Worlds Apart - Part 3

6th February 2004: New Delhi, India.

Location: India
Area: 3.3 million sq km
Population: 1.1 billion
Capital: New Delhi

Stayed in bed for most of the day. Couldn’t find the courage to get up. My adventurous spirit has been a little slow to come to the fore. Don’t know whether it’s because I’m knackered from the flight, semi-comatosed from the paint fumes or the shock of being in a crappy hotel room in India with six months more crappy accommodation and uncertainty to come. To think I left behind my three-bedroom detached house and PlayStation for this. I’ve been waking up periodically; having a nibble on the remainder of the chocolate muffin I had left in my bag and taking a nip of whiskey from the hipflask. Finished off my last few remaining English smokes. Trust me, it’s a diet to die for. Managed to muster myself around 5pm when I heard voices from along the corridor. Five guys from Devon are staying in the next couple of rooms along. They seem nice enough. Had a beer with them in the hotel lounge before catching a taxi into the town centre. Sampled my first authentic Indian curry. It was a blinder although I’m conscious I’ve broken the golden Indian cuisine rule in less within a day of my arrival. So many people advised me to stick strictly to a vegetarian diet whilst I’m here. I guess it’s only a matter of time before the chicken and spices take effect and do their worst.

Delhi is very, errm … interesting. The traffic is mad, the drivers all seemingly have a death wish. I’m not convinced there’s any requirement to take a test let alone have vehicles M.O.T’d in this part of the world. There appears to be a distinct lack of order on the streets. The only stipulations would seem to be to use fuel with the highest possible lead content and to play chicken with oncoming traffic as often as possible. Utter chaos! I’m told the thick bonfire smog at night is simply pollution. As the air cools, it blankets the city, possibly what Sherlock Holmes would have referred to as a pea-souper. It also explains why my boogies are black when I blow my nose. The weather isn’t too warm, around eighteen degrees which suits me fine.

I shall sign off with the words of the great modern Irish philosopher, Keats. No, Keating isn't it? Hmm! Something about roller coasters and just having to ride them? Wise words Ronan.

8th February 2004: New Delhi.

Woke up this morning with a bit of a headache. I think it’s the paint fumes again. Was up and dressed fairly early and joined the others for our first tuk-tuk ride. Note to self, really should have checked life insurance policies and written a will before I left England. The terror of the journey dissipated as soon as we witnessed the splendour of Hamayan’s tomb. The red sandstone monument, inlaid with marble is believed to have been commissioned by Hamayan’s senior wife. I have no idea what a senior wife is but it suggests he had a few, presumably concurrently. I am also unaware how such a title would be attained: the oldest, the first, the best between the sheets?

Built nearly a hundred years earlier, it’s apparently the inspiration for the Taj Mahal. From a distance, it hardly looks real, the imposing gateway - which must be over fifty metres high - almost looked like an artist’s impression. The detail was astonishing, but nothing compared to the craftsmanship and perfect symmetry of the tomb itself, topped off with a bulbous marble dome. Surrounding the dome were what I can only describe as kiosks. Although larger and more ornate, I almost expected a policeman to emerge in white gloves and start directing traffic. Quite what they were intended for, on top of a tomb, I have no idea. Beneath all this, back at ground level, lies the central chamber housing several sarcophagi. One of them presumably belongs to Hamayan himself. There was no way of knowing; the stone coffins are only marked with a simple carved symbol - a box of writing tools for men and a writing slate for women.

The geometrically arranged gardens, crisscrossed with channels carrying water, were equally impressive. A welcome relief from the noise and smells of the city centre, the whiff of jasmine-like scent was pleasantly hypnotic.

