Closing Ceremonies

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So, what's done is done. I spent a few delightful days in Delhi sweating in the quiet yet more beggar-infested northern corner of Delhi, preferring to avoid The Main Bazaar which Corey and I swept through 3 months before and could not tell if we were crying or sweating at times there. I apologize that this journal will go to disrepair as usual since i picked up some nice recycled paper journals in Dharamsala and can't help using them.

day 1
I spent the first day in solid shock at finally leaving the pleasant mountain air so after the night long bus ride I just went and laid down in the first hotel I could argue a reasonable price to. Since I had my bank card stolen a week previous I was getting more than low on cash and decided to see if i could pull off staying in Delhi for three days on about a budget of $15(the hotel cost me $6), basically how many Rupees I had left in my pocket.
Later in the day after recovering some sleep I met with my German buddy Jenz who stayed in my guest house in Dharamsala and he, I and his Tibetan buddy Tendze went to a Nepalese restaurant for a very slow meal. We reminisced and talked about the difficulties(also the pluses) of finally going home complaining on anything from luggage to food. We were surprised when our meals came around to see that our each plate of food was piled with at least a kilogram to be consumed for each of us, leaving our salivary glands dripping(I hadn't eaten lunch) and our stomachs waiting for the onslaught of grease.
I ordered AMERICAN Chopsuey because of the unknown patriotic factor. It turns out that means they put two fried eggs on top of it, as to temporarily cover the fact that it is a Chinese dish. Jenz requested mutton biryani, a rice dish filled with tons of goodies like coconut, though they also left whole slices of lemons inside it with the peel making it a little tough to work with, and lastly Tendze got the ...Shantally(something akin to the word)... which was a tough chewy fried bread stuffed with chicken and garlic flavorings. All these items being massive left us sitting at our tables lethargically and leading to Jenz ordering a large beer for us which was illegal in this neighborhood but could be drank deceptively enough. Before leaving Tendze, a friendly buddhist with his wide smile revealing two golden teeth, made sure Jenz and I didn't pay for the meals, and I could only argue so much against his asstiveness knowing how thin my wallet was. He seemed to believe that I would pay his meal in a next life, and that was a good note to end the night.

