a smartly dressed stranger who crossed the side road we were heading down and asked me where I was trying to go. I suspected I knew where this was going also, but I wanted to get to the main bazaar and I now had 2 possible but dubious options of doing so. I asked the snappily dressed man which way to main bazaar. “2km my friend, this way – I'll take you”. The way he pointed was clearly the wrong direction and I knew then that this guy was a serious blagger – I didn't want to find out why he wanted to take me 2km away from the main area and so as I was saying “OK 10 rupee main bazaar” I hopped into the back of the rickshaw. The driver lunged hard on the
Celebrity for the Day
One of the many shots I was asked to pose for with young Indians at Red Fort pedals as he turned the shaky bike around and I refrained from regaining eye contact with the now shouting man with the slick hair and the shiny shoes.
Now I had realised on first contact with the rickshaw driver that he might not be entirely with it, but his pedalling was even worse then I'd anticipated. As we weaved blindly amongst the side street, bumping into cars, people and other rickshaws, the main road once again loomed close ahead. The driver made no effort to stop as we approach the junction, instead he just pushed hard on his rusty pedals and swerved out into the heavy traffic. Without once looking in his mirrors we crossed to one side of the carriageways, then back across. On several occasions I watched the bumpers of buses, 4x4s and other rickshaws grind to a halt just inches away from my legs. The air around me was a chorus of beeping horns and shouting drivers, smog filled, sticky and had I understood Indian I imagine it would also have been blue. I sat back and took it in as a mini adventure, after all these people do this and deal with this all day
It's Just a Door
No reason, I just liked it every day; what to us is desperately unsafe is just the way it's done here, the statistics aren't great but I'd still have to be seriously unlucky to come to any harm. To be honest it gave me a nice little adrenaline kick.
It took only a few minutes to pedal around to the main bazaar, which I would have found in moments had I walked south when I first crossed the road. As the confused looking driver stopped pedalling and we coasted to a halt, I felt a little pity for the guy and took out 20 rupees from my pouch and handed the note over as I stepped shakily out of the rickshaw. Instead of gratitude however I received a face of near anger and demands for more. I pointed out that we'd agreed on 10 rupees and I'd already given him double, but he started back at me with groans about his wife and family. At this point I'd done more than I needed to for him already and I made my apologies as I made my way off down the main bazaar towards my hotel.
As I passed the half way point the young
Sleeping on the Job
A solider sleeps with his rifle in hand. Not a great situation to start twitching... bloke from the night before came bounding over, the one with the house boat and the good gear. He began to ask how I was and I humoured him for some moments, until he began to ask me to come back to his place for chai and to see photos of his home. My instincts didn't agree with this guy and I made my excuses as I walked on.
Close to my hotel I passed a shop that looked smarter than the others, with a glass front and a wide variety of objects around the window. I popped in for a look and it was as though I'd walked into the TARDIS, the place was immense! The wall to my right extended 300 feet backwards, with rows of bead necklaces and bracelets 20 high and thousands long. I hadn't bought myself any beads since Indonesia in 2008 and I thought as I had little else to be doing, I'd scour this shop to find some. The shop itself was more than just beads, it was the size of a small Tesco selling instruments, bedding, silks, silver housewares, you name it, anything ornate, decorative, fancy and traditionally Indian could be
Galleries in the Fort
Lavish galleries such as this in the Red Fort are roped off to the public found in here somewhere. How they acquired that much space from the squalor around I'm not sure. After a lengthy search I hadn't found any beads I liked, however I had noticed hundreds of drawers of individual beads along the bottom of the displays, millions of beads in all and I asked if I could take a look through. I began picking out ones I liked, with no regard to how one looked next to another. I got some string from one of the counters and laid out a length to fit my neck. I began placing beads along the string, searching each drawer for ones I liked the look of. I'd clearly been absorbed in this for some time, as when I finished I looked up and it was dark outside – the sun was beaming up high when I went in so I'd been at it for a couple of hours at least. After trying to explain to the shop-hand that I needed something to fasten it with and watching him sacrificing some other beads to get a clip, I had finished the new necklace and I went to pay. All those beads, the sacrificed necklace and the
Keeping the Parents Happy
Two small children pose after their parents asked me to take a photo of them, for myself hours of time I'd passed away absorbed in the task, came to a total of 55p.
