Holi

Gender roles, caste categories, and age all serve to stratify society and disconnect people from each other in India.  During Holi, everybody throws paint or dye on each other, masking the distinctions temporarily.

Wandering around town, you see hot pink faces, purple dogs, green hair and clothes recently bombed by color. You turn each corner wondering if you’re going to get it next. I didn’t bring my camera for this reason.

I wouldn’t have even been out there except that I woke up thirsty there was nothing open. What to do but wander around and hope for an open door.

As the afternoon wore hotter and longer, the thought of begging at a hotel for some clean water struck me frequently. The desperation and number of real, starving beggars around (that I habitually refuse) warranted more restraint. I wasn’t dying.

Returning home with a dry throat and empty-stomached, I found that the gate to my building was locked. Anxiety and then a flash flood of anger. First they don’t tell me about everything being closed for Holi, then they close their restaurant, and now they’ve locked me out. Some hospitality. I was pissed. I probably looked mad yelling through the gate.

Thirst, hunger, heat and inconvenience had made me irritable. That’s still a good condition to be in. Throw a stone in any direction and you’re bound to hit somebody who’s got things a lot worse.

I walked down to the river behind the village for the first time, hoping to have a seat there and contemplate life quietly. It was something that I’d been meaning to do since I arrived.

Largely stagnant and literally as black as oil, the river reeked horribly of raw sewage and worse. Semi-submerged debris sailed by miserably in the weak current. Parts of it bubbled as if farting and I spat as the heaviness of the shitty odour settled on my revolted taste buds. Alongside this sodden catastrophe, plastic garbage was scattered thickly enough that I couldn’t see the ground in most areas; where I could see it, make-shift tents of sticks and discarded burlap served as houses to dusty, starving families. Oh Delhi… the many ways you dishearten.

Walking back, a dishevelled and naked old man with a long white beard was yelling at me and almost got hit by a car while he tried to dress himself on the street. As I walked past I noticed that he’d been splash by hot pink dye in his face. Thin as a rope, he was swooping his arms into bizarre gestures and still yelling at me. I tried to ignore him. Happy Holi you lunatic. Or maybe he was one of those enlightened sadhus I hear so many great things about.

With the shops all closed and the people off celebrating, only the beggars remained on the streets; them and a few monks. Especially depressing are the children. Presumably, they’re sent out by a parent knowing tourists pity the young more than the old. Beggars with no children put their own pity on display instead. An unkept man smelling of urine sitting in the middle of the filthy walkway, groping at passers-by, pointing to a festering wound on his leg attracting flies—he’s emotionally indignant that I didn’t give him money. Somehow his brain says I owe it to him. Others scam. They stealthily put shit on your shoe and then, walking by, pretended to be surprised and offer to clean them. Then there are the folks that walk around with Q-tips they’ve found somewhere: “Ear cleaning sir?” Hell no.

I got home and yelled through the gate until somebody came and opened it. I resisted the urge to punch him.   

I survived Holi and I’ve had enough of smelling and seeing terrible things. Now I want to leave. 

Tomorrow: food, water, and Rishikesh.

How to do Delhi:

Before you go:

Visa:

To obtain a 3 month tourist visa is done easily from the Indian embassy in whichever country you live in, or more commonly, via the web. When I got my own, I happened to live in Korea though I was not a resident, and I dealt with the Indian Embassy in Korea. Google whichever Indian Embassy is closest.

As the visa is attached to your passport, part of the procedure involves either couriering your passport to their office or showing up in person. They will send it back within a week or so.

Downloading the application form can be done from their website.

The procedure requires is a fee, which, in my case (a Canadian), was about 60 dollars Cdn. 

Bring:

Pack as light as humanly possible.  The following items are what I consider essentials.

-         A discrete money belt to fasten around your torso will be wanted for holding your passport, emergency money, credit cards, and anything small but hugely valuable. Uncomfortable as this might be, it reduces the likelihood of being pick-pocketed out of something truly valuable.

-         Your back-pack is going to be your house while you’re traveling. Get a decent one.

