April Fool's Joke Conspiracy Foiled by Facebook

 

It’s not often you can credit Facebook for keeping you on track, but it happened to me.

Countless afternoons of being carried on the wings of whims, hungers and a search for the cheapest place to get a decent coffee had extinguished my reliance on a wrist watch, let alone a calendar. I’d been keeping a lazy eye on the date via my computer but somehow I’d managed to not notice that it had been April 1^st for about 4 days straight.  It was a tasteful April Fool’s joke, I suspect, caused by a power surge that fried my laptop battery.

Then a status update by a friend who I was supposed to meet on the 5^th of April in Istanbul read: “In a few hours I’ll never have to listen to Korean pop ever again”.  

A few hours? A few days maybe….

A stranger, huffing a giant hash joint at the table next to me, confirmed the date.  It was April 4^th already. I had about 14 hours to get to Delhi to make my plane.  Oops.

Naked, covered in ash from human cremation, carrying a human skull, and impossibly surreal, an Aghori walked in my direction as I hastily exited the coffee shop.  This was, I assume, an extension to the April Fool’s joke being played on me by the cosmic forces.  I’d been searching for these guys since I arrived in India. In my final, rushed hours, they passed me by. India is a playful place and jokes at your expense are frequent.

Minutes later, all that I own has been collected from my hotel room and stuffed into a bag on my back. I’m on a bus before I can even turn around to say good-bye to Rishikesh…this place that I really loved.

Run to the bus, then an auto-rickshaw to the airport, the 10 hour journey is complete.  4 hours to spare. Thanks for everything India.  Really. 

Roaming Rishikesh

Rishikesh…I suppose I’d like it more here if I were a hippie.

Geez, let’s take an inventory: 10 km up the road is something called ‘the rainbow party’, an all night dance and trance with live music and something for your pipe. Yoga studios are piled on top of each other, Hindu diety-altars sit in the corners of any structure with at least a wall, sadhus and other seekers come and go in drones, meat has literally been banned from here, and you can just imagine the bookshops. 

Walking around with tattoos on your neck, braided hair to your ass, covered in a technocolored blanket and raving about god is not something to get you noticed. Wearing a suit would look almost profoundly ironic.

Rishikesh has this sort of vibe. But India tolerates these things well. Tibetan robes, saris, striking nose piercings, turbines, various western styles, whatever the Muslims wear, almost nothing…these are what you see people dressed in. You can’t help but admire how well personal differences are tolerated.

I think it might have something to do with how unconcealed India is. You see hunger, you see people’s spiritual aspirations.  Even in death, whereas western culture is so sterile and polite in handling it, cremations in India are often done in public.  Such an atmosphere makes it easier to remember that despite the differences, we’re all human in these fundamental ways. All vulnerable to needs, wants, frustration, and ‘the final negative outcome’. Not caring about somebody’s beliefs and appearance is just easier with this stuff in your mind.

This is a lot of India’s appeal. Uncontained, uncensored humanity, unapologetic about itself. It fleshes out the emotional spectrum, from awe to terror, inspiration to despair.   

Today:

I finally learned some basics about pranayama. Learning it was something I’d been meaning to do for years. It’s a breathing yoga that Robert Anton Wilson says whitewashes negative states. I was sceptical but I registered for a one day lesson and was pleased that my instructor seemed joyful and bright—an indication that maybe there was something to this.

As an anecdotal aside, my instructor was taught by the same person who instructed the Beatles when they came here in the 60’s.

He gestured for me to come sit on a cushion that was uncomfortably close to him and we talked for a few minutes, more comfortably than I’d expected. Some of his “insights” into my chronic asthmatic conditions made me think that I’d wasted my money but I tried to keep my mind open. Since pranayama is a practice I can judge the results rather than this man’s theories about it.

The session, given on the open and breezy rooftop, was pleasant and after the hour was up I felt quite serene. I hadn’t expected much from the nostril work; I was more interested in posture. But, as it turned out, the nostril work created sensations and states of consciousness that were surprisingly forefront, vitalizing, but calm.

I’m curious enough that I’m going to apply what I learned every morning for the next 30 days, sort of as an experiment to see what results it produces.