Warm Beer & Jealous Travelers
Back at the hotel I took a little time out, grabbed my laptop and took a seat in the reception area – the only place in the building where the free WiFi actually worked. I'd written my day one blog entry the night before and so I set about putting it online. I had the text up in minutes, but after sifting through my 200 or so photos from the first day and picking just 7 that summed it all up, I realised just how poor the internet in the place actually was. I tried repeatedly to upload the handful of photos, without which I couldn't (or didn't want to) publish the blog entry. In the end I abandoned the idea and took my laptop back up the endless steps to my room.
After a quick shower I made my way to the centre of the main bazaar to try another of the roof top restaurants; this time the India Gate. I sat myself down next to a couple of other travellers and we soon got
The Detail Continues
More examples of fine detail within the buildings of the Fort chatting. One was a guy from a ski resort in Colorado, the other a young girl from Sweden. They'd met on the bus to Delhi and decided to share a room, as it cuts the costs of accommodation by 30-80%. They'd both been travelling around India for some time and Delhi was the last stop for them before their flights in one and two days time. Both of them expressed their jealousy at me being at such an early point in my trip with so much ahead of me. I reasoned that in next to no time I'd be at the end of my trip, going through the same feelings. I remember it well from last time in fact – it's the same feeling as listening to first year students talking eagerly about uni when they've just arrived as you're approaching the end of your final year and about to leave it all behind.
We exchanged tales of our travels and our homes over a bottle of Kingfisher beer, served in big porcelain tankards to disguise it – few places here have an actual license. Even in the evening heat was pretty warm by the time we'd finished chatting,
Old Delhi Streets
A long shot gives a great idea of the chaos on the streets of Old Delhi, as cars, rickshaws and pedestrians jostle hurriedly for position. which was about midnight, at which time we wished each other well and I made my way back to the hotel, where I sat until the early hours reading about the history of India in my lonely planet book.
The following morning I woke up at a reasonable time and for the first time since arriving I felt like I had some energy at my disposal. I dressed quickly and headed out to find Sam's Cafe, a local place I'd been repeatedly recommended to visit for food. A short set of directions from the hotel manager saw me weaving the crowded, stinking alleyways in the opposite direction I usually took, deeper into the grimy maze of high walls, wet floors, excited children running around in rags and people sleeping bare skinned in the dirt. The layout of these passages allows very little sunlight to reach ground level, casting an eerie dim glow over everything down there. A child ran up to me, stopped me and gestured / said something that seemed to mean don't go any further, but I was exploring now so I continued. I found the place to be something of a contradiction – despite
Stairway to Heaven?
Decorated steps try to draw in the customers down one of Old Delhi's alleys the dirt and obvious poverty, many of the alleys had well looked after little shops in them, mobile phone stores, food shops and even a beauty parlour specialising in wedding preparations. I dread to think what state one's wedding clothes would be in after walking down these alleys to get your hair and make up done!
After a basic and dirt cheap breakfast of jam on toast, I made my way into the main bazaar, where I proceeded to argue with some nouty rickshaw drivers for a good 10 minutes trying to get a reasonably priced ride to the Red Fort. I didn't get a great price, but then when we made the journey that was understandable – it was in fact a huge distance to Old Delhi, and though we never actually left the main city, you could see the scenery shifting as we drove.
Don't Mess With Machine Gun Men
It took some 25 minutes to reach the Red Fort, the driver dropped me off a few hundred meters shy of the main gate as the traffic ahead was dire. I strolled around to the gate, sweltering in the now full strength mid day sun
Please Sir...