-         Money. Obvious. Before going, it will be wise to do two things. First, bring with you about 10,000 rupees at least. Also, open a Citibank account and put your vacation funds in there. Most bank machines in Delhi (in India) will be able to draw from there.  I live off of about 500-700 rupees a day and though I’m not splurging, I’m not suffering, either. Nor am I particularly shrewd, nor a well-seasoned traveler. However, I do try to avoid being fleeced, which is where the next item can be important…

-         Lonely Planet or some equally informative travel guide will be your bible. Buy an up-to-date version and keep it with you. Read it often.  On the toilet, waiting for a meal, as night time reading—read it.  When you arriving anywhere, get a local to point out where you are on the corresponding map inside. Navigating the city and negotiating taxi or auto-rickshaw prices will be much, much easier with this. Also, it is invaluable when you start buying bus or train tickets.  

-         Clothes you’ll need, but heaps of them. One rule of thumb is two of everything. One you wash and hang to dry in your hotel, the other you wear. Switch and repeat. I’ve found this to be a good way to do business. However, if you’re leaving Delhi to go to the mountains, you’ll need more clothes as it gets cold and rainy.

-         A handful of other small things I highly recommend: Anti-bacterial gel for waterless hand-washing, a flashlight with extra batteries for Delhi’s frequent power outages, multi-vitamins to maintain a healthy immune system and ear-plugs so that sleeping is actually a possibility.

-         Everything else is optional. The question of a laptop and/or a nice camera is one you’ll have to decide for yourself. The negatives are that they’re heavy, bulky, and something to worry about.

Nearly everything else can be easily obtained in Delhi, probably cheaper than what you’re going to pay where you live. If you’ve packed and still have plenty of room in your bag, then you’re on the right track. You have some room for the beautiful and cheap things Delhi offers on the streets.

Arrival:

I’m assuming that you don’t have somebody waiting for you at the airport. If you do, then you're lucky. Also, you don't need to read this.

So, you arrive and the acrid air, countless people in striking attire and appearance, slew of unfamiliar languages as well as the colossal size of the both the airport and the city beyond is intimidating you. Don’t panic.  Get your luggage go find somewhere to sit down to find a little calm. Good. Now, on the far left and right of the airport passenger exit are little booths. First, go to the one for hotels and get a room that’s within your budget (since you’re dealing with the airport, a ‘budget’ hotel will still be relatively costly—around 1600 for the cheapest). Now you have a place to sleep. Next, go to the next booth and get a pre-paid taxi. DO NOT GET JUST SOME TAXI OUTSIDE. YOU'LL BE SCAMMED. Show the pre-paid taxi clerk where you’re staying (on the ticket you just received from the hotel booth), and s/he'll sell you another ticket which you’re going to give to the pre-paid taxi—a car which is yellow and black—and the driver will then take you to your hotel. 

Now, keep both sets of tickets in a safe place. 

There are bank machines in the airport. If you need to use a bank machine, now is the time.

You may now leave the airport.

And enter a world of scam.  In the crowds of people there is the sad but inevitable fact: countless charlatans are attracted to the new arrivals, their money, and their being overwhelmed.  Anybody who approaches you should be automatically and categorically suspected. This is not pathological paranoia; it is accurate assessment. Note also that it is not your life that is in danger (in 99.99% of cases); they’re just after your money.  Now, what you’re looking for is the lane for pre-paid taxis, and there are people who are going to claim that they drive a pre-paid taxi (or a million other things) to try to get your ticket, which is worth money. They even buy black cars and paint yellow on them to match the descriptions you hear from pre-paid booths. Do not be led anywhere. To get to the pre-paid taxis, walk across the first asphalt lane of traffic and parked vehicles, and along the second lane you’ll see the black and yellow taxis. There are signs with numbers where each of these beaten up cars are parked, and there should be a number on your ticket. Find the sign that matches your ticket, and this driver will take you to where you’re going. If you cannot find the pre-paid taxis or yours in particular, go to a police officer or a pre-paid ticket booth outside, and ask. Follow the directions and not those of anybody who happened to be eavesdropping and wants to show you the way.  

Once you’ve got your taxi, avoid giving the driver your ticket until you get to your destination. And make sure that you’re at the right hotel before you get out. This sounds like a hassle and it can be, and it can also be intimidating. 

