Travellers tales - Delhi

Watching masterchef tonight reminded me of my own trip to India about 15 years ago. Apart from the first 24 hours and a severe case of dysentry I had an excellent time. Here is what I wrote about Delhi back then....


We had been warned about the dangers of arriving in Delhi in the middle of the night, but we were experienced independent travellers and we knew how to take care of ourselves. Feeling smug we made our way to a desk at the airport and booked into a reasonably priced hotel for the night. Having heard a few horror stories about taking taxis from the airport, we climbed into a pre-paid taxi and set off into the mayhem that is Delhi.

At first the taxi driver was very friendly, asking us where we were from and whether it was our first visit to India. Without thinking, I told him that it was the first time I had ever been to Delhi. Immediately realising my mistake my companion, Helen, quickly explained that she, however, had been to Delhi many times. Before long we came to a road block. The taxi driver told us that all the roads leading to our hotel had been cordoned off because there was a “military rally” due to take place in the morning. “Big Hindu-Muslim problem here” he said. Our guide books had warned us that this is a scam used by many of the taxi drivers. They have many devious ways of persuading their passengers to go to a different hotel than the one that they have booked, these hotels will pay the driver a commission for bringing in new guests. We told the taxi driver that we didn’t believe him and could he please try to find another route to our hotel. After that we drove around for about an hour, occasionally coming across another road block (or was it the same one?). Each time we stopped, the taxi driver would suggest that he take us to a good hotel he knows “velly cheap”.

By now we were feeling frustrated and angry and a little bit frightened. We started to argue with the driver and he stopped the car, indicating that we should get out. Not keen on the idea of being left by the roadside in the dark, we refused to get out of the car. Eventually after more arguments with a driver who had suddenly forgotten how to speak English, we persuaded him to take us to a tourist office.

We arrived at a small office that looked nothing like any tourist office I have ever seen, and one that was open in the early hours of the morning. Dubiously, Helen followed the driver inside while I guarded our luggage in the taxi. The man in the office telephoned our hotel (or so he said) and was informed that there were no bookings in our name. However, he could recommend another very good hotel, “velly cheap”. Tired and irritable and ready to pay anything to get some sleep, we told the driver to please just take us to the nearest reasonably priced hotel. Of course the hotel he took us to was dark and dingy. The reception desk was covered in grime and there was a nauseating smell of cabbages. For the pleasure of sleeping here they wanted to charge us $60 which was far too much for our budget. Fortunately, across the road we spotted a four star hotel. We had already paid for the taxi but the driver still wanted more money. We picked up our bags and marched across the road to the sound of the taxi driver’s shouted insults, hoping and praying that we wouldn‘t be turned away. The hotel was able to give us a room for $18, still expensive by Indian standards, but we no longer cared. At least there was hot water and a proper toilet. Exhausted we fell into our beds.

After a restless night on hard mattresses we decided our first priority was to go and find a better hotel. We studied our map and realised we had no idea where we were in relation to the centre of Delhi. We couldn’t find our hotel, the Royal Palace, on the map but we did find a nearby hotel, it was called the Yatri. We decided to use this as our landmark in case we got lost. Feeling much happier, we hailed an auto-rickshaw and instructed him to take us to the main bazaar. Still tired we half heartedly looked at a few run down hotels amidst the noisy bustle of the market and decided that perhaps we ought to remain at the Royal Palace after all. We were still very tired and after a while the endless hassle of the market traders wanting us to buy something from them became too much to bear and we hailed a rickshaw to take us back to the Yatri Hotel. We travelled for quite a while, enjoying the sights until finally we stopped at a the Yatri Hotel, only it was a different one to the one we had left earlier. With sinking hearts we realised that we didn’t know how to find our hotel and our luggage. Feeling foolish, we took another rickshaw to the main tourist office in New Delhi. At least it was a proper tourist office this time and surely they would help us. The man on duty found our hotel, the Royal Palace, on the map and telephoned them. They told him that yes indeed we were registered with them and it was with great relief that we piled into another rickshaw and were on our way. Our happiness was very short lived because when we got to the hotel we saw that it wasn’t our Royal Palace either. By now we were really beginning to panic. We went into the hotel and the staff must have taken pity on us because they were very helpful, even though they found the whole episode highly amusing. They managed to find four other hotels in Delhi called the Royal Palace. They rang each of them for us and fortunately the second one they called was able to give the receptionist our names so at last we knew we had found the right one. Eternally grateful, we waved goodbye and made our way to what must have been the poorest part of Delhi. There was the hotel Yatri, and then at last THE Royal Palace. We collected our luggage and set off to the railway station, intent on getting the first train out of this horrible place.

Once we had booked ourselves onto the overnight train to Pushkar and left our luggage in a locker we began to relax at last. We would spend the afternoon sightseeing, surely nothing else could happen to us today - could it? We went to visit the Red Fort and had a lovely, peaceful afternoon walking around the old town, and were beginning to enjoy our first day in this fascinating country.

On the way back to the station, we decided to catch a cycle-rickshaw. We sat on the seat at the back and let the old man with the missing teeth do all the hard work. It was interesting, moving slowly through the back streets, observing the Indian population going about their daily chores. All of a sudden we bumped into the cycle in front, forcing me to cut my knee on the jagged saddle frame, while Helen fell forward into the road. Amused, we settled back into the uncomfortable seat to continue our journey. The two cyclists had by this time engaged in a very heated argument. Suddenly the other cyclist reached over and punched our man. After a few more obscenities, the other cyclist stopped his bike in the middle of the road and came over to us. A vicious street brawl began., our driver at a disadvantage because he was still sat astride his bicycle. Fortunately a burly man stepped in to break it up before any blood was spilled, but I can certainly understand now why our driver had a few teeth missing. We realised we had drawn quite an audience which quickly dispersed when it became clear the show was over.

