So having arrived at Delhi airport I made my way to the taxi rank, tired and a little drunk, in anticipation of being ripped off by one of the many savvy taxi drivers. They came at me like truffle hounds after a mushroom , offering promises of the best price and worldly pleasures. After beating them away with my forehead (maybe a touch of artistic licence there) I climbed on board with the tallest among them; why I chose that criteria I don't know. 'Where you go?' he shouted.
'Main Bazaar please my good man' I said in my best colonial accent.
'wha?' he replied.
'Delhi. Tourist Delhi'
'aaaaah ok' he said with a wry smile. And off we went.
'You come here before?' he asked.
'Many times', I lied.
'Where you stay before?' For some reason, this was a question I was not ready for.
'Ajax' I said, a Dutch football team being the first thing to come into my head. He gave me a quizzical sideways glance.
'Wha?' he asked. I didn't know what to say. I gave him a cigarette as a response and we said no more of it. And on that note he hurtled me to the hostel district of Delhi, weaving lanes at a top speed of 30mph, occasionally avoiding the homeless sleeping in the road. We made it to the main Bazaar where he unceremoniously deposited me outside what I assumed would be my hostel. Despite communication issues with the concierge, I was given a room where I lay until 7am, unable to sleep.
After rousing myself from my fitful slumber at around 12, I wandered out into the streets of Delhi. Little prepared me for the absolute mind fuck that greeted me. Marking me out as a tourist from my white skin, shorts, and white striped shirt, the touts descended like, well, touts to a tourist. I was offered pretty much everything through a diverse range of tactics, from opening with friendly advice ('put bag on front, very dangerous') to the less subtle compliments ('HEY YOU LOOK LIKE BODY BUILDER!!!). After once again using my sizable forehead as an offensive weapon (again, A.L) I managed to separate myself from the main body of them and walk down the Bazaar.
After booking some train tickets to Rajahstan and drinking many cups of Chai with people trying to sell me their travel/shoes/children, I sat down in a cafe to settle the bodily shaking that had set in as a result. And it was here that I met my first 'Real Traveler'.
After settling the bodily shaking from frantic to noticeable, I assessed the cafe. Out of the clientele there, only one was sitting on his own. I targeted this individual for my approach. He looked late 20's early 30's and facially could easily have been John Malkovich's younger brother; close set eyes with a shaved head and a t-shirt bearing some slogan that seemed to hold relevance only to those that had found themselves. He was tall and wiry and had the laid back appearance of a man who simply didn't give a shit. So, after pretending to read for about 10 minutes I stood up, walked over, and said 'can I have a cigarette?'
'Sorry?' he replied
'Can I have a cigarette?' I appeared to have lost control of volume.
'Sure' he said, slightly taken aback by my shouting. 'Would you like to sit down?'
'Yeah' I said, like it was no big thing. 'Good job, now play it cool' said my brain.
'What's your name?' he asked.
'Ed'
'Nice to meet you Adam'. I let it go. 'I'm Johan'.
Johan told me that he had been travelling India for the last 20 years and was just on his way home, to Scandanavia. We chatted about various aspects of where I should go and what to see, what he had done...travel stuff. After about an hour of this an Indian gem salesman turned up and greeted Johan. His name was Ravi, and he stated that we should both go upstairs and drink whiskey with him. So we did.
I sat on a table opposite an industrial oven and sipped the warm, straight whiskey that I had been given. The subject of conversation then turned to Johan's drug dealing and Ravi's love of breasts, a turn that I was not expecting or prepared for. They both fought for conversational supremacy like some Indian/Danish cold war, both detailing the benefits of their respective vices.
'Drugs', said Johan, 'are the shit. I've tried everything man, everything, and I can tell you the people I meet in those dreams surpass any in this life'. I had no answer to this.
'But I am telling you', said Ravi, 'a love of breasts is the most natural thing in a man's life'. He then came out with possibly the greatest sentence ever said.