A child begs at the side of a rickshaw in traffic leaving Old Delhi beaming down directly on top of my head. Upon reaching the gate I made my way through the many bright yellow “Delhi Police” security barriers that funnelled us into an open courtyard, across which was the ticket booths and main entrance. Once again the entry fee was 25x more expensive for foreigners, though there was no queue at this window and a hundred deep queue at the Indian ticket window, so I guess there's some consolation to be had there!
Entering the main gate of the fort was a little like trying to board a plane, as I passed through a metal detector, got patted down and had my bag searched, all by men in camouflage jump-suits armed with machine guns. After passing through a long vaulted entrance way, lined either side with shops selling predictable tourist trinkets and general tat, I emerged in the Fort complex – face to face with a man in a machine gun turret. I reckon that's a much better way of saying “Don't mess about” than any sign could ever manage. He did agree to let me take a photograph though, as long as I waited for a few seconds while an approaching
Auto Rickshaws
The daily grind continues as a herd of auto rickshaws try to get past a road junction police car passed out of sight.
Moving on into the fort I ambled slowly around the place, in no hurry to be anywhere I sopped at very regular intervals to play with my camera; the harsh midday sun was making it difficult to get any good shots of the buildings from the outside, but it provided great light for getting shots of the intricately crafted interiors of the buildings. Floral tiled columns, mirrored alcoves, huge vaulted arches of red sandstone and white marble, all making excelling subjects for me and my Canon.
Wandering between the buildings of the fort was also a new experience, being one of the very few white people in there I seemed to attract quite a lot of attention, particularly from the younger Indians. On several occasions I was stopped and asked if people could have their photo taken with me, while we posed shaking hands or with an arm over the shoulder. One young couple even asked if I'd honour them by taking a photo of their young kids in front of one of the temple buildings; not for them, but on my own camera for me to keep. I didn't really understand
Pizza Express
Even in India there's a Domino's Pizza. Here a delivery driver speed past the more lavish buildings and businesses in Connaught Place much of this, but hoped that by the end of my journey here I'd have a better idea. I appreciated for the first time that people had wanted to talk to me for genuine reasons, that not everyone in Delhi was intent on parting you with your cash any which way. That said, I was also now amongst tourists from al over India, people who obviously had more money and a higher quality of life than the people I passed each day that had to wash themselves in the dirty water that spilled out amongst the garbage in the back streets of Paharganj.
The Barbaric British Empire
The last building I got to in the fort was a museum; which I found quite an eye opener. Whilst much of what was in there related to stories I'd read in my guide book the night before, a lot of it centred around the British invasion and occupation. First hand accounts, drawings from both sides and letters sent home by British generals described horrible atrocities, mindless sackings of incredibly significant historical sights, lootings of the finest palaces and the cold blooded murder of hundreds of thousands of Indians that stood
Ever Herd of Mooving?
A cow blocks the entrance to a bar as it is loaded with goods in Paharganj in the way of the colonial empire. Reading a letter penned by top a ranking English army official, planning the best way to ensure parts of major cities were wiped out as efficiently as possible, was thrown into greater context when next to it sat his own pistol and a rough count of the lives that had been brought to an abrupt and painful end with it. I left that museum feeling very differently about a number of things – educated in our history and the Raj from a perspective that is rarely told on home soil.
The heat of the day had continued to intensify, as I realised instantly when I stepped from the air conditioned museum building into the stifling heat of the day outside. I'd been drinking water at a rate of about 2 pints and hour and the last few drops in my final bottle did little to slake my thirst. There was nowhere to get a fresh bottle from in here though, only the public water fountains which in the long term would likely lead to a worse form of dehydration. I resolved to deal with it and went to seek shelter from the
Sparks May Fly
Having a shave was no easy task, despite having a "world adapter" I had to go to extraordinary lengths to charge it sun for a little while. I found a nice spot under a tree, at the corner of a large grassed area where many Indian families had settled down to enjoy their picnics and let the kids run free for a little while. Despite some obvious differences, the atmosphere could have been taken from any major park in the UK on a summers day and I appreciated having a peaceful moment here to sit and reflect.
