So it begins…again.
Delhi, Delhi, Delhi.
Why have we written this capacious city’s name three times? Because we have remained here for three days longer than initially intended.
Is that due to its salubrious skyline? The senuous aroma of a distant, exotic, foreign city with an array of enticing smells and spices? A sense of kinship with the people who reside here?
Oh, no. Of course not.
Delhi is swathed with a thick, viscous cloud of pollution. Everything on the road – cars, buses, rikshaws, bicycles and cows – is perpetually rummaging around without any direction or care for the law. In the distance, the relentless sound of car horns beeping has become entrenched in the atmosphere. Another beep, another accident. Or at least, so we assume.
The sheer sense of inequality is salient and unconcealed. Upon arriving – past midnight – in the city we requested for our driver to stop by a local ATM; we had to silently tip-toe across streams of sleeping, starving, and fragile homeless people who were living amongst docile dogs to reach the enclosed, air-conditioned money dispenser.
So, “why are you still here” we can hear the impatient reader screaming.
That, you see, is the problem.
We have no choice.
We propose that any political or philosophy professor who fervently defends the facade of ‘free will’ ought to visit Delhi. They would leave disillusioned and distraught, with the foundations of their life having disintegrated like smouldering ash.
Thus, the story so far:
On our first day we toured Delhi. The city is colossal, with no distinctive central hub. We visited Humayun’s Tomb, the Bahai/Lotus Temple, Qutb Minar, the President’s residence, India Gate, Raj Ghat, Jaman Manjid, a Hindu temple and the Red Fort – not that those of those sights will have any significance to most of you.
Humayun’s Tomb was the architectural inspiration for the Taj Mahal. We were initially apprehensive about spending the 250rs entry fee, but in retrospect, it was undoubtedly worth the money. The complex was large and expansive, with the structure’s emollient white marble juxtaposing against the ruddy red brick stone. It’s immaculately clean setting provided an idyllic break from Delhi’s raucous streets.
The Bahai Temple was carved like a lotus flower. It was reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House with its huge, white, oval enclaves protruding up to the stars.
Raj Ghat is the burial site of the exalted Indian figurehead, Ghandi. There was a tranquil aura surrounding the vicinity, with the sound of a drum being beated like an ebbing pulse every second, by a humble disciple.
Appertaining the other sights, whilst some were impressive, they are not worth mentioning in any great detail.
Now, the problem.
First, we were charged double for the hotel room we stayed in during our first two nights due to miscommunication. Jakey’s robust and uncompromising bartering skills finally met their match as after thirty minutes of exasperating arguments, he finally conceded to the manager.
He demanded four courtesy bottles of water as compensation (just so that he could claim some form of victory), which was, at least, duly given to us.
They may have won the battle, but we won the war!
Following that frustrating event, we decided to leave Delhi immediately. After a tuk-tuk drive to the ‘official’ Indian tourism office in Connaught Place, we purchased a bus ticket to Srinagar – a Himalayan mountain town. One problem: It was supposedly meant to be leaving within thirty minutes.
Our driver from the tourism office rampaged through the bustling and saturated streets without discernment or remorse; he drove down a one-way street the wrong way, with five lanes of traffic ahead of us; he manouevered past buses and cars with mere millimetres occupying the space between the two.
Pepe found the ride exhilarating.
Jakey slept throughout.
We arrived on time. Upon arrival at the dormant bus station however, we were told that the bus was full for the next three days.
There were less than a dozen people in the area.
Thus we were subsequently driven back to the tourist agency.
A dilemma emerged. We had already paid for the bus ticket and there was scarcely any chance for a refund. Delhi was exuberant, but only in degenerated ways, and we were desperate to leave. ‘Bond’, the shrewd but affable salesman offered us a flight to Srinagar for the following day, at the expense of 30 pounds extra with five nights accommodation and meals included in the price. He also offered to house and feed us for the night in Delhi.
With few other options except to abandon our bus fare, we duly obliged.
The remainder of the day was spent witnessing the squalid slums of Delhi and then subsequently relaxing back in the apartment.
At night Bashir, the residence’s obseqious servant, cooked us an authentic Indian dish and mused over his deficient sexual life. After dinner we spoke to Halil, one of the residences of the house, who recited such original love poems as:
“Red is for blood
as blood is for heart
as heart is for me.
Your heart is mine!”
And so forth…
We awoke in the morning at ate breakfast, prepared for our flight and impending altitude sickness.
Mere minutes before we were due to leave, the phone rang.
It was for us.
‘Bond’ greeted us over the telephone line.
“There is problem” we were informed, “the plane no longer functioning until tomorrow.”
What could we do? They had our money. We wanted to travel north and this tourism agency was genuinely official (it is even mentioned in the Lonely Planet).
Nevertheless, it became a self-evident truth.
This was a scam. Or so Pepe believes.
Jakey argues otherwise.
The hospitable agency entreated us to relax and rest for the day.
If only that was possible in Delhi.
Adios amigoes!
P.S. Check out the pictures in ‘Summer Travels 2007′ and ‘action/flickr photographs’; the former is of us and more encompassing whereas the latter is of more intricate shots taken on an SLR.
P.P.S. We will (hopefully if time permits us) upload videos too, so check them out too.
P.P.P.S. Please comment. It makes us happy.