'A breast is the first toy that a child holds. This child is denied breasts through his schooling, so why then should this man not want to play with his childhood toys?' I laughed, but Ravi was deadly serious.
'Drugs' said Johan as a response, and wandered off into the Bazaar. Probably in search of, well, drugs.
The next day after a jet-lagged and fitful sleep, I hired a driver to give me a tour of Delhi. His name was Amit and he was one of the funniest people I have ever met.
'LUBBLY JUBBLY' He would shout elatedly whenever I said I liked something, laughing hysterically at his own joke. He showed me round every major monument in the next six hours, which led me to chill with Ghandi:
Conquer the Red Fort,
see some old buried dude,
And a man making Chapattis on a lot of drugs.
However this also led to heat stroke, so after the tour I went and sat in an internet cafe and drank copious amounts of water. This was where I once again ran into Johan.
'Hey Adam. how's it going?'
'Not bad, a little tired'
'I'm just off to meet these crazy french people, they're cool. You want to come?'
'Sure, sounds good' I said, and off we went to the strangest, weirdly exclusive hostel I've ever been to.
The place itself was located down some weaving back alley of Delhi and on first impressions, seemed an absolute dump. However on ascending the stairs to the top floor I arrived at a palatial roof garden, where about 7 Frenchmen of varying ages were sat, all smoking weed.
'Bonjour. Je m'appelle Ed' I stated in my best French.
'Allo' came to collective response. They then proceeded to metaphorically rip their minds from their skulls and replace it with the effects of a chillum pipe.
'Your name's Ed?' said Johan.
'Yup'
'huh' he replied pensively.
I chatted to the French Foreign Legion for a while, and came to the realization that they were all competitors in the same business - festival promotion on a massive scale. They seemed to be involved in organizing the majority of mainland Europe's techno and house festivals, and were all returning to various parts of Europe to open the season. So, after getting a few useful names, I headed home and slept for 12 hours straight.
And this is where you find me now, sitting in an internet cafe typing quickly so I don't miss my train to Bikaner (so excuse the grammatical errors), the first stop on my tour of Rajahstan. I hear old Delhi station is mental, so if this is my last post, assume I was murdered/raped/pillaged on the train and think no more of it. Peace.
'Main Bazaar please my good man' I said in my best colonial accent.
'wha?' he replied.
'Delhi. Tourist Delhi'
'aaaaah ok' he said with a wry smile. And off we went.
'You come here before?' he asked.
'Many times', I lied.
'Where you stay before?' For some reason, this was a question I was not ready for.
'Ajax' I said, a Dutch football team being the first thing to come into my head. He gave me a quizzical sideways glance.
'Wha?' he asked. I didn't know what to say. I gave him a cigarette as a response and we said no more of it. And on that note he hurtled me to the hostel district of Delhi, weaving lanes at a top speed of 30mph, occasionally avoiding the homeless sleeping in the road. We made it to the main Bazaar where he unceremoniously deposited me outside what I assumed would be my hostel. Despite communication issues with the concierge, I was given a room where I lay until 7am, unable to sleep.
After rousing myself from my fitful slumber at around 12, I wandered out into the streets of Delhi. Little prepared me for the absolute mind fuck that greeted me. Marking me out as a tourist from my white skin, shorts, and white striped shirt, the touts descended like, well, touts to a tourist. I was offered pretty much everything through a diverse range of tactics, from opening with friendly advice ('put bag on front, very dangerous') to the less subtle compliments ('HEY YOU LOOK LIKE BODY BUILDER!!!). After once again using my sizable forehead as an offensive weapon (again, A.L) I managed to separate myself from the main body of them and walk down the Bazaar.
After booking some train tickets to Rajahstan and drinking many cups of Chai with people trying to sell me their travel/shoes/children, I sat down in a cafe to settle the bodily shaking that had set in as a result. And it was here that I met my first 'Real Traveler'.
