“This seems to happen only once the driver has established that the person hasn’t been to India before, and only in the middle of the night when it’s difficult to get your bearings, and there are few other vehicles about. Bear in mind that if you do head into the center late at night, your options are limited. Once underway, don’t believe any stories about hotels being full or any “Hindo-Muslim problem” where you want to go, or any other bullshit; if the driver is not prepared to go where you want to go, find another taxi.” Source: Lonely Planet Guide, India-Delhi-Getting Around, p.245
I had read a few articles about the negative aspects of traveling to a foreign land. I was definitely nervous. But, I didn’t have any real-life experience to fall back on. Sure, I lived in Los Angeles and Boston. But, I don’t think the cities I lived in compare to New Delhi.
Into the Frying Pan
Today is My First Day in India
Date: 9/19/97 (D3)
I decided to forgo sleeping in the airport and venture out into the city of New Delhi.
It’s 12:30 am, and although the Lonely Planet guidebook suggested it would be safer to stay in the airport until morning… I’m going to leave. I trust the Lonely Planet – India book I have, but I don’t want to rely on it. I want it as a reference and a guide, but I don’t want it to dictate my journey. I took out some pages and information about places I would not be going to so I could lighten the load, per se.
The high cost of paranoia and uneasiness is overwhelming as I go against its suggestions. The irony of unpacking all my belongings in the airport—under the watchful eyes of people in the arrival area—so I could make my pack and all my possessions more functional to carry, wasn’t lost on the paranoid, wingless angel on my shoulder. But I’m doing it anyway, and I’m ready to go.
With the size of my backpack and all the soon-to-be unnecessary items (you’re an over-packer, kid) I’ll now be lugging around… a few missing pages aren’t going to help lighten the load. The trust I have for the book and the invaluable information it provides has come at a cost. Not monetarily, for the information on the pages is invaluable.
Arriving in New Delhi
I paid a heavy price because I didn’t want to stay in the airport. The hotel and cab fare were high, but who cares? The price at the airport here was the same as a night at the Fern Inn on Route 1 where I lost my virginity. Now, I’m in the city and losing my virginity again—but in a different way. I was to be transported by a minivan, and as I stepped through the airport doors to meet my driver, I was met with a crowd of people and a loud uproar that made me feel like a famous athlete exiting the locker room after the big game. I don’t know if I would ever get used to that type of reaction. It scared the shit out of me.
They weren’t looking for autographs either. They wanted my money, the angel of paranoia told me. It took a moment for me to gather the strength and courage to move forward and through the crowd, which stood at least five deep. As I was pushing my way through and out into the open, a man approached me with a yellow piece of paper that was a copy of my receipt and said he was my driver. Calmness washed over me… until I felt a hand on my shoulder that brought me right back to attention.
“Oh yeah, I’ll be needing that…”
“Sir, you left your passport at the desk.”
“Fuck! Thank you!” were the only words I could muster as he handed me my little blue book.
How did he find me through the sea of people, I thought… oh yeah. I’m White, American, and look like a guy that just arrived in India for the first time. I didn’t look like a deer in the headlights… I looked like an out-of-place human in the headlights.
Navigating the Roads of New Delhi
The roads of New Delhi were dark and hazy. As we weaved our way through the streets with the driver’s high beams and beeping horn—which sounded like the stereotypical horn used not out of annoyance or anger but for communication—I inhaled a deep breath and realized… India doesn’t smell bad. It smells nice, different. Like burning incense or maybe dried grass… it certainly didn’t smell of shit, cows, or the dead. We maneuvered through a maze of colorful trucks hauling goods, motor rickshaws, cows, bikes, and people.
As we pulled up to a stoplight behind a line of decorated transport trucks, another pulled behind us. Then another pulled up on the right. Immediately, paranoia convinced me that if a truck pulled up on my left, it was a trap, and I was going to be robbed, killed, and buried somewhere in India. Get ready. I wasn’t going down without a fight. Someone would pay. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, my fists clenched, and my eyes darted as the space to my left was filled with an orange and red painted truck… this was it… which side would they come from? Right, left, or both? My heart pounded… then…..the light turned green, and we sped off into the night with the talking horn leading the way. I would live another day, I thought, unless I scare myself to death.