Walking the streets afterward, I was befriended by a yogi who insisted that I follow him to an ashram. His persistence made me think that he wanted something—a very safe assumption in India, but seemingly wrong in this case.  He took me to a large room where a whole bunch of people were seated on cushions on the floor singing songs together to the accompaniment of guitars and bongos, sort of like a hippie ‘coom-bai-ya’ session. Some got up and danced alone. Between songs people prayed.

At first I couldn’t tell whether I was bored or fascinated, whether this was cultish or wholesome, whether it was something I wanted to participate in or laugh at. When it was done, I just decided it was probably better than television but not really for me. 

So any way…I have about a week left in India. It’s been quite a trip.   

Return to Delhi

To enter a room and immediately forget what you’re looking for is how I feel, standing in the dusty Delhi winds.

 

Only 10 hours ago I might have come as close to death as I’ve ever experienced while on route here from Dharamsala (mom, skip this paragraph). The so-called Deluxe Bus was bulkily negotiating “S” curves at night on roads carved into Himalayan slopes. Coming down, the tires found gravel and slid with locked wheels towards a bend much greater than 90 degrees. The oncoming drop was recognizable only by the bus’s headlights reaching out into the nothingness of dark void we were approaching, with tiny city lights scattered unknown depths below. Oh, hello Doom. But we crackled to a stop, reversed back up the hill, and approached the turn again slower. The walk back would have taken hours and already it was night, but I considered it. In the seat directly behind me, a monk’s mumbling mantra turned into gurgling vomit which continued, off and on, until we reached the Indian plains four hours later.

From Dharamsala, the ride is advertized as being 12 hours, yet I’ve not yet arrived to or from without mechanical failure prolonging the trip by at least another 2.  God help you if you have the shits. Or the barfs. Something busted about 4 hours from our destination this time. We piled into another bus along the night-time highway.

Indian logistics: If one bus is nearly full and another bus is a little past its capacity, then it’s perfectly reasonable to combine the loads onto whichever bus happens to be working better at that time.

Good-bye seat…

We arrived and stepped out into the dawn and swarms of aggressive touts dancing in circles to stay in my Caucasian field of vision, all offering, over and over and over, ‘cheap’ transportation to my destination.

The truth was that I didn’t know where I was going; what I needed was a quiet moment to sort it out for myself.  

Why did I leave the paradise of Dharamsala for?  Surely I had a reason…

The only other white person on the bus was a woman who was doing her best to lose the touts. I asked her, “so, where you off to?” She gave me an answer I didn’t completely understand. Something about a famous hugging nun and her Nepalese friends around the corner.  It wasn’t much I could relate to but when she asked me if I’d like to join, I accepted. And this was my lucky break.

Where the bus had dropped us off was at a miniature Tibetan colony in north eastern corner of Delhi. It’s a labyrinth of narrow and shaded walkways with doors in the walls to where people live and holes in the wall from where people sell stuff. Her Nepalese friend lived here because he sold thungkas (Tibetan mandalas on cloth) and other spiritually significant trinkets for consumers of enlightenment. I was just going to ask him if he knew of any places where I could lodge for the night but he invited me in and served me the best meal I’ve had in a long time: curried water-buffalo (or ‘buff’—a reasonable alternative to beef), spiced spinach and long-grained rice with some sort of outstanding flavor in it.  Generally, the most generous people I’ve ever met are from Nepal—something I’ve heard from others, too.  After he fed me, he brought me to a room for rent, which is not only good enough but considerably cheaper than other places in the vicinity. Generosity to strangers is something I’m neither familiar nor even normally comfortable with, but being road-weary and lonely, it made my day.

The room is a lonely box to sleep in but that it’s in a mini village of Tibetan exiles makes it seem a bit familiar, which sooths me.

Looking at the map, the colony is called ‘Majnu-Ka-Tilla’, situated about 6~8 km north of Old Delhi, between the Yamuna River and a small highway called Hedgewar Marg road. The place of lodging appears to be nameless but the Tibetan-run restaurant on the ground floor is called ‘Himalayan café’. It is, I discovered, an odd place.

