The calm before the storm: learning to deal with the denizens of Delhi, buying suits and doing general travel things.

After leaving New Zealand (sniff sniff) and a ‘quick’ seven hour stop over in Singapore, I arrived in Delhi at 6am. Fortunately the flight was only a third full and I was able to switch to an empty middle row and get five hours sleep. My only regret is that I missed the last five minutes of ‘Blood Diamond’ on the Auckland-Singapore leg, stupid not timing it right with the landing. But there were no soppy love scenes to fast forward! I wonder what happened once he got to London?

I had previously printed out thirty pages of Lonely Planet regarding Delhi so I was well prepared for the onslaught – not. As I tried to cross the terminal to get to an ATM machine to withdraw cash, I was accosted by my first insurgent, “R250 taxi to Delhi”, the proper price being R150. I say insurgent because it is now a war between me and those that want my money any way that they can. Anybody looking remotely like a tourist is a walking ATM machine, and for good reason. Life in India is cheap, very cheap. The stray dogs and stray Hindu cows that roam the streets look in better health than much of the population. Dogs sleep on the side of the street in piles of rubbish next to people asleep in the same piles of rubbish. I am nearly at the stage where as they approach I want to bat the three year old kids begging then tugging then cursing when I don’t give them anything. Thank the invisible flying spaghetti monster for social services in the countries which have them.

Parhar Ganj - Main Bazaar

I managed to get the prepaid voucher form the ‘Delhi Traffic Police Prepaid Taxi Booth’ in the airport and for a princely sum of R250 I got the scariest taxi ride into Delhi of my life. Fortunately for me I have a slight suicidal cum fairground ride streak, and cannot think anything more exhilarating than holding on for dear life as traffic toots and mangles its way along. How there aren’t more accidents or deaths I do not know. As we pulled up to Parah Ganj the taxi driver tried to convince me that I should go to a suburb that wasn’t this one as it was very ‘unpleasant’ to put it nicely. Not want to be put off by a challenge I said no this was fine and proceeded to freak out whilst wandering my way up and down the street looking for a place to stay.

To say the state of the rooms was dire is an understatement: no windows, grimy bathrooms, lack of air conditioning cause oh my god it is so hot and humid. I eventually settled on a ‘very friendly’ place at R350 for the night. Dumping my bags I went for a wander only to besieged by the insurgents. The main kind are the rickshaw and three wheel motor scooters continuing to ask if you want a ride. The main trick to dealing with them is when they say ‘hello’ you completely ignore them and look at everything else. Looking obviously through them is another great trick. When they are incredibly persistent the only way to get rid of them is to cut them off by steering them into oncoming traffic, this tends to give the hint.

Hindu cows in Parhar Ganj

The second type of insurgent is more insidious and difficult to combat. These are the conmen who are trying to get you to: go to the nearest ‘real’ tourist office, get you lost so they can then demand what they like, take you to some business from which they get commission, or far more nefarious plot which I cannot possibly imagine. Being the friendly guy that I am I kept striking up frustrating conversations with people over and over again. It is like ground hog day:

  1. Namastay (hello).
  2. Do you speak English?
  3. What country are you from?
  4. Do you like Delhi?
  5. Where are you going?
  6. Tourist info, my shop, your kidney removal, is this way.

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Eventually I got sick of the munchkins and let one take me for a wander so I could learn how their game worked.  I told him I wanted to go to Connaught Place, and he said ‘follow me’. ‘Did I have a girlfriend’, ‘do I like Indian girls’, was followed by come down this road, “main road”. At which point, well aware that I was being led astray I pulled out my map and showed him that we were going in the opposite direction to which I had asked. Ah that was satisfying. He threw his hands up in the air and left in a hurry. Didn’t matter though, as soon as he left I had two more immediately began following me.

My trick now is similar to the municipal transport staff, ignore and stare through them. If this fails and they persist since hey are on foot they cannot be easily guided into oncoming traffic. I then tend to be either blunt or sarcastic with them. ‘I am not going in your direction’ or the variation which is to semi-agree to follow them and when they have moved slightly away either cross the street, change direction or stop. They hate being made a fool of. When I am really bored and I haven’t spoken to an insurgent in ten minutes or so I might strike up conversation to learn a bit more about Delhi. This can be done by answering the obligatory six questions, and then saying that I like Indian people but don’t like the ones that are always trying to con me, that most people are nice but when they are trying to talk just to lure me to a tourist office, their shop or some other agenda then they aren’t very nice people. At which point the insurgents have given me the Indian finger rule. Indian people are like the five fingers on your hand, all different and unique, some good some bad. I don’t think their English is good enough to understand the meaning of the word irony. Once past this point and we start talking about how many brothers and sisters they have, where they went to school, where they have travelled, what are their favourite parts of India, do ‘they’ have a girlfriend etcetera etcetera, they realise that all they are doing is wasting their time in a non-paying conversation and try and extricate themselves as quickly as possible.

The first day in Delhi had one purpose and one purpose only – to buy tailor made suits. I found the Vedi tailor recommended out of the Lonely Planet, got a price and an indication of fabric and proceeded to wander around a nearby fabric market haggling prices. It was quite a bit of fun, especially when I wasn’t too keen on a particular thread. Unfortunately I was only just beginning to hone my haggling skills, a veritable beginner thrown to the lions. Currently I am awaiting two perfectly fitting light and charcoal grey pinstripes.

Connaught Place

New Delhi is a set of circular roads called Connaught Place which surrounds Central Park. When ever I got tired of the over-stimulation of Delhi, I retreated into the centre of the park and sat on the grass, as many of the denizens are wont to do. Whilst sitting people would come and sit for a bit to practise their English. Five Sikh boys who were bunking school came and sat beside me and another boy Siskender told me afterwards that they were mocking me in Hindi. More fool them, I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Siskender, whose name is the Hindi version of Alexander was in the twelfth year of school and was very keen to try out his English on me. In return I used him as a single serving friend and we went for a wander around Connaught Place whilst he was waiting for his physics lecturer. He bought me a pineapple juice for R5. I offered to pay for lunch but he was very proud and wouldn’t let me. It was my first Indian curry and it cost R35. I couldn’t finish because it was too spicy hot.

Suit mission accomplished, with nothing to do for the afternoon and unable to do any serious site seeing (as Olly and I are supposed to be doing that after Ladakh) I decided to check out the Khan Market. This is Delhi’s high street shopping area with international chains and very expensive local stores. In one of the papers I read a comparison of square metre property prices between expensive streets around the world, apparently Khan Market area stacks up. I bought a coffee in a book store cafe (I was craving some western comforts) for R130 in Indian terms this is unattainable for 99% of the population. I felt like Michael Caine’s character in the Quiet American, sitting in rooftop cafe whilst the malnourished and poor wandered the streets below. It is a very strange feeling, so many emotions all intertwining. Relief that my set of neurons appeared in a Western country, helplessness at the impossibility of being able to do anything, smugness at the thought of being wealthy beyond comparison, anger at the standard of living we have achieved and has not occurred here. I can only hope that as more trade occurs, peoples expectations rise in both political and economic ways that the people of this country as a whole will be able to help themselves. It feels like I am leaf in a hurricane here, giving someone R100 would really help, but the torrent of people coming is endless.

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