Delhi

It's hard to know where to start when talking about India. It's not like any other country I've visited. The divide between rich and poor is startling and you see it everywhere. Poverty you wouldn't dream of seeing in the first world is commonplace: it's on the side of the road, and everyone drives on as it's the most normal thing in the world. Because it is: the main religion of India (there are several) is Hinduism, which proscribes a system where everyone is born into a certain caste, and the aim of life is to essentially live a good life so that you might be reincarnated into a better caste.

Arriving in Delhi, our flight from Zurich landed at around eleven at night: by the time we picked up our bags, it was eleven-thirty. Fortunately, we'd planned ahead from Spain, and had reserved a room: further, the hotel sent a car to pick us up. This is more necessary than it may sound, as evidenced immediately by the hordes of taxi and rickshaw drivers that flock around you as you leave the arrival gate. Further, we were (and knew we'd be) tired, disoriented, and completely unprepared for the culture shock: having a car come to meet us took all the variables out of the equation.

We were greeted by Umess (who we would find out later was also the room service boy) who directed us over to the car that would take us from Indira Ghandi International airport, to our hotel, the Rak International. As we filed out of the arrivals lounge with a sea of other people, we received literally a dozen offers of transportation and hotels in the city. All of this we had prepared for: it's well-documented in our travel book. But what I wasn't prepared for was the quality of the air.

The air smells and tastes as if you are in a steel mill: a combination of hot rust and rubber. It's an acrid taste that sticks with you. You know it's not in your imagination as you can see the thick haze, with the beams of cars' headlights carving luminescent paths through it. It's oppressive and omnipresent and reminds you that you're far from home.

Umess took us to the car, our senses on full alert for the first sign of deception, but happily none was to come. The car, however, triggered other alerts: it was a bit beaten up, but I suppose no more so than any other car in the parking lot, a small, four-door hatchback. We carried our small bags with us as the large ones filled up the trunk; we had no seatbelts. Seatbelts seemed to be optional anyway, as neither Umess nor the driver wore theirs. The speedometer didn't work; only one headlight worked, shining a diagonal path directly in front of the car. There were squeaks and rattles and a mystery shudder that tugged at the direction of the car, so that the driver was constantly weaving on the road.

As we pulled out onto the open road, any trust we had in the safety of the voyage was truly put to the test by the Indian driving model. There seem to be two major rules:

1. Might is right. Smaller vehicles get out of the way of larger and/or faster ones.
2. Any which way you can: if you see an opening you think you can fit through, you go for it.

Complicate this with the fact that many cars (and the vast majority of cargo trucks) don't have any mirrors, so they rely on other drivers to blast their horns to alert them of an overtaking: it's written on the backs of the truck, "Horn Please" and "Use Dipper at Night", the dipper being lights - ie., you should flash them as you pass. I'm wondering if the rules changed because we were precious cargo (we hadn't paid yet) because our driver didn't do much dangerous passing: rather, he wove in about the middle of the road and became an obstacle for most of the cars that wanted to pass him.

We ended up doing a bit more driving later, so I'll talk about it probably in the next dispatch. In a nutshell, it's not for the faint of heart, and if you got the impression from my France dispatches that driving in Europe was insane, it's ten times as insane in India.

Our hotel, the Rak International, sounds much classier than it actually was. It's situated in the Paharganj area - the main bazaar - which to the first-time Canadian visitor is pretty shocking in terms of its general state of disrepair and uncleanliness. As we drove through the dimly lit streets, headlights shining paths through the hazy night air, we passed by the night denizens - people hanging around fires, sleeping in doorways, meandering from place to place. When we finally got to the hotel, it did look remarkably out of place: a tall, whitewashed multi-story building in amongst a collision of different buildings, one seemingly built on top and in front of another. However, for the price, it suited our needs just fine, coupled with the fact that they had turned people away in order to keep a room for us (no doubt because we were spending some money to have them pick us up from the airport) it was just really nice not to have to wander around the Paharganj knocking on doors to see if they had a room available.

The room they had reserved for us was a deluxe room - slightly more expensive than what we reserved. This was our first lesson that things just don't work the same way they would in Europe. A hotel reservation apparently just means that they know you're coming, and even though we'd haggled over the price, even this apparently wasn't set in stone. They'd turned people away in order to keep the room for us, they explained, but because we showed a bit of hesitation over the price, they agreed to split the difference and we could switch the following day if we liked (and, I imagine, assuming a room was available). After we handed over the rupees for the pick-up and the room, Mozar, the night manager, proceeded to spend a long time filling out the hotel reservation book for Amy and I. We all stood there - Umess, Amy, myself and about three other Indian guys - waiting for Mozar to finish the required entries - and looking at each other with friendly glances that convey the impression of "I have nothing to do but wait."