I sat at the table for some time before asking for a menu, which I then had to negotiate for through body language and broken English. The result was that I got not only the menu but also the impression that a menu was the last thing the waiter expected to be asked for. It took him a few minutes to find it. When I ordered my meal (chicken chilli!) he had to confirm, more than once, that this meal would be for me, despite the restaurant being otherwise empty.  I pointed at my face and belly and nodded.  What came was chicken chowmein. Close enough I guess, since it did have some chicken in it. It filled me up and cost half as much as the chilli. For this interesting (and fiscally responsible) dining experience, I tipped him 10 rupees. 

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.

Tradition

 

Four days after Losar, I sat drinking coffee and filtered water at a charity-driven café in Dharamsala. One of the younger local Tibetans came in still drunk and reeking of the booze from the night prior. It part of the Losar tradition to be drunk for 15 days, he told me. A joyous bender. Pink-eyed and disheveled, he refused filtered water, insisting that his glass be filled from the tap—which surprised us.  His mood was rambling. He told us that he’d been awoken too early that morning in his house wedged in the hills. Three Sri Lankan Buddhist monks on his porch begging for food had awoken him. It is a tradition for monks to live off of handouts. He offered them his thoughts instead, saying, ‘why don’t you just be good men? You don’t need to be monks. You can have a wife and a house. You can just be good men’.

Destination Dharamsala

Getting to Dharamsala

A sturdy, filth-spewing bus departed from Delhi with only myself and two others aboard—an unexpected luxury, which was nice, I thought, since I’d be here for the next 13 hours (which turned out to be more like 17 due to a couple stops for make-shift repair work).

More driving in Delhi, more mind-blowing scenes.  The first jaw-dropping sight was a huge, ancient castle occupying several city blocks. It was redish and in total disrepair. The large peacock perched on a domed tower was a nice touch. Again, at the red lights, the beggars swarmed: this time children were dancing to a drum, doing cart-wheels and yogi contortions through the huffing traffic.  A woman came, reached her hand up and as I shook it, I realized that the hand belonged to a Hindu drag queen.

“Am I pretty?”  

“Uhhh…”

“Kiss me”. 

“No”. 

“Fuck me”. 

“Please get away from here”. 

Moving again, entire families piled on motor-cycles rode alongside while the multicolour saris of the women flapped in the windy pollution; dusty pedestrians J-walked and J-ran across the hectic highways busy with whatever chore; off the road were garbage can bonfires belching black smoke over old men with long white beards; corrugated metal hovels rusted badly and sagged, while cows, dogs, donkeys, and even camels scuttled or laboured around. Every degree of poverty on the spectrum seemed to be represented here.

And seemingly, every sort of religion. Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Tibetans, Seculars, Christians—all identified by clothing, jewellery and make-up.

Delhi lives. There are so many people.  In every gritty nook and littered hole you see somebody or more. And every inch of the place seems simultaneously under construction and yet falling apart at the seams. Delhi is intense.

Only an hour into our trip we made a stop. In piled people into every vacant seat, and their luggage was crammed everywhere else. Good-bye spacious luxury. 

Five or six hours later, thoroughly cramped and having exhausted every conceivable bodily posture in search for something approaching comfort, we stopped again and the bus emptied. Thank god, or ganesh, or whoever. There were vendors outside and I hadn’t eaten for 18 hours.  After a piss and a chocolate bar, I felt ready to take on India again.

It was mind-boggling that after 9 hours of bus travel, though the city was behind us, humanity was not. There wasn’t a break in traffic or commercial/industrial lights shinning in the night.  Not until the 10^th hour.

The flatlands—which I presumed to be India’s Northern plains—came to an end and from the further north entered the mountains, at first with gradual ups and downs but quickly into more of a hair-raising experience. The road had become narrow and snaking, leading the bus over jaw-dropping cliffs, bowel-clenching bridges and through the rain.  At some points I looked out the window to see mere inches between the wheel and a cliff’s edge. I closed my eyes to summon relaxation but no such thing appeared. I opened them again as the bus wound around the side of a sickly steep mountain slope and I saw an awe-inspiring vista of gigantic emptiness spread across a terrifying gorge that our road wrapped all the way around. After 3 hours of this sort of nerve-jangling drive, we finally reached mountainous Dharamsala. 

Morning

Late Afternoon

Night

The three above photos were taken from my hotel room. 

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.