Got back to the hotel around noon for the group briefing meeting with our Spanish tour leader. She explained the itinerary for the next couple of weeks. We’re due to be heading out into deepest Rajasthan at some point so God knows what the accommodation’s going to be like. Although it’s probably not cool to admit, I feel slightly more grounded now I’m in the bosom of a group of Westerners. I’m yet to get to know any of them particularly well but it’s good to know, some of them at least, share the same feelings of trepidation. It’s probably this spurious solidarity that helped me deal with this afternoon’s fracas. Buoyed from the ease with which we’d organised the tuk-tuks this morning – probably because even though we only paid the equivalent of fifty pence, it was still extortionately over the odds – we soon came back down to earth with a bump; no one would take us to the temple we wanted to visit. Our third rejection gave me my first introduction to beetel juice. I’d previously thought this was a film starring Michael Keaton and a young Winona Ryder but it turns out it’s also some weird red gum chewed by much of the male population of India. This masticatory habit contracts the pupils, stimulates the nervous system and increases the secretion of saliva. The tuk-tuk driver in question got so agitated with my continual map prodding, he felt the need to get rid of some of this excess red spittle down my shorts before hurtling off into the traffic … without any of us for passengers. It turns out the temple we wanted to visit was Sikh. My understanding of religion and religious beliefs is embarrassingly limited and as they say, a little knowledge is dangerous. From what I’ve been told though, the Sikh community makes up less than two percent of the population of India (although with a population this size, it’s still a heck of a lot of people). The assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi by her two Sikh bodyguards some twenty years ago led to much persecution, presumably by the Hindus. The naughty untrustworthy Sikhs deserved it you might think, but apparently the bodyguards were avenging the Gandhi regime’s decision to storm a temple where they considered terrorist activities of extremist Sikhs to be taking place. Who’s right and who’s wrong I don’t know. All I do know is it would appear, in Delhi at least, there is still a strong anti-Sikh sentiment resulting in my shorts being covered in red sputum. We eventually got where we wanted to go by citing a monument on the opposite side of the road. It was definitely worth the hassle. From the outside the temple resembled a gigantic, perfectly formed iced cake. The only contrast to the gleaming gold domes and white exterior were the windows. Each opening, void of glass, looked distinctly murky owing to the shadows cast over the narrow covered balconies. It heaved with Sikh worshippers. We were instructed to take our shoes off at the main gates and paddle through a footbath similar to something you might find at the local swimming pool. I presume this was to ‘cleanse’ our feet before we entered the grounds of the temple. Dawdling at the back as usual, I was the last of our group to be issued with the obligatory headscarf. I therefore ended up with a very flattering pink one which I had to perch on the top of my scalp due to it being too small to tie around my head in regular fashion. That should look good in the photos. We followed the other worshippers up the marble steps into the large communal prayer area. The interior was less inspiring except for the sculpted bronze cupola hanging over another smaller dome. Below, brightly coloured silk sheets were spread out and covered with flowers. Throngs of people sat cross legged on the red carpet, facing what looked like a smaller golden version of an over elaborate four-poster bed. The incessant ethereal music together with the chanting from the congregation made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

Outside the mosque was a huge pool, probably the size of a football pitch. The shallow lake was skirted by wide white marble walkways, inlaid with red, purple and magenta stones. Many colourfully dressed people stood up to their ankles in the water, wetting their heads, dabbing their cheeks and lips. Whilst the French were inventing Kronenbourg, there was a smallpox epidemic in Delhi in 1664. A chap called Harkrishan Sahib visited the temple at this time, dipping his holy feet into the lake. Anyone who drank the water was cured and pilgrims still believe in its healing powers to this day. Although I have certain ailments which are in need of a bit of attention, I didn’t take the risk. I’m convinced drinking the stagnant water would be more likely to give me diseases than cure me of any. I went for the much more civilised option of sitting cross legged and having hot Indian chai served from a large silver teapot. It’s like a very sugary tea. I’m not a religious person but as the sun set over the horizon it all felt very spiritual.

Went out into New Delhi in the evening. It was as much as we could do to haggle with/pay the driver before we were wrestled out of the tuk-tuk and mobbed by the hoards. The noise was deafening. We found ourselves surrounded by an eclectic assortment of people ranging from shop owners attempting to drag us to their respective establishments to dismembered beggars carrying small children. I, like a fish out of water, was terribly English about the whole affair, politely saying ‘no thank you’ with a slightly embarrassed smile. We bundled our way into the nearest restaurant which was ironically a Chinese. Stranger still was the fact the menu of this ‘Chinese’ mostly comprised of curry dishes. However, the food was delicious, and it was good to have a quality bonding session in the tranquillity of the restaurant, away from the madness out on the streets. There of course came a time when we had to leave and were pounced on the moment our feet hit the pavement. After a few more polite ‘no thank yous’ we managed to stumble into TGI Fridays. Considering we are supposedly the backpacking elite, venturing far and wide to immerse ourselves in alien cultures, it was somewhat absurd to find ourselves cowering from the locals in an American style diner. We hid for a while until eventually braving the outside world and a tuk-tuk ride back to the hotel. It’s an early start in the morning.

I’m still to make any firm judgements about anyone in the group. There’s a couple of people I think I could get on with although with the environment as alien as it is, I could probably forge a friendship with Jack the Ripper if he was the only Westerner I could latch on to. James, the oldest of the Devon lot, seems okay, bit of a gentle giant. Well over six feet tall he speaks with a strong archetypal farmer’s accent. The rest of his brigade, being in their late teens to early twenties, lark about a lot of the time and appear to be taking it all in their stride. Doesn’t really endear them to me. Probably jealousy but whilst I’m struggling with the culture shock the last thing I want is to be surrounded by confident under-graduates ten years my junior. There’s a short and very attractive Australian girl who seems to be a bit of a live wire. Not in a bad way, she’s just very bubbly. Don’t know her name yet but I guess she must be in her mid-twenties. She hangs around with a girl who I thought was German. I’m told she’s Swiss. From first impressions, she’s more my type, down to earth and cynical. If anyone is going to keep me anywhere near sane over the next three weeks, my hunch is it’ll be her.