• It stands for: “I‘d Never Do It Again”
• “If you go to India without patience, you will learn it.  If you go with patience, you will quickly loose it.”
• “He would have described the journey as insufferable except that the limits to which human endurance could be stretched in India made the word meaningless” (from “The Train to Pakistan” by Kushwant Singh)

We can attest that all of this is extremely true and completely incorrect all at once.  It is a country of such extremes that it has the ability to inspire, frustrate, challenge and dazzle you all within the same day.  We found our sanity constantly tested, but we also found ourselves more relaxed than we’ve been years.  We quickly came to realize that nothing in India is as you would expect.  Here’s some of the highs and lows of our Indian sojourn:

Highlight: The Taj Mahal was breathtakingly gorgeous.

Low Point: Getting scammed, our train tickets ripped off and having to take a second class train to get there.

Highlight: The abundance of mouthwatering fresh seafood in the southern states.

Low Point: Food poisoning, Montezuma’s revenge, Bombay butt, New Delhi belly, whatever you want to call it.  Three times.

Highlight: Making friends with some lovely ladies and having a blast drifting through Kerala’s beautiful backwaters together.

Low Point: Being constantly gawked at by perverted Indian men who followed us around taking our picture.

Highlight: Riding an elephant through a spice farm.

Low Point: Getting mauled by an angry bull (this is not the bull that attacked us, mind).

Highlight: Endless days cruising Goa’s countryside on motorbikes.

Low Point: Motorbike accidents are plentiful in India…just ask Mihae, who crashed into a roadside shop and ran over some poor man’s entire lot of onions.

Highlight: Feeling completely rejuvenated by a relaxing day at the beach, riverboat cruise or an ayurvedic spa treatment.

Low Point: Seva (selfless service) duty:  Shoveling cow manure, sweeping and mopping a huge temple under the watch of the evil “Sweeping Nazi”, being in charge of herding naughty cows, picking weeds and planting corn in the blazing sun…wasn’t this supposed to be vacation?

Highlight: Two blissful nights in the luxurious Taj Mahal hotel in Bombay, our balcony overlooking the harbor and the Gateway to India.

Low Point: 28 nights of ghetto hotels that cost no more than $12 per night, with cold bucket showers, mosquitos galore, and beds so hard you might as well be sleeping in the middle of the street in Mumbai.

Highlight: Hangin’ with the locals and hearing their stories.

Low Point: Constant harassment from the locals: “you like change money, no problem,”  ”Come ride my boat, no problem”, “look my silk shop, no problem”, “do you want to buy hashish, no problem?” Can you spare one rupee, no problem?”

Highlight: Experiencing daily life in Varanasi as Indians come to the Ganga River to bathe, fish, pray, swim, practice yoga and wash laundry.

Low Point: Getting sore throats from the  fumes of  burning human bodies just outside our hotel window in Varanasi.

Highlight: Beautiful India: Mother Nature at her best.

Low Point: India’s ugly side: Witnessing overwhelming poverty during a visit to Dharvai Slum, the largest in all of Asia.

Highlight: Coming to India to connect with her spiritual side through yoga, prayer, meditation, temples and a stay at an ashram.

Low Point: Coming to the realization that we completely failed at connecting to anything remotely spiritual and would rather be partying on the beach any day.

Highlight: Never missing the opportunity to “GOA BIG.”

Low Point: Having to “GOA HOME.”

We took a tour with Reality Tours and Travel, our guide was a young man who grew up in the slums himself. When asked what it was like, he simply replied “it was fun.”

We took a train to the Darharvi Slum, the largest in all of Asia, which located on the outskirts of the city between two railways.  Before we entered the grounds, he gave us a few rules: “no picture taking.  It will smell bad, do not make any faces of disgust, this will hurt the feelings of the residents.”

We nervously entered the slum and found it to be much like another any other part of Mumbai, it was a city within a city, just a bit more dilapidated.  The interior consists of vast sewer-lined alleys with mazes of concrete dwellings, where families live in shoebox dorms, not more than 10 feet across.  We were fortunate to be invited into a home of one of the residents, he proudly introduced us to his wife and two small children.  There was not much room for the six of us to move around in the tiny space, but they did have a roof over their head and a place to sleep, much more than many people in the country could ever hope for.

