Fauna in my Bedroom, Cow S**t on my Sandal

Another boy walking around.
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My first day in Delhi, my birthday, was a shock.  Connections had gone smoothly, from taxi at The Penn Club to Gatwick Express to counter for Qatar Airlines to Doha.  I had a pleasant wait in the Gatwick Duty Free Lounge, fiddling with the camera Judy had given me and snacking on nuts and fruits that I had purchased the night before.  Onto the plane and out, again without event.

I had a two-hour layover in Doha (in Qatar), and it was amazing to see so many sheiks and women in burkas.  The summer white garb of sheiks, fyi, is of a more lightweight fabric than you'd imagine.  One could see more of the shape of a sheik's body than one might wish.  At any rate, we all got off the plane and were put on busses that took us to Immigration.  For those of us continuing on (as in my case, to Delhi), we were instructed to go to the Transfer Desk upon arrival.  The dozens of us continuing on dutifully trundled along the corridor leading to the Transfer Desk and then turned a corner.  Two to three hundred people were standing around, almost all with black hair, almost all 6-12 inches shorter than I, almost all slightly shoving in the direction of another "line."  Queues were a dim fantasy.

an aromatic blend of exotic spices, incense, and the perfume of tropical plants, I was unprepared for the stink of smoke from burning garbage and fresh cow dung that met me.

Mother and daughter going to the bazaar. It's only a matter of time before their red eyes go away.
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All of us on the Transfer Desk "line" were supposed to filter into a narrow aisle that allowed two people side-by-side to enter at any one time.  It was mayhem.  I was in a group of about five Westerners, and as the tallest, I was often called upon to report what I saw ahead.  Most of the women in Qatar were wearing burkas, the kind that are essentially veils tied over a head scarf to cover the woman's face except for a slit at the eyes for her to see through.  Of course I do my best to be culturally sensitive, and of course I recognize the occasional advantages as well as all the rights of Middle Eastern women to wear them.  In this airport, the women who were put in charge of searching and wanding women who had set off the alarm in walking through the Security Clearance Checkpoint (as they call them) were all wearing black burkas.  It was unfamiliar clothing to me, and I walked by with some curiosity and a little nervousness.  I had followed the advice of guidebooks and worn a long-sleeved shirt and pants in understated colors, and brought no alcohol or pork into the country.  I still certainly stood out like a sore thumb.  All I could do was think about _The Handmaid's Tale_, the dystopia Margaret Atwood invented after she went to Afghanistan in the Eighties (at which time it was compulsory for all women to wear burkas).

Boy walking at night.
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So, I survive the non-queue and I nose about a little in the Doha duty free area, before I scurry upstairs to the waiting area for the flight to Delhi.  On my way I do notice both a Women's Waiting Room and a Family Waiting Room, both utilized by their respective parties, and I think what a good idea, especially the former.  Then I think about all the contradictions in my own positions on the way many Muslim women in Qatar are treated differently from the men, all the way down to clothing, and yet how I applaud the separate spaces in an airport that emphasize the differences between men and women as well.

I'm not sure here either.
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I fly to Delhi.  I get a preview of how personal space is differently defined in India through my interactions with a wonderful young woman from Delhi, who is returning from her first visit outside the country, to Munich.  (I silently bless the person who does seat assignments, who had the good sense to put two women travelling alone next to each other.)  When the immigration cards are handed out for us to fill out before landing, I put down my tray and start filling mine out.  The young woman, about 28 I'd say, next to me stares at hers for a while, then reaches over and turns my card so she can see it.  She looks over everything I've written and then passes it back.  She then asks me for help, and together we fill out her form as well.  Also during the flight, she was rummaging around in the seat pocket in front of her, looking for the flight magazine; not finding what she wanted, she moved right on over to my seat pocket and rummaged through there until she found the magazine she wanted, which she took and started to read.  I really liked her and just smiled at these differences in cultural norms.  I'd been cautioned by _Lonely Planet_ that sometimes when you read a newspaper on a train in India, someone sitting next to you might quietly slide out a page you aren't currently reading but are holding, and read along with you.  I expect these differences, and I do my best to respect them and not to grow impatient or judgmental, probably with mixed success.

