Dubai Airport and 1st day in Delhi

I’m here! Destination Delhi is up and running. Now sorry to disappoint anyone, but my traditional “roughing it,” will have to wait, as my first port of call is not a spartan backpacker’s retreat, but my cousin’s digs in Delhi. Those of you wanting to read about me sleeping on a pillow of dead mosquitos, sweatily slumbering to the lullaby of Dengi fever flowing through my veins, awaking every ten minutes to stop goats from eating my lips, will have to wait.

Before I get into my first day in Delhi just a quick note on the journey. Dubai is frigging unbelievable, even more so than I remember. Everything is shiny, everything. Even the toilets leave my living room at home looking like a dilapidated leper colony the day after a diarrhea epidemic. Desperately searching for the smoking area, located some twelve miles of travelators away, I struggle to remember the currency here. Perhaps they just throw gold and oil at each other shrieking with maniacal laughter, between playing football manager with real teams. I categorically refuse to feel guilty about any instance of third world poverty, whilst this place remains in existence.

I find the smoking area and to my shock it isn’t shiny at all. It resembles a dilapidated leper colony the day after a fire. I smoke one rolley in the stale haze and vow to give up, such is my disgust at this polarizing segregation. However, I then find “The Irish pub,” which may be decorated vaguely like an Irish pub (situated above a gold mine,) but differs in several key ways. Basketball is playing on a screen, several Americans are talking loudly, and most importantly you can smoke- inside, like the good old days of yore! I happily down a couple of magners and fall back in love with my filthiest of habits. An American guy on my table, who seems to punctuate every sentence with “sheeeet,” leading me to believe he must be a bedding enthusiast, is looking at me smoking roll ups with a mixture of confusion and horror, as I were I’m smoking crack through a baby. Upon leaving I am simultaneously reminded that Dirham is the local currency and that one should never buy alcohol in an Islamic country. “How much is that in pounds?” “About fourteen, sir.” “(Gawp) Oh right... fair enough... shit.”

I make my flight to Delhi, and arrive at around 3 in the morning. Why is it that passport control, no matter what country you fly into are about as welcoming as a nailgun to the face? Short of spitting on my passport and calling me a twat, the sullen chap at the counter could scarcely be more rude. Thankfully this unpleasant interaction is soon more than made up for by my cousins’ driver KB, who’s warm, if a little sweaty handshake more resembles the welcome I was hoping for. Yeah- His Driver- I know. This is where the opulence starts!

Paddy’s place is located in the amicably named Friendship East compound. A spacious groundfloor flat, in which I am presented with a lovely air conditioned room, double bed and powerful en-suite shower. I am most pleased. Given it’s four in the morning here I decide not to seek welcome and instead have a shower and collapse for the night. When I awake at around half eleven I am greeted by their cleaner and their cook, who’s hospitality is almost overwhelming in my jet lagged, morning zombie state. I accept their offer of coffee and cereal, and wait for Islay, my cousin-in-law, (if that is a thing) to return. (Anyone who’s reading that phonetically as “Is-lay” should be ashamed of themselves! Its “I-la,” philistines.)

So I have a nice chat with Islay, and say hello to my small, once removed cousin Callum. I think I’ve got that right? Their son, who is definitely small and probably, I think, once removed from me... who is rather sweet (see- I have a feminine side,) and now walking about the place making lots of noises, which although wordless have become very expressive since last I saw him.

I decide I’m hungry, my body-clock still erratic, and enter the kitchen. Much to my protestations, (which last about 3 seconds,) a sandwich is made for me by their cook, and I guiltily sit down to eat it in their dining room. This is ridiculous, I think to myself. It’s a far flung experience from the kind of traveling I am used to. I start to feel a little like the newly enthroned pauper, imagining somewhere a royal clone of me is lying on a bed of ants in a hostel somewhere, eating week old dhal from the floor with a rusty bedspring, as I should be.

I decide to get more of a flavour of Delhi and set out to visit Humayun’s Tomb just down the road, which as Islay explains is sort of a pre-curser to the Taj Mahal. It seems funny that what is essentially a highly ornamental graveyard makes a good starting point for my journey through India, kind of morbid in fact. The place is in fact anything but- a fascinating introduction to Indian history, suitably enigmatic in its own right. Kind of reminds me of King Louis’ palace in the Jungle book, though to my disappointment there are no singing and dancing monkeys, or monkeys of any preoccupation in fact. Lots of dogs, parrots, and majestic birds of prey, who I am worried may majestically poo on me as I pass underneath, not to mention the crazy, crumbling architecture. I won’t describe it too much because I can’t really do it justice, (and because I want to save my best superlatives for the Taj Mahal!) Suffice to say the grandeur and mystique of the tomb and surrounding grounds kept me occupied for a very tranquil two hours.