The slum got its start in 1933 and incorporates only 1.7 square kilometers.  More than 1 million people call this home, yet it does not feel as nearly as crowded as a typical day strolling the streets if New Delhi.  Each part of the slum inhabits residents from different parts of the county with different trades.  We visited a small plastic factory and watched workers sort through the various recyclables that have been shipped from all over the world.  At the leather factory, a worker informed me that my belt was made from Indian leather. Our group entered a soap factory to witness men slicing large bars into small cubes, and along our walk we stopped by a bakery and were given fresh, warm pastries from a baker who wore a wide smile and would not take a single rupee for the treat.  After being broached by so many beggars on the streets, it touched me how generous the poor can really be and I found it beautiful.

We entered a small, barren dirt lot covered in rubbish and found some children happily playing cricket.  They were all too excited to take photos with us.  Our next stop was a small chai shop, and despite the intense heat, we stopped  to savor a glass of the warm, sweet milky tea we had grown to love.

At the suggestion of one of our fellow tour mates, we decided to visit a bar. We were quite shocked there was even a bar here, and despite the fact the bartender stated “no foreigners allowed,” our guide had a talk with him and we soon found ourselves tucked away in a dark booth at the back of the room.  All eyes were on us, but this was no different from any other experience in India.

Our group members shuttered when I stated that I wanted to use the public restroom but it was something I wished to experience. Most homes here do not have a toilet, so they come to the public toilet, mornings tend to have long lines, so we are told, although many use the railways or open fields as they tend to smell better.  For the men, there’s many open urinals along the streets, and you can smell the stench much sooner than you can see them.  While the women’s loo was not all bad, it wasn’t pleasant either.

I personally found our day at Dharavi to be incredibly eye opening.  The people here do not have modern luxuries but that does not stop them from living a good life.  Their industries are thriving, their children run and play like those in any Western city and they are happy.

Reality Tours (www.realitytoursandtravel.com, 9820822253 phone) runs tours daily.  Costs range from 300-600 Rs and last 2.5 to 4.5 hours (unless you stop for a beer).  A large part of the profits go to a Dhararvi -based NGO.

The Temple of the Ashram.

Surrounded by the Arabian Sea on one side and the backwaters of Kerala on the other, Amma’s Ashram simultaneously dwarfs the surrounding village while being engulphed in a sea of palm trees. Amma, aka the hugging mother, appears to have become a sort of institution, her books, cds, calendars, and pamphlets are everywhere. Followers, don sandalwood beaded necklaces adorned with her picture. I don’t know what my mind had anticipated before arriving but what we’ve gotten ourselves into is definitely far from my imagination.

Kept running by a system of volunteers and donations, the Ashram houses over 2.000 people, making it quite literally larger than most villages in the area. Currently “on tour” in the West, Amma returns sometime in December. It seems the Ashram itself slows down in her absence but not having been there or even heard of her prior makes it hard to judge. It’s difficult to describe the poeple here. We arrived by taxi from Varkala, a small cliff-side beach town full of aging Europeans and couples. We entered the gates of the ashram compound wide-wyed, almost gaping at the white draped ashram occupants. Literally tripping over ourselves. I stop to survey one side, Emele’s head turned to the other still walking, coming to a standstill only after bumping up against me. The white clad, head shaven monastic asked and then thought better of himself and told us to head to the international check-in area at the temple with a nod and smile.

Once there, we were given a tiny pamphlet on the ashram rules and code of conduct, which we were already in breach of having shorts on. We checked in for a mere 150 rupees per night and headed to the room to change. The rooms are simple with a single bed, desk, and a few plastic chairs. Though, it’s just the two of us on check in, as Amma’s arrival nears, the room will hold up to four, which is hard to imagine given that with just two the room seems pretty full. Though the days vary slightly, the general schedule is as follows:

4:00 Prayer/chanting

9:00 Breakfast

10:00 Seva

1:00 Lunch

2:00 Seva

5:00 Meditation

6:00 Bhaman Singing

8:00 Dinner

11:00 Gates and buildings are locked

View from the dorm of our escape route...over the bridge to freedom!

Each resident/guest is required to do 1-2 hours of seva, or selfless service, each day. Emele’s on temple duty while I’ve been relegated to the compost area by the elephant, Lakshmi. I wouldn’t say scraping dried woods shavings off the top of huge mounds of food and cow dung my dream job but it beats the monotony of temple floor sweeping. Lorded over by a beyond zealous sweeper supervisor, dubbed the sweep nazi, it almost makes two hours of shoveling shit preferable…almost.