Henna tattoo.
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So, I arrive in Delhi at 4am, my birthday, and I feel my heart lift because I am realizing a dream.  (And I still feel that way.)  I get my backpack and add it to my small airplane bag, get some rupees at the bank, and go out through Customs and into the waiting area.  I have read a thousand accounts of how unnerving the Delhi airport scene is, and how disorienting, and how busy, and I have to say it was none of those.  A man from Hotel Relax (which I had chosen based on a good review in Lonely Planet as well as its colorful, unlikely name) was there to pick me up, standing right outside the door with a sign that had my name on it.  What relief.

Men standing outside their shopdoor.
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We stepped outside, and that's when the smell first hit me.  Expecting an aromatic blend of exotic spices, incense, and the perfume of tropical plants, I was unprepared for the stink of smoke from burning garbage and fresh cow dung that met me.  Expecting a comfortable ride in a hotel car, I was unprepared for the tiny Czech van with a cracked windshield and a giant TRUTH IS GOD sticker on its back window.  (Later I learned that this is an aphorism attributed to Mohatma Ghandi.)  Expecting to see the occasional cow or beggar, I was unprepared for the number of both, even on the ride from the airport at 5am.

Three women at night near the Main Bazaar
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My driver was a kind, slow-paced man, and after we had talked a bit, he revealed that he had been a doctor for three years, before changing professions to this one.  (What profession is that?  I wondered.  Picking up passengers at 5am at the airport?)  I eventually figured out that he actually owned Hotel Relax, as well as a number of other hotels in Paharganj.

Paharganj.  Where to begin.  To be fair, Lonely Planet had said that this neighborhood in New Delhi wasn't for everyone.  Some would say it was seedy, they reported.  Some would say it was worse.  I would be one who would say it was both.   Lonely Planet had also recommended Hotel Relax in its "moderate" expense category; and I knew that it was often used by tours because "I read it on the internet," as our students say.  I learned the lesson for the millionth time that just because you read it on the internet, doesn't mean it's true.

Man making scrambled eggs and vegetables on the street.
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Within an hour of arriving in Paharganj, I was a wreck.  The bed was hard, I wasn't used to the shower arrangement, the windows were so grimy I couldn't see out (which had its advantages at night), and the window unit air-conditioner was so noisy that it drowned out the vendors hawking their wares every morning, starting around 6am.  Also, there were odd bits of things everywhere: two broken candle holders, an ashtray decorated with animals, a single plastic hanger hanging at least ten feet from the floor on the curtain rod, way out of reach of anyone, and a couple of decorative figurines about the size of your hand.  I wouldn't swear to the cleanliness of the single sheet under the quilt.  Out in the lobby area, there were goldfish tanks, live and dead plants, two musty wood benches, a drawing of several Hindu deities with incense burning in front of it, lots of turtles made out of all different kinds of metal and stone, all different sizes, and very friendly and kind staff working there.  One flight up, in the equivalent area, was a lifesize bronze lion, small wooden figurines sitting around a dining room table, plants, and more kitsch items that boggled the imagination.

Woman collecting bags on the street. I'm not sure what is in them.
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I appreciate kitsch, and I genuinely appreciated the folks at the counter downstairs.  But the tenacious ants in the bathroom, the state of the grimy windows, my hard mattress, less than two inches thick, stuffed with some material that creaked when I rolled over (Judy ventured it was camel hair, although I'm sure she was wrong), the single exposed flourescent light tube, and the lack of natural light in general daunted me.  I reached for the phone to call friends and report that I'd arrived safely, and found an empty nightstand where it was supposed to be.  I got that straightened out at the desk downstairs, only to find that I couldn't make calls from my room (easily) anyway.  And I certainly couldn't call the States until at least 8am, for reasons I never did figure out.