[Note that if you’re a female lone traveler, extra caution would be prudent. Bring a cellular phone, and give the license plate number to the nearby tourist police--and do it when the taxi driver is looking. One lone traveler was killed by a taxi-driver leaving the Delhi airport in 2004. Although the traveler was described as 'clueless', India travelers will tell you differently--she used pre-paid taxis, which are government sponsored and should presumably be safe.  Take extra precautions.]
 

Upon arrival to your hotel, present the front desk clerk with your hotel ticket and you’ll be given a room.  Now, chill out. Maybe spend some time with your lonely planet going over the details of your next move. . . 

A helpful forum for anything India-related is India Mike.

Delhi, India, February 12/2011

Arrival in Delhi

The plane touched down in Delhi at 9:30, local time. The smog was visible from inside the airport, a haze that drifted through the fluorescent lights, tasting faintly like burnt tires.

I sat on a bench hugging my backpack. My resolve to stay there the night and avoid hotel bills lasted about an hour.  I felt small, foreign and on display there, filled as it was with all manners of the unfamiliar: countless languages, turbines, long beards, flashy saris, suits, and people who generally seemed to know where they were going.

At one of the booths I paid 200 rupees for a taxi that would drive me to an over-priced hotel at which I’d just booked a room.  “Go to the yellow and black taxis outside sir”, the man said, “and give him your receipt. He will take you to your hotel”. 

No problem, right?

My First Scam

Outside the chaos thickened. More varieties of people, more vendors, and every sort of transportation you can imagine was there except my ride, the black and yellow taxis.  A face in the crowd hollered at me: “Prepaid taxis are over there”. His finger pointed into the gloom beyond.  I walked hesitantly in that direction, memorized by all the weird little cars and the awesome diversity of people and noises. The face came at me, saying, “here, follow me”.  So he led me down a ramp into an underground passage, making small talk about where I’m from and whatnot.  I remembered that my researches of India informed me that ‘anybody who appears to be helping you is somebody who you should be very sceptical about’.  Alarm.

“Do you work for the airport?” I asked him. 

“Yes”, he said, followed by some “blah blah blah blah”. 

It was a leading question I quickly realized and I should just asked him why he was helping me, or casually asked what he did for a living.  Oh well.

Up the ramp we went, surfacing on the other side of the lanes of traffic. He called the so-called taxi driver on his cellular.  It felt sketchy.

“So, a yellow and black taxi is coming then?” I asked, trying to feel like I was on top of things.

“Oh yes of course”.

What came was a black car with yellow tape over the top and a yellow sticker on the side with something written in Hindi.  When I got in, my discomfort deepened upon seeing that there was not only a driver but also somebody in the passenger seat.  We departed.  I scanned for weapons and saw nothing.

We drove into the smoggy darkness of crumbling roads and sprawling wasteland while the two in the front talked in hushed tones.  One turned back to me, asking, “Is this your first time in India?”

“No”, I lied.  “I’ve been here a few times.  I’m meeting a friend at that hotel on the receipt. He’s expecting me”. 

“Oh. He is an Indian friend?”

“Yes” I lied again.  My mouth was dry, palms sweaty—symptoms of deep anxiety.  We were well into the slums now and I felt pretty over-whelmed and vulnerable. Out the window I saw dogs fighting, dilapidated buildings missing entire walls and the guts spilled into the littered streets where the many homeless wandered. Fires burned, shadowy figures crisscrossed, neon signs flickered and we were doing circles.

“I can’t find your hotel sir”. The two men stopped the car, claiming that they could take me to another hotel instead, or let me out there, on porch of hell.  With a strength I didn’t feel, I told them pretty sternly to take me back to the airport so I could find a competent taxi.  They said they would, on the condition that I leave the taxi receipt with them. So back we went.

The airport, which only 20 minutes ago seemed so vast and alien was such a relief to return to, chaotic, uncaring, but comparatively safe. I got out of the taxi and left.

I had to buy another prepaid taxi, and the man at the counter explained that this was a common scam.

The second attempt was a success.  I got to the hotel, searched the place for insects or other pests, found none, and slept restlessly while outside the dogs of Delhi barked.

 

Booking Transportation to Dharamsala

I stayed in Delhi for a little over 2 days, more or less against my will.