day 2
I woke up early the next lacking the motivation I had set out for myself the night before in saying I would check out Delhi and see its horrors. Jenz informed me about the new Metro subway system and its convenience, and I just imagined sewage and old beggars chasing me underground. I was quite shocked after my rickshaw ride to some dirty street where sitting on the sidewalk was a large immaculate marble corridor leading downwards into the Earth and surprisingly to cool air, empty halls, and a wonder in simplicity for Delhi, both technologically and in efficiency. Clean, quick, easy, and in some places quiet even, leaving this odd feeling that you've walked into Tokyo or Singapore, but the entering group of loud women in bright saris will always remind you the reality of what's just above you. In a matter of 15 minutes I had crossed to the center of town in a feat that would of taken a burning hour in a rickshaw of honking and changing of temperaments with every turn.
I walked out to the crowded area of the New Delhi Railway Station which is in no way new except for the confusing electronic signboards. An interesting place to make observations if you can block out all the noise and enjoy the fact that every culture in India is possibly walking past your face there and changing trains. From dreaded Saddhus whose monkey counterparts are not allowed on trains, to the excitable darker Tamil fellows. I crossed the long bridge over the railway center getting the usual stares for not wearing a long sleeve shirt tucked into nice pants(that's only the beginning) and reached the other side to see the Main Bazaar's east side entrance which was one hell of a long straight view full of cows, men selling everything, and confused angry backpackers. I made my way to the opposite side being affronted, interrogated, yelled at, and asked to buy hash on many occasions until I reached the Israeli's hotspot called Hare Rama where I was to do a couple of business transactions(change $8 to Rupees) while practicing my Hebrew with giving some travel advice to some of the frustrated folks sitting around.
I luckily was able to survive The Main Bazaar and walked back into the hot streets until I reached the ultimate center of town Connaught Place, a circular plaza featuring many a dilapidated row of buildings with strange Roman pillars lining all the buildings, such as McDonalds, KFC, and many a fashionable store translating it's products to the population eg. McDonald's lamb burger(no beef!!).
I walked slowly around the main circle, or it was possible the heat the massiveness of it made it feel a slow traversal, until I reached the other side leading to some of the town's skyscrapers which too were often not in the best condition. Before reaching the appointed street of Tolstoy Marg, I saw my flight company's tiny sign on the side of a building and made my way into a grey sad building where service workers in uniforms moved to and fro towards their respective tasks and I too found mine, in a long marble corridor at the end lay Uzbekistan Airways office with a large picture of Uzbekistan's only known landmark Registan. I walked into a spacious office with the A/C blasting and a cute mostly clueless secretary who called across the room for the boss to come and tell me that my luggage issues would be no problem as long as I had less than 30KGs, while I was still sure set that I had only 20KGs to use on my ticket. He even offered to take my ticket for me and we could switch places if I didn't believe him. I mockingly asked for more details on this proposition as I walked out of the office shaking my head worrying about the flight to come.
Once outside I continued my perusal and questioning of random auto-rickshaws on pricing to the Airport so I could get a decent price for the next day. I hopped back underground for the metro and headed to the southern most station which would have me walking out into the middle of the completely unexpected lovely Raj era side of town making me think I was in a heated version of London. All around me were kilometer long rectangle stretches of grass, water, and neatly planted trees. At one end was the immense India Gate looking like the Arc De Triumphe but standing as a memorial to the Indian population that were killed in the world wars. The other immense end was covered with the government complex, the president's house(formerly the British viceroy's), and the Parliament.
I walked towards neither going what i thought was west but probably was completely off. I saw on the map the listing of the National Railway Museum and on a jumpy thought decided to find a local bus and make my way there. I missed the stop talking to a local on the bus about finding an embassy with an obscure address, and I made my way back up the wide street that was far too clean. Eventually I jumped a gate since I couldn't find the entrance and got into the museum. I for about 30 minutes smiled and walked around in the heat looking at a number of large locomotives sitting complacently yet over-painted to look as if they were hiding their age. A nice sign accompanied was set next to all trains and gave it a thorough description of which British company built it, it's years of service, where it had served, and to what purpose. They also featured a few luxury cars with manikans of Rajs sitting inside looking as arrogant as could be. Inside the indoor model section was a picture of the founder who died 10 years past, looking like Clint Eastwood in a conductor's uniform squinting in the sun. I pondered for sometime how the hell he had gotten pulled into this timewarp of India before I left the museum.