Mihae and her friend Lakshmi.

Despite the seemingly anti-Western Westerners, we’ve met some really interesting women, all brought to the ashram for varying reasons (none to become a follower, which is probably why we were drawn together) and surprisingly all traveling as single females.

Emele and new friend Ana.

We first meet Cathy, a petite twenty something English lass who’s just finished a teaching assignment in Vietnam. Blond curly hair with a few, newly woven dreadlocks frame her round cheeks. Her blue eyes sparkle with a sweetness that becomes apparent in her personality the minute she says hello. She tells us of some of her travel stories, one including a crazed, drunk man who stabbed her backpack repeatedly, believing she was sleeping with his girlfriend. She recounts the drama with an almost everyday reference. We like her immediately. Next is a young German girl, Sarah, who’s at the tail end of her month long trip through India. We both marvel at her audacity; arriving in bus and train stations alone at 4 in the morning, with no place in mind to stay. Her typical German frankness with her anything goes, laid back attitude is an unlikely but entertainingly enchanting combination. Next is Aurelie, a full bodied French woman with an appetitie for life that matches her equally indulgent diet. Her blunt French humor and vivacious personality is balanced out with her body soothing hands that seem to mold the body, like a sculptor of clay. It’s not long before we are all lining up for massages. Then there’s Vera, an older red-headed, slim German woman, who’s lone wanderings seem to echo a painful past, despite which she’s got a kindness in her eyes and a sincerity of inquiry that’s almost childlike. We meet Rebecca, a transient soul and Buffalo, NY native at breakfast the next morning. Getting meals feels almost prison like, with lines of people grabbing tin dishes to hold the liquidy rice and curry/vegetable mix, that’s altered ever so slightly for lunch and dinner. Lastly, there’s Ana, a raven-haired Columbina, who’s long wavy locks make me long for my recently chopped off tresses. Full bodied, with a bosom to match, it isn’t long before she’s told to cover up more, despite having a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Recently laid off from her job in Spain, she’s been traveling for five months and still has six to go.

It is by far the most unlikely mix of women, but it isn’t long before we’re all lingering outside the Ashram walls smoking cigarettes and swapping stories.

The rest of our tip will be spent in the south, where we have been for the last week.  Its much more tropical here than the north, and for the most part, more calm.

We left the Ashram of Amma, the famous “hugging Mother” guru, three days ago.  While the experience was interesting, I can’t say that I had any sort of enlightening experience.  The best thing we got out of our visit there is that we made a whole bunch of friends that we convinced to leave with us for a few lazy days cruising along Kerala’s waterways on a luxury houseboat (so much for our spiritual connection).

There were seven of us, all nomads in our own way: Em&M; Anna, a Colombian gal who has been living in Barcelona and  is now spending a year backpacking through Asia; Rebecca, a fellow American on her third trip to India, Cathy, a Brit who has been teaching English in Vietnam for the last two years, David, a Spanish guy who’s traveling the world for the next year, and Aurelie, a French party girl her in India to learn to do Aruvedic massages (and meet lots of men).

The backwaters of Allepey are filed with houseboats to suit every need, from floating rust buckets to luxury liners.  We decided on something in between.

Our boat was huge: four bedrooms and bathrooms, eight beds and  four servers to attend to your every whim.  There’s not much to do, but we we easily filled up 24 hours: drifing along as we watch people from the little villages at the waters edge; swimming; and cracking open a few beers and some good conversation.

All this for about $30 US dollars a night, mouthwatering meals  included.  We were in heaven with the Keralan cuisine.  We even stopped in a little village to purchase giant prawns that looked and tasted like juicy lobsters.

Five of us decided to stay an extra day.  With the stress and hussle and bustle of India, it was perfect to be in our own quiet world for a fews days.

We are now in the Fishing Village of Cochin.  We will be heading to the fishmarket tonight to buy some fish and lobster for dinner.  In the morning, Mihae and I will be heading to Udupi to work on a farm for a few days.  Yes, we are going to learn to milk a cow…

Then off to meet up with our friends again in the party town of Goa…stay tuned!

