Delhi!

by Maggie



The first hint was when we raised the shades on the windows of the plane. It was brown out there. I commented on the air quality to my seat mate. After a very long pause, he said, “Maybe it’s mostly fog.”


But first, the airport

I’ve heard bad things about Delhi airport. But there were signs in it claiming it to be “the best in the world.” Truth falls somewhere between. Where airports I’ve known have tended to be laid out in snaking strips or modelled on the octopus with a central hub and many legs, Delhi seems to be one very large cube, with barriers to guide the visitor. I followed the crowd to immigration. The man behind the counter did not say one word to me, but he smiled when he handed back my passport. The baggage carousels – there are maybe 15 of them. There’s a board that lists which flight’s bags were at which carousel, but I didn’t pay attention because it looked just like a flight board. I stood at the wrong carousel for a bit, but soon figured it out. My bag! It arrived!

I had prepared for arrival here, and I knew that the reliable taxis are the pre-paid police-monitored ones. I asked an official where the booth was and he directed me outside. My research led me to think it would be inside, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.  Once outside, I asked another official, who said it was inside but that I couldn’t go back in once I’d left the building. I knew that. Warning to anyone flying into or out of Delhi: do your research. Anyhow, taking a taxi hadn’t been my first choice in fact, and I said to the outside official that I’d probably just take the metro. He said yes, that the metro is good, and that was reassuring.


And then the metro

The metro was good! A well-marked route to find it, an obvious booth for buying tokens. Human beings in the booth – a good thing, since automatic machines everywhere are confusing to foreigners (and I’m convinced that’s intentional, but that’s another story). Had to go through security, x-ray scanner for bags and walk-through sensor for self, to get to the platforms. The platform had a glass wall between it and the tracks, with doors that slid open only once the train arrived. Train pretty much empty the whole way, being an express airport-train station line. From the train I could see the road below, six lanes of traffic not moving in one direction and four lanes not moving in the other direction. I would have taken a picture, but that’s forbidden. Anyhow, I probably saved two hours taking the metro, two hours I then reinvested once I arrived at the station.


And finally…

Okay, I know. I studied the maps, memorized the route from station to hotel. But I know. It’s not the same as being on the ground. I had no idea how to even start out.

I asked someone in uniform (they are everywhere here, at least around transportation hubs) for help, and he pointed me towards the train station. It was not at all where I’d expected it to be, but I knew that the station was a very short walk to my hotel.

I stepped out of the metro station and into seething Delhi. There were people, masses of them, walking in all directions. There were taxis and tuktuks and bicycle rickshaws and motorbikes, masses of them, moving in all directions. I was a beacon for the touts, “Taxi? Tuktuk? Hotel? Porter?” But you know, a polite “no thank you” from me was enough to send them away every time, dozens of times. I slipped in with the crowd and crossed the traffic to the train station. “Taxi?” “No thank you.” I lifted my bag over curbs and barriers. I threaded my way through streams of honking vehicles. “Tuktuk?” “No thank you.” I joined the grim-faced citizens sitting on the station steps. I had to get my bearings. “Porter, ma’am?” “No thank you.”

There was an overpass at one end of the station, familiar from my maps. I asked an official about how to get to Main Bazaar, and he said to go through the station. You can’t go “through the station,” that was apparent. The overpass goes over it. Through security to access the overpass, bags scanned. By this time, I’d already learned to be quick, because people would throw their bags ahead of mine. To budge is the norm. Once up on the overpass, I knew I was going the right way. Once down, I knew the general direction but not how to get to there. At the police station, a kind man stepped out and pointed exactly where I had to go.

I walked along the street beside people selling old coins and rotting papayas, beside puddles of un-namable fluids and piles of unrecognizable rubbish. The air, the “fog” seen from the plane, burned my eyes. The sun was a brown smudge in the sky. Pockets of piss-smell greeted me. And still, from the drivers of tuktuks, “Hotel?” “No thank you.” I cursed my bags for being so heavy, despite packing “light.” I cursed Dave for choosing this neighbourhood. (I love you Dave!)

Barely a block along, there was a huge painted sign for the street I needed. I headed up into a sea of hotels, none of them mine. No numbers on the buildings, no way of knowing if I was going the right way. An hotelier offered me a room, but then obliged in pointing me in the right direction, back the way I’d come. I turned into a little alley I hadn’t noticed on first pass, and there it was: The Prime Balaji Delux.

And here I am. It’s a small windowless room, but being windowless, it’s quiet and the air is filtered. It’s modern and it’s clean enough. I had thought I’d spend the afternoon exploring, but I find I’m not interested in venturing out, not until Anne and Dave are here. I had notions of bike tours and sightseeing. Don’t think so. I now understand why most people simply pass through Delhi. The city has much to offer, but to get out there would take more fortitude than this traveller can summon after 36 hours in transit.

Shortly I’ll go to dinner in the top-floor restaurant here. Then I’ll shower when the hot water is turned on at 7:00. Then, a long uninterrupted night, in which I hope to sleep.




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