Feeling somewhat regenerated I left the fort and crossed under the huge main road through a big subway tunnel; once again the space was home to many people, owners of nothing more than the clothes on their backs and the cardboard or plastic beneath them.
Bikes, Jewels and Silk Emporiums
Old Delhi was an altogether new experience. Once I'd found some water I could trust (from the lobby of an upmarket hotel) I began exploring. The streets here were more manic than in New Delhi and much bigger than the streets in Paharganj. There was still the same mix of people, carts, rickshaws etc jostling for space, but even more tightly packed, the carts more heavily laden and the pedestrians each with sky high stacks of goods balanced on their heads. The town was broken up into specialist areas. I started on the street selling bikes, which gave way to rickshaws and servicing. Turning a corner I walked down a road flanked by shops and endless alleys selling jewellery and precious stones. Further down I came into the silk emporiums, vast streets of the finest silks, the pavement half obstructed by examples of vendors wares dangling from the old veranda which covered the pavement. I still needed another light top to wear as the one I had one from the day before was now filthy, so I followed a couple of eager vendors down the maze of silk strewn corridors up to their shops on the second or third floor of buildings 2 or 3 deep from the main road. The alleys here were cleaner than other I'd been down, with people actively taking care if them as I walked through, though they were equally narrow and had it not been for the shaky light from old electric lights between the shops, I imagine it wouldn't have been much brighter than a mineshaft.
The vendors were chatty and friendly, but clearly not paying any attention to what I was saying; the first tried to sell me ladies gowns, the second a new silk wedding tunic and the third a luxury tailored suit.
Back on the main road I was indulging myself with some photography when a street vendor approached me. He was offering memory sticks at a great price and I'd been thinking about getting something as another way of backing up my photos. In the end I bought an 8Gb memory stick for £3.50 but after walking down the street a little while, decided I'd try and get more from him. I back-tracked to find him and wound up getting a 32Gb memory stick for an additional £3.50. That's a huge difference to what it would have cost at home and I can probably fit most of my photos on it as I go, giving me a third back up.
The Begging Intensifies
After a little more wandering I came across an auto rickshaw booth, where you pay a traffic cop a fair amount for where you want to go and in exchange they flag a rickshaw and give you a voucher to pay with. The rickshaw drivers were keen to avoid this, but as soon as one made eye contact he was quick to stop. I assume it's because a pre-paid rickshaw is a fair bit cheaper – my driver back to Paharganj even turned on the meter as he didn't seem sure the 60p pre-pay would cover it. Indeed he asked for more when we arrived at the main bazaar, but the meter was 10 rps short of the pre-pay, so I avoided the debate. The ride back had taken us through the centre of Connaught Place outside of rush hour, it gave me a chance to appreciate the place for more than just traffic and smog. The buildings here are grand, Georgian style white column fronted arcades, playing host to major western branded shops and the ubiquitous Mcdonalds and Dominos Pizza. I'd been told there are also some classy bars and clubs around here, though at such an early stage of the trip I didn't feel my budget was in a position to find out. Not far from Connaught Place, a young girl had approached me from the right hand side of the rickshaw and began begging frantically for money. My driver ignored her, the driver of a rickshaw to my left sat and watched with the sort of vacant and emotionless expression that only familiarity could have brought to such a situation.
In India begging is an industry. This is brought starkly to life in the film “Slumdog Millionaire”, but any guidebook or other source of information will tell you not to give to beggars. Many of them are sent out there by a pimp or ringleader, everything they earn goes to them in exchange for a little food or shelter. The street kids often work in gangs for someone else and even if the beggar is on their own, giving hand outs to them only reinforces begging as a lifestyle choice and as such should still be avoided. The best way to make a difference out here is by getting stuck into community volunteer work, or by giving to a reputable charity.
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On that note I'd also like to point out to anyone reading that Abigail and I are still a long way from our fund raising target to sponsor a child in Nepal. Any and all donations for our massive challenge would be very gratefully accepted. Even after a few short days here the poverty is astounding and I'm more incensed than ever to make sure we do something about it.