Moving on, my stomach reminded me that I hadn't much for breakfast, and as I walked through the wide streets of Southern Delhi where many of the international embassies are located I knew I was not in the best place to find a cheap dhaba that would be serving Dal. My hopes gained no more passing the joint slovakian and yugoslavian embassies, and finally after a few more minutes I saw a park entrance on the opposite side of the road streaming with men going in and out, who also looked hungry. I smiled, dashed in front of the traffic and made it in. Inside, I was even more pleased than surprised to see a 3 rows of men on mats sitting in front of a hindu stuppa that was blasting out unforgivably irritating music. Each man had in front of him a plate made from palm leaves and in the fashion of the Golden Temple community kitchen, men with buckets full of either sabjhi, lentils, and a number of other tasties I couldn't begin to name served with Puri(small chapati breads) were pouring out food for everyone. I was quickly confiscated and made VIP and was sat down among them and within 20 seconds my mouth was stuffed with good free Indian food. I was full quite quickly, probably since my stomach had no time to adjust to the fact it was lunch time so suddenly, and I decided to make my exit fast before the men could make me stay longer and tell them my country, job, and amount of children. I dashed across the road again heading east in hopes this mysterious 3 Jor Bagh Road the guidebook had listed as the Irish embassy would appear before me but the only other embassy coming was the fearsome fortress of the Egyptians'. I checked the guidebook again at some point and discovered that the embassy was near the old Moghul Tomb of Emporer Safdarjung. Seeing this was still quite a distance off, I made my way to another local bus stop and asked for some help. Everyone, including the 8 or 10 school children urged me that it was this coming bus 610 and so I get on. Within two stops I figured out with numerous helpers(the children got off a stop earlier waving at me unceasingly and leaving me to get real help), I found out I was on the wrong bus and had to cross the street to pick up the 615. So I did.
After a 10 minute wait, a bus with 615 painted on it's fenders came by completely packed to the brim with some locals hanging out the open side doors. Enough people got off so that I was able to manage getting on and standing in the wonderful heat created by 200 Indians on one tiny bus. I was in luck since a nice businessman(they all are it seems) told me where Jor Bagh road was and even informed me when we had reached the closest stop to it near Safdarjung's crypt. I crossed the road and my success seemed close at hand when I reached a large house called 10 Jor Bagh. Two guards stationed out front gave me the feeling I was in an important government complex but as I moved on I realized these were just residental houses and it seemed everyone could show off their importance by hiring two slothenly men to sit on chairs outside with walkie talkies and authoritative shirts. I reached 4 Jor Bagh and the road abruptly turned in leaving me at a blind corner waiting to see an Irish Flag wavily lazily on the other side. I turn in and reach 3 Jor Bagh, which is comprised of a squat bald but timid looking guard sitting in a tall wooden box. I turn to look at the embassy and all I see is an empty scraped up house with it's bottom floors being torn apart and emptied out by 3 or 4 white dusted workers. A man on a bicycle with some tools and scraps rides out from the gate staring at me oddly as I stared at the house. I asked the guard who knew know english several times over the words Irish Embassy. He looked confused and motioned me down the long pretty street some more which was just lined with big houses and occaisonally guards. I reached two guards who were lounging with some friends and asked if there was an embassy in the area. It seemed to ring a bell, and the two guards argued for some time probably deciding who could explain it better and whose English is more fluent. The first explained it decently but still left me confused as to how to reach it, while the second used his hand as a diagram to map out the way which was easier to remember but by his directions I would end up standing across the street.
To make it short, I made a number of turns, cuts, and odd walks through alleyways where a woman ironing clothing inside a sort of wagon like overhang pointed me the way down an alley to reach a larger road. A man standing at the opening to a driveway for some houses was looking at me with the usual oddness and I said to him, "Embassy?" and pointed in a number of directions. He turned towards the driveway and pointed at the 4th house in the semi-circle, a nice grey building with well-kept hedges, and I walked towards the building labelled 230 Jor Bagh and next to it a plaque informing the exhausted reader that he had indeed found "The Embassy of Ireland". I entered to a small well cooled lobby with a water filter in the corner, blue ordinary couches lined up along next to it, and a young well dressed man sitting behind a glass window looking at some papers. I approached and greeted him before I put forth my few questions on how visas and such things work when entering Ireland. His accent was completely unidentifiable, missing the hindi push of the voice and but adding a weird jumpiness to words that didn't quite seem Irish. He seemed to know about as much as I did on the subject and picked up a phone mechanically and soon told me to sit for a few minutes and I would be receiving help soon


-Too tired to finish as of now and i can only stare at the computer for so many hours without decaying.
Davey


-----------------Khelek ha sheni----------

Sitting in the lobby of the Irish for 10 minutes gave me enough time to read over the important pamphelets near the door telling me on the beautiful places of Irelands, also a bit on its universities, and finally(though I read this one first) on its alcohol production.
Finishing up the pamphlets the inner door opened and out came a large balding yet timid looking fellow in a work suit and his cheeks quite pale and pink being a persistent sign he was living in the U.K. until recently. He had a nice accent and this Joshua, the young consul of Ireland for India, turned out to be from Dublin. He sat down on the couch across from me and within a minute had summarized and answered my few questions on entering and dealing with Ireland. I was able to ask him some personal questions and he back at me before it seemed long enough that I may be impeding on the his business-like air. Before he left he reccomended me to check just down the street a place called Lodhi Gardens, which I had eyed quickly on my guide book, and he made his way back into the embassy.

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