India. I could say that it’s the dirtiest country that I have ever seen, but that wouldn’t begin to describe the crowds, traffic, smell, culture, disease, and filth--all of which make India one of the least desirable places to visit. I left Varanasi this morning en route for Delhi’s international airport where I am currently finding ways to pass my 11 hour layover before departing for Thailand. I tried to enter the terminal (thinking I could schmooze my way into the business class lounge), but Indian law prohibits entrance until three hours before departure. I made a beeline for Cathay’s customer service lounge. I explained my situation, embellished where necessary, and all but begged the representative to print me a pass for the business class lounge, sneak me a meal voucher, or give me a back rub. She kindly denied me with a soft no, and on odd tilt of her head (you need to see the Indian nod to understand). With no other options, I wheeled my luggage into the departure lounge adjacent to the terminal. Thinking I would find entertainment on the internet for a few hours, I attempted to connect to Airtel’s “free airport wifi.” However, in order to connect, you must be an Airtel customer with a valid phone number, and the free wifi lasts only one hour (it is billed to your phone at 200 rupee/hour thereafter). A women from Uzbekistan noticed I was having trouble and offered a suggestion. She told me that the Airtel booth in the arrival’s lounge offers free wifi for particularly distressed travelers without phone service (ME!). She was correct, but she failed to mention that getting into the arrival’s lounge may be more difficult than getting an appointment with Obama. The guards at the door explained that entry without a pass is “not possible.” Like every other small accommodation that benefits the consumer, India’s response, “not possible.” This rule holds at hotels, all tourist attractions, airport lounges, and every other circumstance in which the feeble traveler is pit against big business/government. In utter contraposition to the American system, the customer is NEVER right in India. In fact, asking for “help” almost guarantees that travelers will find themselves in a situation where someone will take advantage of them. India: a tourist haven for the suicidal.
In an effort to share my experience without completely bashing the country that is home to almost 2 billion people, I should mention India’s few redeeming qualities--most of which can be enjoyed equally well via Google.
From the beginning. I flew into Delhi two weeks ago and could already feel the sweat forming as I walked from the air conditioned plane cabin to the jetway; stickiness was followed by pouring sweat only moments later. This was like a prelude to the next two weeks of unbearable heat. India is hot. In the morning, at night, when it’s cloudy, and in the shade. There is no escape. The heat, sweat, and dirt follow you from the shower to the streets and back again. Really now, from the beginning.
Jess and Seth met me with a huge hug at the airport! I had not seen family or friends for over 2 weeks, and I welcomes their affection. Delhi turned out to be one of the least policed cities that I have visited. There are no rules, no traffic laws, and one finds himself thinking he has landed in the Wild West--not in one of the world‘s largest modern cities. Walking is accomplished by pushing, shoving, and pretending to speak a language other than English whenever approached by someone “offering to help.” Driving involves obnoxiously loud horns, near death maneuvers, and 30 minutes of haggling with 10 different drivers before getting in any vehicle. India (specifically Delhi) has an uncanny ability to turn 1 lane dirt roads into 6 lane freeways with two way traffic. Bicycle rickshaws, rocket rickshaws (the motor powered ones), cabs, cars, busses, trucks, and animal powered vehicles all manage to expel noxious diesel exhaust (fecal matter and methane gas in the case of the animal operated carts) while simultaneously clamoring down streets filled with tourists and fearless cows. The Indian commitment to the sacred cow could not be more real. The streets are filled with bulls and cows. They lounge in the middle of busy intersections, graze on the side of the road, move between cars, and create additional traffic jams--as if that is even possible. No one hits them, and nobody seems to care that free roaming animals create unimaginably large piles of poo that contribute to the unforgettable smell that I call, India. You may have started to form a picture, but please hold all judgments until the end.
