No matter how many guide books you’ve read, documentaries you’ve watched or people you’ve spoken to who have experienced it for themselves, nothing can prepare you for what awaits you in India. To describe arriving in Delhi as ‘a culture shock’ would be an understatement akin to calling World War I ‘a bit of a mishap’. A chaotic concoction of sounds, sights and smells,Ra the city is an affront to the senses and a test of reflexes. Let your guard down for one moment and before you know it, you could find yourself being bustled onto a dilapidated three-wheeled rickshaw or convinced you’re getting an excellent deal on some tacky merchandise or ‘real silk’ shawls you never knew you wanted.
On our first morning in Delhi, after a sleepless night in a modern hotel room with no windows, a leaky shower that flooded the entire bathroom, and numerous switches whose function we couldn’t quite seem to fathom, Laura and I ventured out into the city on our own. Little did we know that we would spend the rest of the day being the begrudging objects of fascination and wonder, and that our ‘relaxed day out’ would turn into an exhausting battle of wills with locals trying to sell us rickshaw rides, souvenirs and dubious tickets, take photos of us and add us on Facebook. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that most people’s English was limited to the single phrase “Can I take a selfie with you?”
We’d been out the door for all of ten seconds when the first hawker sprang on us in an attempt to convince us to take a rickshaw ride. We quickly decided that the safest and most efficient way for us to avoid this situation was to take the metro straight into the town centre. This was easier said than done. Having both lived in capital cities, Laura and I are no strangers to the metro system. Unfortunately, the Delhi metro, built only twelve years ago, doesn’t work quite as you’d expect, and requires you to map out your route before you buy the little plastic token for travel. This is all very well if you speak Hindi and have a bit of a clue as to where you’re going; in the end, we just plucked for a station that looked fairly central on the map and hoped for the best.
To enter the metro (and, in fact, any other public place) you first have to put all your belongings through a scanner and be subjected to a brief but thorough body search – men on the right, women in a curtained-off cabin to the left. When you’re through all this, everything works much the same as it does in other major cities in the world; the lines are clearly signposted, and once you’re on the metro, you can follow the train’s progress by a little red dot that progresses down the metro map. Names are in Hindi and English on the map, and announcements are made in both languages too. In fact, a lot of the tube stops and quarters of Delhi have strikingly English names, such as Connaught Place and Rajendra Place.
By some miracle, we emerged at Connaught Place, right in Delhi city centre, which consists of wide, bright avenues lined with shops and restaurants housed in elegant cream buildings fronted by long stone colonnades. It isn’t at all what you’d expect to find in the capital of India – though I admit the little bubble of Tommy Hilfiger, Levis, Nandos and Subway chain stores may provide a welcome break from the surrounding disorder and chaos of the city, it seems somehow incongruous and somewhat disheartening to find that even here, you can’t escape the steady onslaught of capitalist contagion.
There is so much poverty in Delhi and in India as a whole that it’s little wonder that small-time crooks swarm here like bees around a honey pot. It took us a little over half an hour to realise that we really could trust no one but each other; several dodgy-seeming men approached us with a good Samaritan act, offering their assistance for us to find our way, and we found ourselves being led to not one but two ‘government-endorsed’ tourist offices. Previous experience having taught me to be naturally suspicious of such apparently altruistic behaviour in strangers, I realised the best approach would be to feign illness and get out of there as soon as possible – once we had obtained a much-needed map, of course.
It was early afternoon when we finally arrived at the National Museum – and, surprise surprise, contrary to the warnings of our new friends, there was no queue and no need to be wearing a sari to gain entrance (shocker, that). A few hours later, we were exhausted from a combination of jetlag, a lot of walking in the heat and a long stint at the museum, and we decided it was time to call it a day. If only it had been so easy.
First, when exiting the metro we decided to stop off at the local supermarket to buy some water. After having our bags checked and sealed with cable ties at the entrance, we discovered that there was no water in stock – how could that be?! Irritated at the wasted effort, we tried to make our way back to the hotel, only to discover that our way was blocked by an enormous pile of rubble. This was possibly related to the fact all the government-employed workers had been on strike for the past ten days, as an act of protest at not having received their salary for the previous five months. So, we retraced our steps along the busy dual carriageway (which, incidentally, didn’t have a pavement), dodging small children, leery men on motorbikes and a woman carrying a stack of bricks on her head.
Along the way, a tiny little girl who couldn’t have been more than five years old made a beeline for us and started to beg for money. Our hearts were breaking but we knew we couldn’t risk stopping and giving her money, exposed as we were, two white girls wandering alone at dusk in a strange city. When she started to pull on my clothes I panicked, and we broke into a run, only to find ourselves completely lost. Reaching the refuge of a hotel off the main street, we asked for directions, which were given to us, but not before a hopeful sales pitch from the receptionist, who enquired hopefully as to whether we definitely had a reservation at this other hotel.
It had been an exhausting and eye-opening day, but we had survived to tell the tale. And what better way to end it than with an enormous, hearty curry.
Chronicles of a Globetrotter 