You couldn’t help but notice the small, slightly dilapidated markings – discrete and yet so out of place in this ancient city by the sacred Ganges River. I do believe it is the work of the french graffiti artist known as Space Invader.

The Parisian born artist started invading in 1998 having hit to date over 39 cities. Using mosaic tiles, the artist began tagging cities with the iconic imagery of the 1978 video game of the same moniker.

I’d first come across his work while researching for the upcoming New York City restaurant Tacombi, that focuses on street food, naturally I’d sourced some street art for inspiration. Little did I know that my travels through India would have me puzzling over the above images linking them to those I’d viewed from my laptop at a NYC cafe a few months earlier.

I’d snapped a few shots and came home to follow up and see if I could confirm my suspicions and while I was able to find out that yes, he did indeed “invade” Varanasi, his official website doesn’t include this particular tile mosaic…

After 10 years, the mission and medium remains the same, going from city to city, invading public space much the way big business advertising does, but the mosaic subjects have evolved. One of his latest pieces, also located in Varanasi, incorporates QR codes and data matrix codes. Common in Japan, QR or “quick response” codes can contain data such as hyperlinks, text, or contact information. The codes are readable with specially-equipped cellphones like the handy iphone, as seen here

RELATED LINKS & RESOURCES:
http://www.space-invaders.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPbIs40rxmQ&feature=player_embedded
http://www.canned-goods.co.uk/graffiti-pictures/tag/space-invader/143
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/QR_Code
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datamatrix
http://www.i-nigma.com/CreateBarcodes.html

Searching for bodies during a morning boat cruise

Emele had heard about the bodies being dumped in the river. Having a slightly morbid sense of curiosity, it had been one of her main resasons for wainting to come to India. The long overnight train ride, which waqs supposed to arrive at 8:45 am, pulled into the station at close to 1:30. Getting out of a train station often feels like lambs being led to slaughter. Completely disoriented, weary from travel, you’re thrown into the clutches of rickshaw drivers and touts, each urging you to take their vehicles, however dilapidated. We consulted a passenger on the train prior to deboarding, who’d said it should cost about 40-60 Rs to town, we managed to settle on 70 but wound up giving him 100 for lack of change.

Visitors have been surprised by having their laundry washed in the Ganga.

Old Town is a series of small winding alleys. Our driver walks us directly to the hotel. Imagine, the hilly, uneven paths of Santorini, mixed with the dark backways of Venice, then throw in a whole smattering of cows, dogs, and paan shops and you’ll get just a taste of Varanasi’s Old Town section. The city’s name, like it geographical positioning is a convergence of 2 rivers. We’d befriended a lone female traveler who put it well wehen she described the city as one of such intermingled contrast between life and death. Our hotel or rather guest house is just a few steps away from Marnikarnaka Ghat, the place where Hindus come to cremate the dead, escaping the cycle of rebirth. The smoke from the fires can be seen ceaselessly, save for one hour at midnight, from the small dust covered window of our equally dusty room. It’s not much to look at, but at 550 rs per night you can’t expect much. The cement walls are covered with a peeling yellow paint. What was once a red carpet is more of a maroon brown, well-trodden and darkened from wear. But the sheets are clean and there’s a private bathroom, so all in all there’s not much to complain about.

Never a dull moment in Varanasi.

Our first night is spent marveling on the steps of the ghat at the Ganges, watching as the dons (untouchables) place wood onto several fires, preparing the heat that will release the spirits of those who have died natural deaths by incinerating the flesh of their bodies. There are 3 tiers, each devoted to a separate caste, but the ceremony is the same. The body is wrapped and placed on a stretcher to be brought to the river for a final cleansing. The husband/son or other male relative is dressed in a single white sari and his head is shaven. Once the body is burned, he’ll crack opent the skull of the departed, enabling the final release. All of this occurs around the clock, 365 days a year, but what’s most staggering is how this holy river survives at all because virtually any dead thing will find its way into the river – cows, dogs, bodies that aren’t burned (children, pregnant women, holy men, those bitten by cobras…) add to that the 30+ sewers that are emptied into it, the 60,000 daily bathers, and of course those doing their laundry and well it’s a marvel at all that everyone doesn’t drop dead just by proximity. And yet the river is home to dolphins and surprisingly has no foul odor. We even took a boat to the opposite bank and dipped our feet in.

