The flight was full of Indian families who had no regard for "FAA regulations" and the flight attendants knew they were up against a losing battle. They would emphatically demand that the bearded man with a white turban and pointy shoes take his seat, they would pass a labored smile to the woman with screaming children banging on the tray tables, they did their best to keep up with the overflowing trash heaps collecting around the exit doors, the floors splattered and stained with white yogurt.
The very moment that the wheels touched the ground everyone began milling around despite the flight attendants shouts and PA annoucements to "PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEATS NOW!!! WAIIT UNTIL WE'VE COME TO THE GATE AND THE SEATBELT SIGN IS TURNED OFF!!!". Their pleas, lost in translation, fell on deaf ears and they finally gave up and retreated to the back of the plane, frazzeled from the last 14 hours in the air.
The first breath of Delhi air can only be described as a rotting garbage dump set ablaze into a huge bonfire. Although the temperature was about 100 degress when we landed at 8:30pm it wasn't overwhelming, it was the smell, that thick burning trash heap smell. It felt like each square foot of air weighed ten pounds. When I left the airport terminal there were hundreds of people waiting for the arriving passengers, much like my experience in Kathmandu. I was pleased to find that my hotel had sent the driver as promised. Miraculously, I found my name on the sign he was holding among hundreds of other signs, each with hand scribbled names, hotels, and travel services. It read "Jayle Rivyers", interesting spelling.
He was a nice kid about 18 years old who was eager to speak English with me. It took me a while to understand him though, he used the words "in the" with everything... "In the flight, you have good flight coming in the Delhi? In the... uh... traffic, many traffic to in the hotel. You have many good time in the India. Thank you sir." The ride to the hotel was chaotic... dust, cows, buses, bicycles, rickshaws, tuk tuks, horns blasting and hundreds of near misses, all in one nocturnal mosh pit pulsing to the strange syncopated rhythm that is India.
The next morning I hired a driver from the hotel to take me to Lal Qila, or Red Fort, a remnant of the Moghul Empire finished in 1648. The imposing complex stands on an octagonal 2km plot with sandstone walls and fortified with turrets. Next was the Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque, that soars above the old city. After climbing the mountain of stairs to the entrance, it opens into an immense stone courtyard large enough to hold 25,000 worshippers.
Upon arriving I got out of the car with my camera bag on my shoulder as always and he told me to wear it on the front, warning me of pick pockets and theives. "This is India" he said with a bright smile. The Red Fort was nice but nothing I hadn't seen before in Nepal or Cambodia or Thailand. The mosque, however, was incredible. There was beautiful light and I think I got some great shots. With the early morning sunrise filling the cavernous stone halls and archways, the only fitting description is tranquilty incarnate.
The next morning I ventured out on foot among the "pick pockets and thieves" that I was warned about. There was no problem at all. I've figured out that the hotels try to scare you with scandalous stories so that you'll eat at their restaurants, use their drivers, and stay at their hotels (all at higher prices). When I was finally out among the people on the streets, I had no more problems with hawkers or scams than I've had in Bangkok or Saigon or any other big city. Staying insulated from the people of a county leads one to develop an "us and them" attitude that never really lets you see the country and the culture for what it is.