Http://www.justgiving.com/Jamie-Abi-Nepal
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I didn't give anything to the young girl at my side, for the reasons I've gone into above. She realised this was going to be the case and moved on to the occupants of the rickshaw behind me.
Old Pyjamas and British Bastards
Returning to Paharganj I took another slow walk through the bazaar, and spotted a stall with some more lightweight hemp tops, this time in a range of colours. I picked out a blue long sleeved top in the same style as the one I'd bought a few days previously and bartered the vendor down to a reasonable price. He then produced a pair of matching trousers, light hemp fabric with a loose cut and several pockets. They were in the same blue as the shirt however and placed together they looked like a pair of old pyjamas. I liked the style of them though and picked out a red pair. I was unsure, but then managed to barter the shop owner down to what amounted to little over £2 for the set, much to the dismay of his colleague, and decided it was worth taking a punt on them.
The 200 yard walk from this stall to my hotel was dogged by an old and rather unhinged woman asking me for donations to help a cause in Bangladesh. She was wearing quite new looking clothes, a black silk blouse with white frills at the shoulders, but her face was gnarled and weathered, her hair wiry and untidy and her eyes black and hollow. When I refused to hand over money and continued on my way, she followed with an increasingly loud rant, eventually beginning to stab at me with her pen, repeatedly calling me a bastard and spitting on my back as I walked. Oddly, this didn't get to me, just par for the course I suppose. As I lost her I popped into a nice looking café for a snack.
I sat alone on the middle floor balcony, reading more about the history of India. A hippy looking couple was sat beside me, we made small talk but I kept to my book and them to their cards. I ordered some food and as they left, an young Indian guy came and sat at the table beside me. “Nice Necklace” he said as he opened up a conversation. As we exchanged the usual pleasantries he began explaining how he was a writer from Varanasi, in Delhi to write a book about travellers' perceptions of Indian food. He then told me how his uncle was the third richest man in India, a jewel importer with hundreds of westerners working for him. The westerners carry jewels to other countries for him, he avoids 30%!e(MISSING)xports tax and the westerner takes a cut of the profits. “Ahhh so that's your game” I thought, “the jewel scam”. This is a popular scam in Thailand, luring people into handing over some security money while they take a flight somewhere with some precious jewels to be handed over on the other side, where they receive their money back and their cut. Obviously the stones are worthless and their security money is gone, a clever and popular scam which is clearly crossing international boundaries! Once I was on to him and my suspicions were aroused, I soon noticed the shady guy across the street keeping tabs on what we were doing, pretending not to be looking but not being too good at it. I kept asking him about his new book and his writing career, toying with him until I could find a way out of the conversation. Thankfully my dinner arrived at the best possible moment and I turned to eat with my back to him. I casually pretended not to hear his poor efforts to re-engage me and after finishing my dinner I left, as did he. I declined his offer of chai that evening as I left, then took a convoluted route back to my hotel, just in case either of the shady characters had any other ideas.
After retiring to my room to try on my new threads, shower and spend a little time catching up with my blog, I headed out to find food and a bit of company, back to Sam's café this time. I sat myself by a table of 4 western travellers and was soon sitting with them waiting for our food. They were a very lively bunch, 2 guys and a girl from London and a Swedish girl, all had been travelling India for months, changing their plans each day to follow other travellers' recommendations. I learned a lot from them about the places I intended to go and wrote down many suggestions of books to read and other places to visit. They invited me out to a bar in Connaught Square, an upmarket place they'd been told to check out. They first intended on scouring the alleys for some cheap local liquor to get sauced on to avoid paying hefty drinks prices in town. Had we been at home I'm sure I would have jumped at this offer, however on my third night in India, the idea of being drunk, vulnerable and still paranoid about the strike of Delhi-belly didn't seem like a great option. I'd had to change another $100 that afternoon also which came as a bit of a shock. I'd bought a few things and made a few mistakes with my money, but didn't know I'd spent close to £70 in 3 days – that's over double my budget and I resolved to get a grip on that.