Spices for sale across the street from my hotel.
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At 8am, after a two-hour rest, I left the hotel to find an internet cafe which, I'd been assured, was just around the corner.  I walked out into a gray, polluted light, garbage on the streets everywhere and cows and street dogs happily munching on it, and occasional pieces of newspaper flying through the air.  It was surreal.  I walked for two blocks without seeing another Westerner and felt a little nervous.  I realized the area wasn't just seedy, it was a borderline slum.  But soon I saw a couple other Westerners browsing the jewelry, and I felt marginally better.  And then I ducked into an alley that smelled even worse than the others, where I found an internet cafe and felt much reassured.  I checked in with folks at home via email, and then went outside.  I can't remember whether it was Day #1 or Day #2 that I stepped in fresh and copious cow shit, but I did-in my pair of sandals for the day.

Ubiquitous cows. Just think of the possibilities.
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I didn't eat anything that first day except for some scrambled eggs; I drank lots and lots of bottled water, and had a coke.  I took a bunch of photographs in the afternoon and was in bed by 9pm.  I slept like a lamb despite the shouting in the streets, the beggars calling and ringing bells and chanting, the noise of people shutting down shops, and the blare of horns on motorbikes and autorickshaws (the only vehicles small enough to get through the general congestion in Paharganj) continuing well into the night.  (It wasn't until the subsequent night, coming home from dinner at my cousin's house, that I saw how many vendors sleep with their families in front of their shops, wrapped in blankets, sometimes on a cart, usually just on the ground.)

Man selling what looks like garlic and shallots.
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It wasn't until Day #2 that I had a wonderful, delicious, companionable meal with my cousins, in part to celebrate my birthday and that of my cousin Agnes. (Hi Agnes!!)  I'd never met these cousins, whose father was the sister of my paternal grandmother, which makes them my first cousins, once removed.  But through a mutual relative we heard about each other, and I learned that my cousin Mary Lou was living in Delhi with her husband working for a helicopter company.  My cousin Agnes, Mary Lou's sister, was visiting at the same time.  (Agnes is from Denver, but of course we had to go halfway around the world to meet each other.)  As soon as Mary Lou heard about me and knew I was coming to Delhi, she could not have been more gracious in inviting me to stay, eat with them, or let them know if they could help me in any way -- I, who was a complete stranger to them.

I don't know what he's selling.
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I elected to stay in a hotel, but joined Mary Lou, Agnes, and Bob (Mary Lou's husband) for dinner my second night in Delhi.  The contrast to Hotel-I-Can-Barely-Cope couldn't have been starker.  A beautiful flat in a posh part of Delhi, with a back-up generator (to cope with the frequent power outages) and tap water that had been subject to reverse osmosis and then boiled -- so you could drink right out of the faucet -- it was heaven.  Their housekeeper made us a huge Indian feast, and their car and driver picked me up at Hotel Relax and delivered me home.  I showed up in wrinkled clothes and my flip-flops (owing to the sandal incident earlier that day) and you would have thought I was practically royalty from the kind ways they treated me.  Mary Lou even sent me home with the unheard of pleasure (in India) of a Starbucks caramel frappucino in a bottle and two homemade blueberry muffins.  I still remember the taste wistfully.  I'll probably be staying with Mary Lou when I return from McLeod Ganj, before the Camel Fair in Pushkar.

I liked this cow's head. Other cow elements were not as pleasurable.
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Anyway, it wasn't until Day #3 I met a very helpful autorickshaw driver, Kishor, and his friend Anil.  And it wasn't until Day #4 that Kishor, Sunil (Anil's brother) and I went on a daylong tour of Delhi that was a blast.  And on Day #5, I bought a few gifts, shopped a little, and then Kishor and Sunil helped me navigate the Indian post office system so I could send the Darjeeling tea, wall hanging, bed coverings, and Hindu booklets and paper back to Fort Collins.  By Day #5 I was in the mood of the place, had a sense of the rhythms of Paharganj, and was mostly acclimated.  But by Day #6, I was incomparably happy to see my car and driver arrive at 6am, to take me to Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj, in the Himalaya, twelve hours to the north.