Day 1 - India

Submitted by Rupert on November 6, 2005 - 21:10.

We arrived at the airport to be greeted by a long, slow moving queue with too few passport control officers. Bob observes that he has already found several jobs for India’s considerable numbers of unemployed. I am pleasantly surprised however when I reach the airport control officer: instead of the usual surly bad tempered tyrant I have come to expect, I am greeted by a smiling, joking gentleman who upon looking at my passport photo comments on the changing nature of life and hair growth!

Once outside the airport and having had to wait for Zulfiqar with his Pakistani passport, we are met by smiling faces who direct us aboard a stylish 1960’s ‘medium’ bus. Myna birds and house crows add to the rumble of traffic and the beep of horns, the smell of petro-chemicals pervades the air, dogs are slumped in shady corners, trees and bushes line the roads; leaves coated in a layer of dust, little shacks selling heaven knows what, children and youth playing cricket, mopeds with father and mother, sitting side-saddle in saris, and children jammed in around them, little green and yellow rickshaws like beetles sliding in and out between the buses, cars, bikes and mopeds.

We arrive at the India International Centre – a haven of peace and tranquillity. I sit, enjoying a cup of tea, watching a black kite perched in a tree. Below a ring-necked parakeet feeds on pink flower blossom and below that I have my first view of a white-breasted kingfisher dipping into the lilly pond to catch a fish. I like this place!

We head out into the humming throng that is Old Delhi, stopping on the way at the craft market with its tall shady trees and gentle stall holders who we buy shawls and shoes from – oh and a nodding tiger. The Red Fort is, as I understand it, Delhi’s former seat of power and it is here that we make our way to, through a throng of hawkers pushing postcards, flying whurzlers, and other assorted items that I try not to take too much notice of. The fort is impressive with its towering red walls, towers, arches and palaces for sleeping, dancing and bathing. It is possible to breathe in a taste of the grandeur of the past here but it has been stripped and pillaged of its fine marketry, marble, semi-precious stones, and inset glass ceilings. Our earnest guide, who has led groups here for 30 years in the footsteps of his father, tells us that it was first the Persians who stripped these palaces followed by the British who took hundreds of tonnes of marble to Calcutta and beyond.

Our ‘trip’ from the Red Fort to Karims restaurant was one I will never forget. We crossed the street once again through the street sellers; somewhat subdued as night has quickly fallen. We cross the road into something almost beyond description. A jam of human bodies, tents and stalls, shouts and music, smells assault the nose, and through this cacophony of bizarre humanity we make our way – and at some speed; I try to keep an eye on the familiar head bobbing through the crowd ahead without loosing the friendly face following me behind. A wall of denim on my right going for half a mile or more interspersed with stretches of jackets and jumpers and on my left stretching out and away from me more jumpers, shirts, pants, clothes, clothes, clothes. We reach the end – and we are all still together – now though we are in a street and cars, bikes, mopeds, rickshaws – motorized and pedalled bare down on us. Stalls with every kind of fruit on little carts line the side of the road. We pause to wait for stragglers and I catch the steady eye of a turbaned man sitting cross legged on a cart amongst a pile of lemons – he grins at me baring two goofy teeth – he has the air of a sage; peaceful and wise.

I realize at this point that we don’t know which way to go and wonder for how long this situation has been going on. We backtrack slightly and head off down a relatively clear road, though road seems hardly the right word for this potholed lane with overhanging trees and people lying on a bank of rubble and rubbish on one side. This route is shared by builders merchants and clothe sellers. Garage-like shops are stuffed full of these traders’ wares. Piles of sand slope up from our feet – there’s someone shovelling at the back – I can see his head over the sand – and above him stuck in the ceiling is a bed. We are enjoying this street and we slow our pace; dim lights glow and small groups squat out front sucking on beedies the cheap Indian cigarettes. 

There’s a brief discussion and a decision that –‘no we don’t know where we’re going’. There is plenty of help on hand and we are soon following a guide; the road narrows and a crowd evolves – a shout and then a cry and BUMP – a bicycle has collided with the back of my legs! No harm done and we are off again.

We finally reach Karim’s restaurant, small children hanging off some of us asking for money and food. The return journey is one up the social scale of transport. We climb up onto the pedalled rickshaws – 2 persons on each. Weaving in and out of the traffic is alarming and I hold on tight twisting my body to avoid a side impact with oncoming buses and cars but our cyclist is expert at his trade and intimately knows the width of his vehicle. We are soon on a corner waiting for the return of our bus. It is interesting to stand in one place for a few minutes and I realize that in this maelstrom of apparently chaotic activity there is in fact some serious and efficient policing going on. I begin understand the role of the many army and police officials on roads and street corners.

Well - this was just the first day and I have many unanswered questions and half formed observations. It has been everything I thought India would be and much more – what a richness of crazy organized chaos.


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