Touching down in New Delhi International, I couldn’t believe
it: we landed right in the middle of a sandstorm. Planes only two terminals away were almost entirely
lost in the softly glowing sand colored haze.
Stepping into it, however, I was horrified to realize that
New Delhi wasn't suddenly stricken by a sand storm or anything like that – the
sandy haze was rather part of the city’s permanent condition. The dust and the smog are so omnipresent I
found I could stare at the midday sun without penalty. A sun that looks far away, like it’s too
timid to come any closer.
I’d read heaps in preparation for my visit, and I’m glad I
did. From a mile away, anyone could tell me
as a westerner, and as such, I found myself almost universally bombarded as a skinny
beardless Santa Claus with a bag full of rupees. If I didn't already know ahead of time how to
navigate and avoid the myriad scams rampant in New Delhi, I surely would have
been eaten alive by touts and con artists.
Nothing, however, can prepare you for the experience of
being here. New Delhi traffic makes
getting around in Manhattan look like baby town frolic. Pedicabs, trucks, and rickshaws whirl about
in a flying frenzy, leaving mere centimeters of clearance as they dodge
pedestrians, cows, and goats, and each other, even at high speeds, and up to
six vehicles across in two lanes of traffic.
My time so far has been excruciatingly bogged down by logistical
issues. My hostel was hidden smack dab
in the middle of Paharganj, which has to be one of the most congested places in
the world (though I feel like I'm probably going to have to eat those words later). Every space is occupied by
people, motor vehicles, and animals.
Every alley way is packed with guest lodgings next to footwear vendors
next to samosa stands next to five guys peeing against a wall. The air is a pungent cocktail of turmeric,
carbon monoxide, and feces, garnished with the whistle of firecrackers and a
thousand klaxons.
The morning of my second day was nearly entirely consumed at
the New Delhi train station. Despite the
urgency with which New Delhians drive, they are remarkably patient in other affairs; for
instance: the pedicab driver who stopped for a cigarette break or the one lady at the
information desk, who was serving the hundreds there, taking personal
calls. I spent at least two hours in
queues, and learned that none of the trains in my first week and a half of
itinerary had any availability and that the office was not taking credit cards
at the moment. I had to walk nearly a
kilometer to find an ATM that actually had cash in it, rebuild in a moment an
itinerary I had worked on for months, and make two trips back to have them
correct mistakes they made in processing my tickets.
So it probably sounds like everything’s been terrible so
far, and well, things have been
pretty terrible so far. But it’s amazing
what a shower and a good night’s rest can do.
Last night before I went to bed, a man in an alley paused while getting
a straight razor shave to tell me, “you have an Indian face,” while gesturing
towards my mustache, “a nice Indian face.”
Those were the first words I heard all day without the hope of profit
lurking behind them. I decided to let
that be a turning point. New Delhi was
just one of the many faces India has to offer.
I finally have my affairs in order, I’ve acclimated (or at least I have
a bit), and I’m finally optimistic again.
And it only took one day of “Oh God, what have I done!?!” to get this
way. More: my next stop is Khajuraho,
where I’ve been invited as a guest to a wedding. An Indian wedding. Yes please.
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