As you may have realised I often like to kick off proceedings with a good rant. Partly because I think these are more entertaining than my whimsical travel musings, and partly because I think people are more likely to read the aforementioned musings if I have a good tirade about something trivial first. Here though I really feel I am thoroughly vindicated in my vociferous outcry, as my subject is the Commonwealth games in Delhi.
Now I’m not saying it’s badly organised, all I’m saying is that perhaps they should have taken a group of men, randomly selected from various asylums across India, armed them with shards of metal and glass and instructed them to prepare the city for an athletics tournament. You know a group with a bit more competency than who they went with. Perhaps we could have put little Callum in charge, or decided on the administrative details by divining bird entrails or distributed tickets in the form of a bonfire lit on the recipients head?
Okay I am saying its badly organised, in fact it’s a disgrace. Everything, the tickets, security, infrastructure, all as well planned and executed as that terrorist attack on Glasgow airport, where that silly bastard set himself on fire and ran into a window. The last time something went this badly wrong was when the Polish cavalry charged German tanks on horseback in 1939, or possibly the Bay of Pigs, except its the Commonwealth games so there’s no Americans looking silly.
Actually I had a very nice day all in all. The venues were good and the games well worth watching, (despite the athlete's unimaginable suffering at the mercy of their squalid accommodation,) my fury largely stems from two or three incidents. First of all there’s the tickets. If you’ve been watching the games on TV you will have no doubt witnessed near empty venues, and asked yourself are people just not interested?
No, no people are interested, deludedly impassioned in fact, but every event is “sold out.” Even when you can pop back to your house round the corner and witness on the TV row upon row of empty seats, they still insist at the booth that the event is sold out. Somewhere along the line there has quite clearly been a monumental fuck up, which is an enormous shame as all the locals I have spoken to are so excited about the games, and now they can’t even occupy a wasted seat.
Through a friend of Paddy’s we managed to get some tickets to the hockey and athletics in the evening. So off we went. Now here’s what pissed me off the most. They confiscated my fags at the gate, and told me I could get them back. Fair enough I thought, militant but yeah fine. When I returned in good faith a couple of hours later were they there? Were they fuck. Bastards are probably smoking them right now.
Here’s something worse. Inside the grounds in ninety degree heat, they confiscated my water! Do they know how dangerous that is?? I’m English for God’s sake, I can’t deal with this kind of humidity without litre after litre of liquid sustenance. They may as well ban oxygen and eyesight.
Me and some nearby New Zealanders had a good colourful rant, but a sullen lady in uniform took our bottles away all the same. What exactly is the rationale behind this ban? It’s ludicrous. I was fuming, but they had guns so I decided to smolder quietly, then vent my spleen on my blog later. That’ll show her, stupid bitch. Please don’t shoot me.
My favourite moment of the games has to be when India’s unfamiliarity with track racing came to the fore. The 80000 capacity stadium roared thunderously as their athlete stormed into the lead at the end of the lap, crossing the line meters ahead of her rivals, all believing she had recorded a resounding victory. The trouble was this was the 800 meters and after such a misjudged burst she inevitably burned out and came last. I have never experienced such intense collective disappointment as that second lap, God how we laughed.
So I’m nearing the end of my time in Delhi. Booking a train was surprisingly easy, (thank you Miss Symes,) and the next entry you read will be probably be some trite exegesis of the Taj Mahal in grossly inadequate prose, amongst whatever unknown quantities that Agra may have to offer besides.
It is tricky to go about describing my time in Delhi. I realised this when I tried to list the things I’ve done and the impressions I’ve made of the place, and the aggregate of all this came no where close to characterising my time here.
I think the best way to get across my experience of the city is to compare it to my slightly misguided preconceptions. Reading the dangers and annoyances section in my lonely planet put me in mind of Marrakech. The same talk of touts, bazars and scams. I had in my minds eye the tourist traps that anyone who visits the Djemba del fana encounters. Hordes of skillful touts, with years of experience plying money from tourists, whose audacity, dubious offers of friendship and sheer persistence borders on the biblical. Just ask Paulo and his 600 carpets! This is what I expected in Old Delhi, but as so often throughout the course of my life, I was very much mistaken.
