In at the Deep End by Philip Williams
In at the Deep End
By Philip Williams
Seemingly the whole population of Delhi accosted me as I exited Indira Gandhi International Airport. Each driver clamoured for my business in his chosen mode of transport. Avoiding eye contact, I dodged them and caught a bus to an area of budget accommodation recommended in my guidebook. Connaught Place sounded nostalgically-romantic. I envisaged it peacefully surrounded by white-painted colonial buildings adorned with balconies and verandas. As the bus rounded a corner, the idealistic images in my head were shattered. I was confronted by once-grand but now-dilapidated Georgian structures, covered in hoardings and shoddy fascias, encircled by chaos, with a cacophonous mêlée of horn-tooting cars, trucks, black-and-yellow auto-rickshaws, motorbikes and holy cows. I tried several cheap hotels in my guidebook, but all were full. I finally found a place not in my book, and got a room for 100 Rupees, around £3.00; cheap compared to Europe, but I was definitely ripped off. And I soon found out why it wasn’t in the book. The room was tiny, filled by the world’s narrowest single bed, a chair and a wall fan. My backpack took up half the floor. Nearby were a shared bathroom, and a ‘western-style’ toilet, which the hotel proprietor had promoted as a modern upgrade plus-point over the usual squat-toilet. Having a western-style lav sounded good until I set eyes on the thing. It was so filthy that it wasn’t even suitable to shit in. I braced myself and headed out and about to try to acclimatise to India, but in vain. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people, constantly hassled by rickshaw drivers wanting to take me somewhere I didn’t want to go, by peddlers trying to flog me things I didn’t want, and by beggars clamouring for a few Rupees. I was hungry, but despite my love of English-Indian food, couldn’t find familiar dishes on any menus. Street vendors’ fare looked and smelt fantastic, but I was paranoid about gut-destroying bugs. And a dodgy stomach would mean using the hotel loo more than I really wanted to.
The streets were filthy, and, frankly, Delhi stank. The air was thick with humidity, traffic fumes and the stench of rotting…things. Everything imaginable – and improbable – was in the gutters from decaying vegetables and holy-cow dung, to a dead dog and other unidentifiable decomposing cack. For an idea of how Delhi smelt, stick your nose into a refuse truck on a very hot summer’s day. Multiply that many times: that’s how the whole city reeked. I felt grubby all over, even though only the soles of my shoes had come into contact with India. I was apprehensive about touching anything, but even the money was grimy, and it stank too. Back in my room, I flopped on my bed, exhausted and dumbfounded. I’d expected India to be different, but it was a complete sensory overload and a total culture-shock, another planet. Having just travelled solo around Europe for six months, I was cock-sure and over-confident, thinking that I knew it all, ‘been there, done that, bought the t-shirt’. I felt immensely homesick. That evening I stayed in, too scared to go out. Delhi was bad enough during daylight. My room was crap, but it was preferable to Delhi in the dark. I washed my shirt in the shower and hung it up to dry in front of the fan. The water evaporated, turning my room into a sticky sauna. I wanted to open the window to let-in the night’s cool breeze, but it was adjacent to a flat roof and I was terrified that someone would climb in and kill me. Eventually I fell asleep in my steamy little space. The next morning I was still nervous about going out, but knew that I couldn’t remain cooped-up in my cramped room. This was my second day of a two-month solo tour of India – and a year-long backpacking trip – so when I got home, and people asked, ‘What was Delhi like?’, and I answered, ‘I don’t know, I stayed in my room’, I’d look – and feel – stupid. Hardly the intrepid adventurer I’d made myself out to be before leaving. So, after some delaying tactics, I plucked up the courage to venture out, flinching as the rank atmosphere hit me when I stepped outside my little hotel. Within seconds a rickshaw driver stopped by me. I was fed up with being hassled, but reasoned, correctly as it turned out, that if I was in a rickshaw, then at least nobody would bother me. I negotiated a price of fifty Rupees an hour for him to take me around the sights. Naturally my driver/guide/swindler saw me coming from a mile away and I was ripped off yet again. I’d have to wisen up if I was to survive in India.
Philip Williams' entry was a top ten finalist. Philip is an adventure travel writer. He has written three light-hearted, inspirational and refreshingly honest books about his escapades across the globe. He is currently submitting his work to publishers. He can be contacted via Facebook. Delhi image supplied by Dr. Daniel A. Medalie, USA. You can see more of Daniel’s photos on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/roccotaco/
One of Philip's travel tips for India: Only backpack in India if you have time, and lots of it. Doing anything takes much longer than in Europe. A train can easily arrive five or more hours later than scheduled. He recommends using a guide if your trip is of short duration.