The deluxe room was pretty snazzy - the first circular bed we've stayed in. Straight out of the 70's disco era, I suspect. On the third floor, which Umess suggested was better because it was "good for the head". After we settled in, Umess asked us with a devilish and conspiratorial grin if we would like to drink some beer. We declined - multiple times during our stay, to about four different members of the staff. Most places we've come to stay during our time in India don't have beer listed on the menu, and when it's offered, it tends to have a bit of a forbidden undertone to it - even though the only officially dry state in India is Gujurat. We've come to understand that more than likely the hotel didn't have a permit to sell alcohol.

With the time difference we didn't get to sleep until about three in the morning, and the city starts to wake up about five in the morning, so we have been giving our earplugs a major workout. When we were finally ready to brave the streets of Delhi, we set out, maps and compass at the ready. Our destination - the Banana Leaf restaurant in Connaught place, what looked to be a mere kilometre of walking away.

We were barely down the street from the hotel, passing by street-side vendors of food, clothing, you name it - when a young man dressed in acid-washed denim matched our stride and greeted us. After the usual round of questions - where we were from, our names, how long in India, where we were going - he reassured us that he wasn't going to sell us anything, he was a student, and wanted to practice his English. This was where I learned lesson number one - watch how much information you give out about yourself, and tell some white lies where necessary. In particular, how long you've been in India: you've been here before, and this particular trip you've already been in-country a few weeks.

Raju, as we came to learn, was true to his word - he never tried to sell us anything. But he did suggest that we should take an auto-rickshaw to Connaught place, as the traffic was particularly dangerous, especially if we had never been there before. We insisted we'd rather walk - our guidebook mentions that once you get into a taxi or an auto-rickshaw, there's a strong likelihood that you'll drop by a few carpet shops on the way to where you're going. The driver gets a commission on anything you buy. The particular rickshaw Raju took us to followed us despite our repeated insistence that we didn't need his services. The more we declined, the more he assumed we were just bargaining him down. He started at 25 rupees, and by the time we finally tore ourselves away from him, he would take us downtown for 5 rupees. But this wasn't until he'd repeated his entire sales pitch three times, and we finally just had to walk away. That didn't stop him from circling around and offering a couple of times more.

Raju then asked if we needed to visit a tourist office - we said that he could show us where it was if he liked, which he happily proceeded to do. Taking us down one alleyway after the next, until we reached another street side vendor, who didn't show up on our map or in our guidebook as a government information office. No doubt a tour operator for which Raju would get a commission if we bought something. We thanked Raju for his time and went our own way.

The rest of our trip to Connaught place was spent in our new mode of walking travel - a brisk walk and eyes forward, ignoring all the greetings of "Hello" and "Excuse me" - called out by vendors or rickshaw drivers, all intent on having us spend some rupees. At first it felt like I was being pretty rude, until I realized this is just standard practice in India. Indian men don't seem to greet each other with any formalities or niceties, and only give their attention to a vendor if there is something they're interested in buying.

A few wrong turns and quick checks of the map later, we finally emerged at the Banana Leaf, parched with thirst and hungry to boot. You can't really drink the tap water in India: in the major cities it's chlorinated, but filled with organisms the Indians are used to, but we're not. The Banana Leaf turned out to be an excellent restaurant, with good value and delicious food. Our neighbours were cheerful and pleasant, asking us about our trip so far and what we thought of India, proffering their opinions about India and the world, and offering us helpful advice. When we discussed our intention to visit Rajasthan, they suggested we should visit the government tourist office - not one of the many imposters - and could show us where it was. After lunch they directed us to the place, which did in fact appear to be in the right place on the map, and wished us well.

Inside the office, we were greeted warmly and shown into a separate office, where we discussed places we'd like to visit in Rajasthan: Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Jaipur, Udaipur - pretty much a standard circuit around the state. He suggested that the best way would be to go with a car and driver, rather than trying to do it with multiple train tickets, as even though the train would cost less, there would still be places to go that would require separate rickshaw or taxi rides, and this way we could do it at our own pace. There was something about the way he was laying out the itinerary that was sounding more like a sales pitch than just offering information - that led us to ask if we could see his credentials. When he produced a business card that said "Exotic Tours Ltd. (Government approved)" we knew we weren't at the government tourist office.