It is unclear to me why so many people visit Delhi. There isn’t much to see, and the experience makes the New Yorker far more uncomfortable than walking among the tourists in Time Square. The poverty is unimaginable: 5 year old children walk around barefoot, malnourished, covered in dust, and carrying infants. Diseased and desperate adults beg for money, sleep on the street, and await the inevitable. Trying to share this reality by way of blog is, as Indians say, “not possible.” There was nothing in my experiential/cultural vocabulary, which could have prepared me for India. And today, upon my departure, I fear there is still little that I have learned, which will allow me to make sense of this experience. To call India the third world implies that it is still part of our human world. In reality, it is as alien as outer space. I can neither encourage anyone to visit here, nor condone a world tour that excludes India. See it, once, and preferably through the window of a Ritz Carlton or a tricked out Mercedes-Benz.
Then, there was the Taj Mahal. This symmetrical structure is undeniably beautiful. I thought it would be just another famous tourist attraction, but it is truly impressive. The craftsmanship, man hours, and money, which went into making the Taj baffle me. We hired a local tour guide for 5 USD to maximize our visit. His knowledge contributed significantly to our experience.
We returned to Delhi, almost got ripped off my our driver, got ripped off by our rickshaw, and finally settled into Hotel Hari Piorko. Avery eventually met us, and we flew out the next day for Darjeeling--like the movie Darjeeling Limited (warning: only similar in name)! Yeah, I'm that cool. It's a beautiful city in the hills. So much better than Delhi and Agra--much less crowded, not too hot, and only a little rainy. When we landed in Bagdogra Airport, three hours south of Darjeeling, we quickly realized that hiring an unofficial car, though dangerous, was substantially cheaper than the airport taxi service. After Seth left the terminal, he was immediately surrounded by almost thirty dirty men, offering to drive him wherever he wanted to go for a good price. It’s funny how drivers yell from the side of the road or stop in the middle to tell tourist they will give them a ride for a cheap or good price. My response: how about an overpriced car? Who wants to rip me off? Anyone? This negotiation was one of the funniest to which I have ever been party. As Seth stood in the middle yelling for everyone to be quiet and back up, I started a bidding war from the edge of the circle. The men actually competed to pay me less. As soon as I got 800, I yelled, “Whoever wants to charge me 750 gets my business!“ This continued until we reached the actual minimal price. We picked our driver from the remaining LOW bidders, drew out a contract, which they signed, and got in the vehicle.
Once in Darjeeling, we went to a local tea field/processing pant for mediocre tea. We also visited the local zoo--it was underwhelming. Ready to call Darjeeling a bust, we found salvation. Over a decent dinner at Glenary’s, we met Marko and his girlfriend Sarah, who helped us coordinate an inexpensive trek into the Himalayas. Following his advice, we geared up (read: purchased a sweatshirt and disposable socks) and jumped in a cab for Maneybahnjang. Our plan would have us depart from a post near the Nepal/India border, take us into Nepal where we would camp in small village guest houses for two nights, view Everest and its neighbors, and finally return via an 8 hour downhill trek to town. Unfortunately, our plan was foiled. We spent the night in a village which consisted of 5 families, and got up very early the next morning, expecting to begin the next leg of our journey up-mountain, but the rain, which began shortly after we arrived never subsided. This was not ordinary rain. One could call it torrential or a monsoon, but in any case, it continued pouring buckets for over 24 hours. With the high risk of hypothermia and the almost definite likelihood that the rain would bring landslides, we were encouraged (required) to stay put. We never made it to our second base camp, and unfortunately did NOT get to see Everest. However, we did see the snow capped peaks of the world's third highest mountain, Kanchandzonga (28,156 ft.). In one word, beautiful. It wasn't the perfect hike, but it was pretty awesome.
To sum it up: India is not my favorite place. After spending only 5 minutes outside, I want to crawl into an icebox for 24 hours to contemplate braving the streets, the heat, the people, the smells, the sights...India, for another 5 minutes. I have only just now adjusted--or more accurately become acclimated--to India, and with it, I depart for Bangkok, Phuket, Sri Lanka, and more. I have spared you the details of my train ride from Darjeeling to Varanasi, the dead bodies on the side of the road, and the River Ganges, but you can expect that these filthy tales will eventually find their way to your inbox.
