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| 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.