We did eventually find the government office - the D.T.T.D.C., or Delhi Tourist and Transportation Development Corporation - but not without a fair number of people telling us it was closed, or just over there, or whatever. All to steer us towards a private firm in order to earn a commission from our transaction. In the DTTDC we met with Mukur, with whom we discussed our interest in Rajasthan.

Amy and I had talked about the virtues of a train trip versus a car and driver. The train is far cheaper, but doesn't go to all the places we wanted to visit: in addition, you have to get yourself from the station to the hotel, from the hotel to the sights you want to see, to restaurants, all of which adds to the hassle and money factor. But by far the most deciding factor for me was that we would be accompanied by a guide, someone who could speak the language and bridge the gap between us and India. The fact is that our money goes a lot further in India, and as our guide book mentions - things that are only luxuries in our home country become possible here.

While we whiled away the weekend before our trip through Rajasthan was to begin, we had occasion to meet two local Indian men at a coffee shop (again, they just leaned over and started talking to us) - Rafiq and Rodg. We talked of all sorts of things, and we discussed our ideas for a trip through Rajasthan. They gave us some helpful advice, and offered to escort us to the real tourist office in Connaught place - again, noting that there were many look-alikes trying to sell tours (it would seem that the locals in Delhi are very helpful towards tourists, asking the same questions - how long have you been there, where are you from, and do you need help getting to the tourist information office). We indeed did let them direct us to the tourist office - which ended up being the same office we'd visited before, the home of Exotic Tours Ltd. It was a bit disheartening, but we thanked them for their directions and said we'd drop by later.

The experience of being directed twice to what appears to be the government office but is in actuality a tour operator, by people that are so convincingly trustworthy, initially left me quite disillusioned. So here are a few thoughts I had to help me interpret their actions:

1. In both cases, these are local guys, working in the area, and they get a commission from anything that's sold, so what I'm seeing is just one hand washing the other.
2. It's entirely possible Exotic Tours Ltd. has convinced everyone around that they are indeed the government office. The front facade of the building is quite convincing.
3. Exotic Tours Ltd was offering a better rate for the car and driver than Mukur at the DTTDC, so it's possible in both cases they thought they were doing us a favour by sending us to the Tour operator - and they get a commission to boot.

In the end we went back to Mukur and booked through him. He offered us a better vehicle, the reassurance of a government office (whether this is actually reassuring is another matter, but hey, it's the government, right?), and the ability to pay by credit card. The idea of paying up front with cash and rolling the dice with what we would get was a bit too hard to swallow.

The style that we seem to steer towards in our tourist style is low-key, trying to blend in and get behind the curtain that separates locals from tourists. It's not always easy, especially when you don't speak the language and don't know the customs. So when we saw the vehicle we would be driving in - a Toyota Qualis, essentially a copycat of a Land Rover, with "Government of Delhi" emblazoned on the front windshield and "Tourist" marked on both sides - we knew we were going to be standing out a bit. Our driver, Mr. Bandari, is a very knowledgeable and jovial guy, and would prove to be an exceptional driver. Unfortunately he has a limited command of English, and our conversations can be a bit limited at times. But he is an expert in the area and very capable at getting around.

So our Indian Road Trip has the following itinerary:

1. Agra (2 days)
2. Bharatpur (1 day)
3. Ranthambore (1 day)
4. Jaipur (1 day)
5. Pushkar (1 day)
6. Jodhpur (2 days)
7. Jaisalmer (2 days)
8. Bikaner (1 day)
9. Mandawa (1 day)

And then back to Delhi, for a total of twelve days. It really is a whirlwind trip but I think the car and driver option will make that a bit more approachable.

In my next dispatch I'll tell you all about the first half of our Rajasthan Road Trip, but I wanted to leave you with some telling details about the Indian mentality, at least as told by one Indian in particular - Rafiq, an aspiring businessman with whom we shared conversation over coffee. Rafiq was very proud of how far India had come in a short time. He lamented at the growing divide between rich and poor, but had no ideas regarding how the immense poverty of the country could be redressed. He regularly compared India's development to the west: "The west has factories, now we have factories. The west has computers, now we have computers. The west has cellphones, now we have cellphones. Soon we will have everything that the west has."