The “Sheriton Inn” and First Night
The smaller streets were more crowded. There were men wearing white, Fruit of the Loom tank tops and tiny shorts sleeping on wooden cots on the side of the road. Dogs roamed around looking for scraps, cows stood around like they were waiting for a bus, and people were everywhere. 2 am, and the place was hopping. The scene cast in the headlights of my cab was surreal. We arrived at the “Sheriton Inn.”
I tipped everyone who smiled at me, whether out of fear, nervousness, or kindness—I don’t know. But I think the hotel workers and maybe some others outside heard about my tipping because different knocks on the door brought toilet paper, water, candy, and brochures for trips to Ladakh. This continued for 30 minutes until I spoke through the door and told the knocker I was out of cash.
The room… was a room. Not up to Sheraton Hotel standards, of course, because this was the “Sheriton Inn.” The name and its similarity to the upscale chain fooled me. It had a bed, a large ceiling fan, and a red light from the hallway that flooded into my room through the glass above the door. I’m going to try to close my eyes.
The Night Continues
I can’t sleep, most likely from jet lag and a 10½-hour time difference. Or maybe because I’m scared there will be another knock on the door, and this one will be the thief. The ceiling fan spinning in the red glow makes me feel like Indiana Jones in some seedy hotel room in a foreign country on a wild quest to find an ancient artifact… I guess I’m not far off. All I’m missing is a cool hat and an ancient object. I guess I could substitute the “new me” as the object of my quest. On the flight over, the TV showed the plane’s route just like in the Indiana Jones movies, and now I’m in a hotel scene.
No sleep till…
I can hear the guys at the front desk watching a cricket game. Should I go? I don’t know anything about cricket. But as a jock, I think it’s my duty to learn and watch this country’s national sport. So, I went down, drank a 7-Up, and watched a cricket game for the first time in my life. Hitting, pitching, and catching… I could play this game. After a few 7-Ups, I headed back to my room.
A New Day in New Delhi
The sunlight I’ve been waiting for shines in my eyes, waking me up. I can see the city now and establish myself. But with the lack of sleep, I’m hungry. And, oh yeah, the reality that I am actually in India (holy shit!) is hitting me. Along with the butterflies and paranoia that are stepping up to a level I have never experienced before, I think I’m doing okay.
Where do I go?
How about I just… go! That’s it. JUST FUCKIN GO!!!
When the sun came up, I went to the front desk and requested a cab to Connaught Place in the Janpath Area of New Delhi. It has lots of cheap lodging and is close to the Government of India tourist office. The LP says the rooms are “small and cramped” but it’s a good way to meet other travelers. I’m torn about that. Do I want to meet people and be influenced by their opinions? Or do I want to figure it all out on my own?
My first home in India…
The Sunny Guest House
My first home in India is The Sunny Guest House at 152 Scindia House Street. The words “Sunny” and “shabby charm” caught my eye. As I walked up, a group of travelers was walking down, and I worried there’d be no vacancies. But I was in luck.
Dorm beds are 60 Rs. They have singles and doubles with a common bath, ranging from 90-170 Rs. The rooms are small and isolated, but I felt drawn to the 20 dorm beds above the common area on the roof. It’s open-air and has a porch with chairs. Also… holy fuck… 60 Rs = $1.25 USD… I could live here forever.
I picked a bed, dropped my bag beside it, sat down, and immediately fell asleep for five hours. When I woke, I washed up, careful not to get water in my mouth, then walked into the dining area with my notebook.
My brain is on overload. People are talking freely around me, but I can’t. I’m clogged. That’s okay. I’ll break out. I’ll feel comfortable. This is one bad—as in good—experience. Free, baby, Free.
Wrapping Up
At first, I thought I was a chicken for coming to The Sunny Guest, but it’s a traveler’s spot. I need advice, I need input, and I need to shake off this jet lag.
I just can’t find my emotions; I’m happy, scared, tired, energized… I’m everything, everything. Yet all I’m doing is just sitting here. My life!!!! So many thoughts, so many feelings. The sun is hot, my brain is cooked, like a fried egg! So I ordered a Tomato Omelet and Toast. “With pleasure,” said the Sunny Guest House cook.
I’m not sure I can even explain what I saw in the cab ride over this morning. The people, the animals… fuck! Five miles of craziness. I think I just need to sit, eat, and see how the day goes… definitely a nap after breakfast.