Old Delhi is a genuine trading spot, not just a tourist honey pot. Life ebbs and flows here quite irrespective of tourism. I was a visitor here, wandering lost through the maze of the old city, not just the walking ATM that I seemed to embody in North Africa. Sure the vendors encourage you to come in, but they were all so polite! One guy hissed at me, which made me jump to my embarrassment. What a bell end, probably quite funny from his perspective though, and one guy tried to sell me a traction engine which made me chuckle as I passed. Vicky asked me to get her something pretty, what you reckon sis?
Old Delhi is an all consuming endeavor. The jolting contrast of emerging from the Metro, which is by the way, bizarrely far cleaner, cheaper and more punctual than the tube, makes the experience all the more intense. As in New Delhi, the whole place is covered in shit, dead vermin and various instances of god knows what the fuck that is. Ingeniously though, deciding that sanitation and waste disposal is for suckers, they burn incense to mask the smell- nearly everywhere! The result is like walking through a bubbling chivey soup, as you sweat through your teeth and try to forge a path through the madness. As far as crowded goes nothing compares to this place, bar perhaps the main stage at reading during a Kings of Leon set, when everyone has drunk so much Carling they have swelled to twice their natural size. Its basically a big mosh pit, with more motorbikes, poo and goats.
See like I say, that sounds awful, but actually it’s really fun! You sort of lose yourself in the melee, so captivating is everything around you that it ceases to seem real. Great to visit but how the hell people live there is beyond me, and by reputation I’m about as squalid as Englishmen come, as my family and former housemates will testify to, (Go on Dave- testify!)
The real highlight of the last couple of days has been simply getting lost in the chaos, but here’s a couple more I’ll mention. The red fort is pretty cool, although I understand from Islay that as forts go, India has much more to offer. There I discovered a Mango drink called Slice, which smacks of the legendary nectar of El Paso known as Rubicon, only probably without all the e-numbers.
The most interesting thing to me was not the military ghosts of the past that lurk around the fort, but the very real and present day machine gun postings next to the door. Hindu and Muslim communities may live side by side here, seemingly with no outward signs of animosity, Mosques and Temples standing adjacent etc, but you are never far from these kind of reminders of the tension that simmers bellow the surface. From what I understand when it does kick off, shit really hits the proverbial fan. (The shit is far from proverbial.)
On that slightly sacrilegious note I also went to a bloody great big Mosque called the Jama Masjid. They made me wear a Sarong as shorts are not allowed. Apparently borderline cross dressing is preferable. I’m told that the most holt relic here is some hairs of Mohammed’s red beard. I resist the temptation to ask where he keeps his blue one and look for a place to enjoy this respite from the streets. As I sat in the Mosque’s courtyard some local kids came over and started chatting away to me. Apparently one them had two very tall girlfriends, something which the boy in question denied violently but was a source of great hilarity for the rest of group. I told him it was okay and that my girlfriend was as big as a house, which they also found unfathomably hilarious. It’s nice to see kids don’t change much.
The panoramic view of old Delhi from the top of the tower was quite something to behold. I have a theory that the architect designed the streets on a wobbly table using silly string. In the centre of the courtyard I washed my feet in a fountain that is reputedly blessed with healing powers. It’s powers of refreshment are certainly beyond question, though I wasn’t about to bathe in it as some were. I did get a few funny looks from locals but I’m sort of getting used to that.
Actually that’s taken me by surprise somewhat. It’s something akin the the looks I used to get when we started going to the township bar in South Africa. White people aren't nearly as thin on the ground here so I’m struggling to understand the fascination. Kid’s follow me down the street giggling, and to my surprise they don’t seem to be hell bent on robbing me. Passers by greet you in the street, pointing you out to their companions and smiling, probably saying, “look how lost that silly twat is.” I feel like John Merrick walking about, or maybe something less horrific and as interesting, like a midget with tennis racket sized hands. I think my height may have something to do with it as I’m yet to meet an Indian that I don’t tower over, which again was unexpected as at home I know several people of Indian descent that hit the six foot mark or close. There’s so much meat in their diet as well so one can’t put it down to a lack of protein thing like in further eastern parts of Asia. It’s a odd one.
Ah yes, speaking of meat.... Paddy and I took a bike tour of Old Delhi at six on saturday morning, a time which I was still more used to as one in the morning. The endeavor is just as kamikaze as it sounds. Some of you will remember the time when I was run over in Westbourne on my bike. Since then I have acquired a strong distaste for cycling on roads, and also BMW drivers. This tour however was excellent, more of a thrill ride than a mode of transport, and I’d thoroughly recommend it to anyone who visits Delhi with a sense of adventure, who like me enjoys a bit of adrenaline!