This was not however the most interesting part of my day. That came as I left the grounds and politely turned down two auto-rickshaws, (took-tooks, as I know them from Africa,) and started to wonder why I had done so. Largely I thought, because I had no idea of where I wanted to go, and didn’t want to admit this. What I really wanted from today was a bit of orientation, to ease myself into the atmosphere and rhythms of the human chaos that is Delhi. So far I had only seen this from a car window, and in my experience the best way to absorb an atmosphere and get to know know a place is just to walk around. So with this in mind I decide on the hoof, to walk back to Paddy and Islay’s place.

Thus follows about an hour and a half of flicking momentarily between believing this was a great decision, and that it was a incomprehensibly terrible one.

Delhi is not a walking friendly place. Not even the people who live here walk anywhere. If they can’t afford a car they take an auto rickshaw, if they can’t afford an auto rickshaw they get a bloke to peddle one manually, if they can’t afford that they just lie on the pavement, presumably until they have enough money to take one of the options above. Know why? Because its fucking suicidal!! Occasionally the pavement just disappears, that’s when it’s not blocked by police barriers, or just huge piles of shit, actual poop that is, of Jurassic Park proportions, and one must brave the melee of the roads until the next stretch of pavement begins.

I was reassured greatly after I saw a car crash involving a crane, (not the bird, fortunately no one was hurt. I passed proper slums made of corrugated iron and tarpaulin that seem to have sprung up on every available patch of dirt in sight, with little naked kids covered in mud running around. I caught glimpses of gambling huts, men crammed into them playing games I didn’t recognise, but that involved a lot of table slapping, (possibly snap?) “Blocks” of flats, fitted together like jenga pieces just before the stack topples, with colourful clothes hanging literally everywhere it is possible to hang anything at all. It was overwhelming, humbling and a bit scary if I’m honest. Passing drivers of cars, bikes and rickshaws were even slowing down to gawp at my being there- it was weird.

I have to be honest here, eighty percent of the time the smell was dreadful. The unabashed public urination, surplus of defecting dogs, and obscene amount of litter goes some way to explaining this, but seriously, wow. Normally when I describe a place as smelly I mean grubby, or smelt a bit in parts, but this kind of consistent stench is a novel phenomenon to me.

On the plus side, I definitely achieved my intentions, I saw parts of Delhi no tourist usually sees. I feel like I have had a proper introduction now, and it actually has its charm. An energy runs through the place thats almost intoxicating, or maybe its just the petrol fumes, can’t be sure. It’s all I was expecting and even more intense.

Anyway I’ve been going on for a while so I’ll round up. I came back, met up with Paddy and caught up a little over a beer or two. We all ate a simply divine curry their cook had made up and plotted possible itineraries for the next six or so weeks. I am reminded of watching little Callum teeter around the flat with the blindly unjustified confidence that toddlers seem to possess, despite their less than convincing stability. It occurs to me his wandering around the dining room is not dissimilar to my own expedition through New Delhi and indeed the rest of India. Everything is alien, new and kind of exciting, (though not necessarily to be embraced.) The unjustifiable confidence in ourselves, the sense of wonder that this unknown world inspires, I am a baby here.

Finally, a piece of advice. If you are going anywhere and have the option to fly Emirates, do it. They are unbelievably good, though their uniforms are frankly ridiculous, almost a parody of Islamic dress. I am ruined for Ryanair. So much so that when I next board a flight to Geneva, I may start gnawing the seat in front of me due to the absence of the A-team, and lack of complimentary wine. Complimentary wine for God’s sake, or whatever else you fancy! I cried a little, if only because it offset the £7 magners somewhat.

Also I hate wearing earphones in queues. I am suddenly made very aware of how much activity goes on unnoticed in my mouth. Unable to gauge the volume of this activity I suddenly become very paranoid that everyone can hear it, and start to feel like a dyspraxic kid eating fruitella. Finally I must warn you on the most serious note thus far, Centurion is crap, despite McNulty, don’t watch it.