Shortly afterwards we turned out of the narrow side street and into a very busy one-way system, only we were going in the wrong direction. All kinds of transport was suddenly bearing down on us, cars, rickshaws, bicycles, camels, cows, buses and people pushing carts, all tooting and shouting and making rude gestures at us. To this day I still cannot believe we weren’t killed. At last a policeman called us to the side of the road and another argument ensued. This resulted in the policemen producing a large stick and beating our driver with it severely. Unbelievably, throughout everything, we sat in the back looking on in amazement.

Eventually we arrived back at the railway station in one piece, our luggage had not been stolen and we waited impatiently for the train to take us away from Delhi, looking back and laughing now that the danger had passed.

Poker face

I never thought it would be so hard to find something interesting or funny to write about on a regular basis. Has my life become that middle-aged and boring? I've had a brilliant break over Easter but all I really did was watch DVDs whilst lounging around in my pyjamas and stuffing my face with cheese and drambuie. Heaven. I really am going to start a new diet soon, otherwise I'll have to get my "fat" clothes back down from the loft.

On Saturday night we held a poker night and as the only woman there I gave a very good account of myself and managed to win about £20. My poker face is quite simple - I just look like a dumb blonde who is 3 sheets to the wind - works every time!

Back to the shit-hole tomorrow unless (please please) the train strike is still going ahead. We are still a man down whilst trying to cope with the extra work that has been piled on us lately and at the busiest time of the year. We are doing our best but the workload keeps on piling higher and higher. We have voiced our concerns to management but they are all deaf so I don't suppose anything will be done until the first customer complaint comes in. Then I guess some heads will roll and I don't particularly care if one of them is mine!

Masterchef?

I love watching masterchef but I could never go on the show. They would absolutely hate my cooking because I like my meat to be over cooked (burnt) rather than still bleeding. Also I loathe tomatoes (although I do like tomato soup, heinz beans and pizza topping) and yet tomatoes seem to be required in every dish. In fact there are not many vegetables that I will eat so my menus would be very limited in the judges eyes. Having said that the only A+ I ever got at school was from the cookery teacher!

Trying to choose a restaurant for a meal out is a nightmare these days as they all insist on adding aubergine or spinach into otherwise tasty sounding dishes. I love fish pies so why do they always have to spoil them by adding broccoli or something equally horrid? Finding a sandwich or meal without tomatoes, cucumber, celery or leeks is almost impossible. I shouldn't complain - my sister is a vegan and on holiday in Europe the poor girl can never find anything to eat besides salad and chips.

My boyfriend is a fully trained chef so I have always felt a bit awkward cooking for him. The first time I ever made him lunch was just a simple baguette. He took one bite into it and out came his tooth - how embarrassing! That was 10 years ago so I think I got away with it.

A fortune lost!

I have been doing the scoop 6 on the horses lately as the odds somehow seem better than winning the lottery. You have to pick all six race winners to win the jackpot and this weekend was a rollover with £534,520 up for grabs. Well I am absolutely devastated because five of my horses came in first place and the other horse only just got beaten into second place by way of a photo finish. How unlucky is that? The £68 share I won in the place pot is little compensation. Gutted!

Pudding bowl haircuts

Went to see mum on Sunday and it turned out that my sister and I had both given her the same Mother's day card which said "Hand's up if your mum thinks she's a hairdresser" and had a picture of a cute little girl with the same awful haircut that we wore until we were old enough to get Saturday jobs and pay to go to the hairdresser ourselves.

Mum would put a plastic bowl over our heads every so often and trim around the edges leaving us with a very un-attractive pudding bowl haircut. That was bad but things got far worse when someone suggested she could achieve the same result using selotape. Of course mum with the scissors was never particularly accurate and so instead of the straight line around the bowl we got very crooked and very short fringes where after each attempt she cut away more of the selotape as well as our hair.

When our hair got too long she would put them in bunches, the parting always slightly wonky and I can still feel the excruciating pain at bed time when those cheap elastic bands were ripped from our hair like plasters.

Jumper on the line?

Once again my train was delayed tonight by "a person being hit by a train". What is the matter with these people? Any sympathy I might have had is swept away by their complete disregard for the thousands of people whose evenings they seem intent on spoiling. Why do they always chose to "jump" during rush hour?

You have got to hand it to BR though. Despite their lack of communication about which train is departing next, the subsequent chaos, the crowded concourse and the sardine packed carriages, I have to admit that they have got this particular situation covered. Nowadays they can clear the line of any debris very quickly incurring only a 29 minutes delay (they would have to fork out compensation vouchers if it was over 30 minutes). Tonight they slipped up and my delay was about 40 minutes. A valid claim is already in the post.

A long week

This week has been tough, the first full week since having 2 weeks off. Work has been busy but nothing of note has happened and I just feel very tired.

Sometimes, walking to and from work I get the sense that I am invisible. People seem to walk into me constantly and barge past me as if I'm not there. Well on Tuesday a very well dressed but rude man stubbed his expensive coat out on my cigarette as he pushed me out of the way. I hope he burned a hole in it.

On Friday morning I woke up early and in my semi-conscious state I thought it was Saturday. Such a lovely feeling knowing that I could turn over and go back to sleep. But then, slowly the horrible realisation crept in that it was Friday and just to confirm my worst fears the alarm clock blared out loudly.