As a result of all of these things I parted company with the cheery group as they headed off to stock up on booze and cigs and made my way back to my room. I showered and for once it was hot. I relished in the warmth of the shower and scrubbed myself head to toe, feeling briefly clean for the first time since I arrived. I'd learned by now that this is futile in Delhi, as the air is so grimy that even after sitting still for a couple of hours you can scrape the dirt from your skin into dough balls. Every crease and patch of exposed skin picks up dirt from the air like a lint cloth down the back of an old TV – it's everywhere. Light coloured clothes go brown within a day and your throat is always dry from it. I can't imagine spending prolonged periods of time here would do you any good at all. Since chatting to the last few people and spending time to reflect on it, I realised I've heard a lot of traveller's tales about this place already. From dodgy touts to butch cross-dressing Indian blokes placing curses on travellers that refused to give them money on trains. I'm half expecting the next person I talk to to point at a map and say “here there be giants...”
I flicked on the TV after that to find I had Discovery Science on there, so I treated myself to an hour of that as I dozed off.
I'm Just Net Bothered Any More!
I was awoken abruptly from a very deep sleep by my mosquito net, as it came loose from it's duct tape mountings and came crashing down on top of me. In a state of confusion and some anger at having my best sleep so far spoiled, I clambered out from under the net and set about fixing it up again. I must have been dozing for 5 more minutes when WHACK, down it came again. This time I took another foot of duct tape and lashed it to the wall good and proper. Unfortunately the night was so hot that the glue on the tape was getting slimy and certainly not at it's best. When the net came down on my again a short time later, I muttered “bollocks to it” out loud and went back to sleep, tangled head to toe in my net but way beyond caring. I slept well after that and lazed in bed trying to catch up until midday.
The previous night, Lucky, the hotel tout, had offered me to extend me stay to the following evening for a couple of quid, meaning I wouldn't have to be out with all my luggage first thing. I'd asked him what my final bill looked like, taking into account the bottles of water, Fanta and the airport pick up. He said he's be doing the books the following day, and I agreed to extend my stay.
Taxation Troubles
The next morning, after untangling myself from the net and showering, I packed my laptop in my bag and made my way downstairs to reception to find out what I owed. I was told that I owed 1,850 rupees, a huge sum and way over what I was expecting. I queried this and was shown some drinks (mostly water), the airport taxi and a “10%!”(MISSING) tax of 950 rupees for the 3 nights. Now that would mean that for 3 nights I'd paid 9,500 rupees – about £120, which was obviously not the case. I said nothing at the time but went off to find breakfast. Sam's café had proved reliable the last couple of times so I headed there. As I sipped a cold Fanta and wrote my next blog entry, my mind was bust wondering what was to come of my inevitable confrontation with the hotel staff. I ordered a sandwich as I was too late for breakfast, though when it came it was covered in mayonnaise and unpeeled salad, all no-no's over here, especially with my virgin stomach. I ate a few bites to settle my hunger but then left it at that. After some time a young lad with dreadlocks and a goatee came and sat at the table beside me. We soon started chatting and I learned he was from Berlin and in Delhi waiting for his flight home at the end of a long trip around India. I was concerned about the state of affairs with my hotel so I dropped it into conversation. He reassured me that it happens in most places and in each case he simply refused to pay, telling them he knew the real costs and would pay that much. My resolve strengthened, after we finished chatting I returned to my room and counted the empty bottles in there, making a solid list of everything I'd drank from their fridge. I decided that I wasn't going to be had this early in the trip and began packing my things. It was 4pm and my train wasn't until 10.40pm, so I wasn't yet in too much of a rush to get out of the hotel, as I had nowhere to go!
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Gaurav
non-member comment
Hi
Travel only in metro while in Delhi, it is the cleanest, most efficient, cheapest, safest mode of transport. Just avoid the rush hours, because it gets very crowded. It is true in summers the trains are booked as that is holiday season for kids and most of the families travel. Always book a Volvo bus, it costs twice but it is comfy. I hope you find my advise useful. An Indian who is proud to be Indian.