After settling the bodily shaking from frantic to noticeable, I assessed the cafe. Out of the clientele there, only one was sitting on his own. I targeted this individual for my approach. He looked late 20's early 30's and facially could easily have been John Malkovich's younger brother; close set eyes with a shaved head and a t-shirt bearing some slogan that seemed to hold relevance only to those that had found themselves. He was tall and wiry and had the laid back appearance of a man who simply didn't give a shit. So, after pretending to read for about 10 minutes I stood up, walked over, and said 'can I have a cigarette?'
'Sorry?' he replied
'Can I have a cigarette?' I appeared to have lost control of volume.
'Sure' he said, slightly taken aback by my shouting. 'Would you like to sit down?'
'Yeah' I said, like it was no big thing. 'Good job, now play it cool' said my brain.
'What's your name?' he asked.
'Ed'
'Nice to meet you Adam'. I let it go. 'I'm Johan'.
Johan told me that he had been travelling India for the last 20 years and was just on his way home, to Scandanavia. We chatted about various aspects of where I should go and what to see, what he had done...travel stuff. After about an hour of this an Indian gem salesman turned up and greeted Johan. His name was Ravi, and he stated that we should both go upstairs and drink whiskey with him. So we did.
I sat on a table opposite an industrial oven and sipped the warm, straight whiskey that I had been given. The subject of conversation then turned to Johan's drug dealing and Ravi's love of breasts, a turn that I was not expecting or prepared for. They both fought for conversational supremacy like some Indian/Danish cold war, both detailing the benefits of their respective vices.
'Drugs', said Johan, 'are the shit. I've tried everything man, everything, and I can tell you the people I meet in those dreams surpass any in this life'. I had no answer to this.
'But I am telling you', said Ravi, 'a love of breasts is the most natural thing in a man's life'. He then came out with possibly the greatest sentence ever said.
'A breast is the first toy that a child holds. This child is denied breasts through his schooling, so why then should this man not want to play with his childhood toys?' I laughed, but Ravi was deadly serious.
'Drugs' said Johan as a response, and wandered off into the Bazaar. Probably in search of, well, drugs.
The next day after a jet-lagged and fitful sleep, I hired a driver to give me a tour of Delhi. His name was Amit and he was one of the funniest people I have ever met.
'LUBBLY JUBBLY' He would shout elatedly whenever I said I liked something, laughing hysterically at his own joke. He showed me round every major monument in the next six hours, which led me to chill with Ghandi:
Conquer the Red Fort,
see some old buried dude,
And a man making Chapattis on a lot of drugs.
'Hey Adam. how's it going?'
'Not bad, a little tired'
'I'm just off to meet these crazy french people, they're cool. You want to come?'
'Sure, sounds good' I said, and off we went to the strangest, weirdly exclusive hostel I've ever been to.
The place itself was located down some weaving back alley of Delhi and on first impressions, seemed an absolute dump. However on ascending the stairs to the top floor I arrived at a palatial roof garden, where about 7 Frenchmen of varying ages were sat, all smoking weed.
'Bonjour. Je m'appelle Ed' I stated in my best French.
'Allo' came to collective response. They then proceeded to metaphorically rip their minds from their skulls and replace it with the effects of a chillum pipe.
'Your name's Ed?' said Johan.
'Yup'
'huh' he replied pensively.
I chatted to the French Foreign Legion for a while, and came to the realization that they were all competitors in the same business - festival promotion on a massive scale. They seemed to be involved in organizing the majority of mainland Europe's techno and house festivals, and were all returning to various parts of Europe to open the season. So, after getting a few useful names, I headed home and slept for 12 hours straight.
And this is where you find me now, sitting in an internet cafe typing quickly so I don't miss my train to Bikaner (so excuse the grammatical errors), the first stop on my tour of Rajahstan. I hear old Delhi station is mental, so if this is my last post, assume I was murdered/raped/pillaged on the train and think no more of it. Peace.