The driving culture is different here. Whereas in England you don’t do a lot of dodging, sticking to a regimented system of laws, such as lanes and right of way, here you just go for it like a lunatic, constantly dodging whatever happens to cross your path. In Delhi your horn is used more to denote a genuinely amicable “I’m here, please move or I may kill you,” as opposed to the traditional English beep that means something like, “I say fellow road user, I must express my strong displeasure at the course of action you have just undertaken,” along with an accompanying gesture. So actually while, it is fairly terrifying as motorbikes, rickshaws and cars zip within inches of you, at least you’re aware that they are trying to dodge you and are well practiced in doing so, which is of some comfort!
The route was cool as well, taking us first down butchers street, which is exactly what it sounds like, and enough to turn the most carnivorous amongst us to tears. A truck full of buffalo heads, a rickshaw crammed to the gunnels with cow carcasses, a massive pile of hearts on a pallet, all set against a smell that made me long to shove my head in the mountains of crap from day one. A visceral experience, not for the faint hearted and certainly not for veggies!
The spice market was great as well, smelling wonderful by contrast. Fascinating to see a system that hasn’t changed for hundreds of years, as all sense of proportion you possess is blown apart by the sight of men shoveling mountains of cumin onto donkeys! I also enjoyed one of the many “sex clinics” one finds around the city. The proprietor of this particular establishment claims to be over 200 years old, and dons, at least on his sign, what I can only describe as a phallic turban. L.A.D.
Finally all this is topped off by a very civilized dinner party on saturday evening at some friends of Paddy and Islay’s who work at the embassy. Really nice people with whom I have a lovely evening, but straight away I know I’m way out of my depth. Ex pats live in a different sphere of the universe to me as I soon discover.
I introduce myself and conversation moves to a painting on the wall. Paddy is full of admiration and talks about commissioning the artist to do one for him and Islay.... Later on we talk about tennis clubs, and how only embassy staff are allowed to use the apparently stunning facilities, which seems to be a point of contention.... Conversation moves on to the finer points of raising young children.... We drink several bottles of fantastic wine, all of which come with a sticker that reads for diplomatic use....
Now how on earth am I supposed to engage in these conversations? I still have posters from HMV on my wall at home.... I sometimes climb over a part of the fence thats fallen down a bit in Poole Park to use the tennis courts there.... I once accidently threw a three year old into a rock in South Africa.... Yes, I will drink this amazing, diplomatic wine and be very grateful, but I normally drink Strongbow from a big plastic bottle whilst smoking cutters choice and plotting my next trip to Aldi....
Actually I did really enjoy the evening, and there were many topics I felt more than able to engage on- music, Flight of the Conchords, viral culture, travel, post uni angst, etc, but it occasionally feels like I’m looking through a portal into the future, maybe through to a decade or so when I may be socialising with my as yet unknown wife, joining expensive clubs and raising small children in some exotic location. It’s not altogether unappealing... but not yet, oh no no no no no no. Not yet. Their apparent envy of my seasonaire lifestyle is immensely gratifying- yeah you can keep your fine wines, I’ve got Jager grenades!
Tomorrow I leave the comfortable embrace of my cousin’s and can start properly tapping into backpacker trail, a prospect that inspires excitement and nerves in equal measure. Paddy and Islay have been unspeakably awesome during my stay here. It’s been great to spend some time with them and little Callum who I have grown very fond of. They have all made me feel very at home in the evenings after a daytime of feeling like I’ve been fired onto Jupiter! I shall leave you with a link to the Commonwealth games mascot- if the animators of Pokemon drew Tony the Tiger...
http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://www.cygpune2008.com/images/jigrr.gif&imgrefurl=http://www.cygpune2008.com/image-look/image-look.php&h=190&w=150&sz=11&tbnid=7QLK-SIez6PLRM:&tbnh=103&tbnw=81&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dcommonwealth%2Bgames%2Bmascot&zoom=1&q=commonwealth+games+mascot&usg=__w94CKyXhKQ3v5OHm7vcW1BnbRaU=&sa=X&ei=Ea6yTMybCsWPce77ofkN&ved=0CCIQ9QEwAQ
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