I was staying at the International Inn—a hotel which, despite the slummy neighbourhood but likely due to its proximity to the airport, exceeded the budget I’d set myself. It was 2200 rupees a night. In so far that it had a sit-down toilet, I guess it was a classy joint.

After spending a day wasting effort trying to reach my destination, the next morning, full of stoic optimism, I set out for the 3^rd time to the airport in the hopes of booking a flight into Dharamshala, home of the 14^th incarnation of the exiled Dali Lama of Tibet. I knew that Kingfisher airlines had flights from Delhi to the Gaggal airport—situated a mere 20 km from Dharamsala.

Plan: 1) go to airport, 2) buy ticket, 3) fly.

No problem, right?

Nobody at the airline counter seemed to know what the hell I was talking about. Was Lonely Planet and the internet lying? Had things changed?  I went to every airline booth and still, nobody knew where Dharamsala was, or the name of the airport nearby. Three hours later, my optimism frayed at the edges of frustration, I conceded failure and went back to the hotel.  A good sleep, more internet research, and I’d figure it all out.  I pushed back the urge to just get the next flight back home…not knowing where home was exactly, Korea or Canada.  With that thought, I fought back the feelings of being lost, rudderless and alone. 

At the hotel the receptionist, a friendly-seeming fellow and surprised to see me again, asked why I was back. Too tired to fake an air of competence, I threw my cards on the table, admitting that I was having difficulties getting to where I wanted to go. “So sir, please book me another room”.

He told me that he could set up the flight for me. A phone call later, he told me to give him 7000 rupees; all I had to do was show up at the airport and the ticket would be ready for me, waiting.  Not knowing if I was being paranoid or shrewd, I had no intention of giving him 7000 rupees.  “Let me sleep on it” I said. 

And I went up to my room to figure things out or at least brood.  An hour later a phone beside my table rang. On the other end, the receptionist explained that he can have me on a bus to Dharamsala by 5:30 in the afternoon.  The bus ticket would be 600 rupees.  Cheap. 

The catch: the bus station is a 40 minute drive away; his ‘friend’ would drive me there for 1000 rupees.

Do I trust this guy? I asked myself No. But I weighed my options and found few.  Shrugging, I gave him 1000 rupees, thanked him as sincerely as I could, and wished for the best.

The 40 minutes through Delhi were as mind-blowing as they were alarming, a swarming interchange of motorbikes, buses, pedestrians, bikers, cows, rickshaws, cars and the consistent disregard for any sort of traffic rule except for ‘get there first and try not to die’.  In every case that a Canadian would courteously yield, an Indian blares the horn and accelerates.  At red lights, women beggars ran into the lanes holding their feeble, dirt-covered toddlers or babies into the car windows, asking for handouts. Construction crews patching the broken roads peppered the lanes and children ran barefoot across the debris through which stray dogs zig-zagged and cattle lazed.  In the clearness of the day, the smog was even yellower and more obvious. 

I realized somewhere along this ride that my hotel hadn’t been in a slummy area; Delhi was generally just rundown and over-populated.  It was dusty and crumbling and had gathered its filth and urban decay in such a manner that it was sort of beautiful, in an ancient seeming sort of way. Maybe there was a cleaner area but I never saw it.

“You want I can drive in this car you all way at Dharamsala”, reported my driver, breaking my cycle of thoughts.   

“Ha”, I laughed. “No”.  It’s a 13 hour drive. The bus would have to be cheaper.  His comment casted a cloud of doubt over the alleged legitimacy of what was transpiring.

When we stopped, I told the driver to wait while I got my ticket inside.

The building looks as if it has tried and nearly succeeded in burning itself down. Nothing in its appearance announces bus stop or a travel agency, but things in Delhi, I’ve come to understand, rarely meet expectation. As I go to the entrance, my driver leaves. 

Well then. Shit.

As it turned out, this was a travel agency, they were reputable, and a happy ending seemed close at hand. I bought the ticket and had about 2 hours to wait until the bus arrived. Great—I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Outside I found chipmunks, monkeys (!), and a stand that sold bottled water at special prices for tourists, only a 1000% mark-up!  I had enough for a bottle of water which I nursed while I waited with the monkeys.