Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Delhi, Day One: Preparation is Futile



Masala Mutts--they're everywhere
Everyone I know who has traveled to India told me some version of “It’s overwhelming/dirty/desperately poor”. Or they kept quiet and rolled their eyes. Nothing prepares one for the sensory overload. In some travel guide or other, I learned I should ignore the plentiful cab drivers that hovered just outside the new airport doors (no admittance without a boarding pass, which made getting back in a little tough). I overheard a family say they were headed to the police booth and I tagged along behind them; at the stand, I paid my 320Rp ($6.10). Immediately a taxi driver who claimed to be “my” driver grabbed my receipt and ticket. I showed him the printed address of the hotel: he looked puzzled and recruited a buddy to help figure it out. I didn’t think until later that perhaps English lettering may not have been all that easy to decipher for these fellows—especially when I learned a lot of kids are pulled out of school early.
Feeling paranoid, I grabbed my suitcase, hopped out of his cab and went back to the prepaid police line, where they pointed out the number written on the top of the receipt (duh). I went to the appropriate stall number, and caught a cab. Late at night, the pollution was alarming. The driver kept coughing and the air was so thick it looked like heavy fog.

All the cabbies were blameless: I was to find that the address Intrepid tours had given me for the hotel was a general area—the many-blocks-long and wide Channa Market in the section of New Delhi know as Karol Bagh W.E.A (West Extension Area); the street the hotel was on—like almost all the streets outside the fancy areas of Delhi—was a partially paved dirt road with no name. We drove around for a bit, asking various passersby where “Suncourt Corporate” was, and finally found it. Then I performed my first faux paux of the trip (at least the first one I knew about)—I tipped the driver 10Rp, and he looked at it incredulously. I got used to that look, when I found it didn’t matter how much or how little—but still, it was too little by a good 40Rp, as I was informed by the man who showed me to my room when I asked about tipping etiquette (Lesson one: EVERONE gets a tip, and 30Rp is considered cheap, 50Rp just OK). I had my first ice-cold bucket bath that night (“Just let the water run for five minutes”—famous words repeated at several hotels)—there was squatting seat, a big bucket, a small bucket and a shower; it was less painful to soap up and just rinse the slippery bits than stand under the icy flow. I was also introduced to what we Intrepid travelers (I had booked a tour with Intrepid Travel out of Australia) came to call “the garden hose”. A short hose with a press-type handle, the garden hose is attached to the wall in all classy bathrooms, and it’s de rigueur to give yourself a shot after using the toilet. Don’t judge me—I came to love it. This, being a tourist hotel, provided hand-rolled, carefully wrapped and taped toilet paper. I didn’t know it, but I was already being spoiled.


To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

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