Carefully arranged cow patties for sale along the Ganga River.

After a four hour train ride, we arrived in Agra, the city home of the Taj Mahal. We’d gotten train tickets for 124 Rs, the equivalent of about $3. We’d known it was for 2nd class but the idea of spending another night in New Dehli was, despite an enjoyable stay, not anything either of us would settle for. So not heeding the cautionary advice of our guidebook against traveling anything aside from first class, we sat on a bunk by the window perpendicular to a seating arrangement for six. As departure time neared the car began to fill but what we noticed was how the seating next to us overflowed, 8 Indian men sat on top of eachohter all heads turned to us. Every move we made was noted and commented on. We moved bunks, they followed, closer this time. It was like being oggled by a gaggle of giggling school girls. They nedged and proded each other all while keeping their eyes fixed on us. Thankfully, an hour into it, the whole group of them exited, continuing to stare through the windows even as they walked along the platform. It made you wonder if they had ever seen a single female before.

We arrived in Agra and despite our Lonely Planet’s less than desirable description of the city, found it to by quite charming. We headed toward the Taj Ganj to Hotel Shahjahan, which was just a short walk from the Taj Mahal. We used the hotel as a sort of locker room to plant our bags, use the bathroom, and freshen up. We’d taken the first train which would not be our last that day, so the room was a nice short respite.

The Taj Mahal built by Emperor ShahJahan in 1631 is most definitely a site to behold. The white mauseleum does everything you’d expect, instilling a sense of awe and distinct peacefulness, despite the crowds. We stood to take pcitures at the entrance, 3 young Inidan men approached, politely asking for pictures between us. We obliged, as each one took their turn, noting the absurdity of it and continued on to the building itself.

The cold smooth stone under our feet, slippery from the falling rain was oddly calming, grounding if you will. We walked through and then around the outside finding a covered area on the side to sit and absorb the atmosphere. After a few mintues we decided to take some our our own pics, little did we know what kind of spectacle we would provide. Attempting a few standing yoga poses set to a timer, we tried to get a couple shots. As groups passed by, we weren’t the only ones. Soon handfuls of Indian men were asking for pictures. We noted aloud that we could have started charging 10 Rs per picture and made back our entrance fee in no time…

QUICK NOTES & TIPS:

• To visit the Taj Mahal a fee of 750 Rupees is required and provide you with an entrance into Agra Fort, Itimadud-Daula, and Sikandra & Fatehpur Sikri.
• At the time of this posting rooms with a private bath were approximately 400 Rupees, but the hotel was in the midst of major renovations, don’t be surprised if their prices see an increase.
• A torch or head lamp is a definite must have as the power is not the most reliable. While most places have back up generators, walking the streets at night will mean one less stumble when well prepared.

The Main Ghat along the Sacred Ganga River

We finally made it to Varanasi after a 16 hour (5 hour delayed) train ride from Agra. Varanasi. being the world’s oldest living city, as well the spiritual center of the county, as the is the reason I was interested in visiting India. The city itself, like most of the country, is quite decapitated, with rickshaws and traffic galore. Just making our way to the hotel is enough to give you a nervous breakdown. We found a guest house for about $6 a night. It would be considered a dump by just about any one’s standards, and before Africa would not be a place I would set foot in, but it has a view of the Ganges River and monkeys frolicking along the roof tops.

Flaming Bodies Light up the night sky at the "Burning Ghat"

The Ganges river is known as a one of the most polluted in the world as well as a spiritual mecca for Indian pilgrims. 85 bathing ghats (steps) line the river and you will find people coming to perform puja “Respect” prayers, swimming, bathing and washing clothes along the banks.

Each year, about 45,000 corpses are thrown into the water. That’s roughly 123 dead bodies dumped into this body a water a day. Somehow, while the water is very dirty, scientific studies show it is not quite as dirty as it should be. Holy men put a glass into the water and drink it and the water is surprisingly clear. Our hotel fronts the Manikaranika Ghant, the main burning ghat. What do they burn? Bodies. Dead bodies. Yesterday evening at dusk, we sat along the steps and watched wide eyed as a funeral procession began with a family of men shaving their heads to mourn their loved one. They carried the sari-covered body to the river’s edge to dunk the body one last time to cleanse it. The body is then placed upon a large fire, with one log on top the body. We expected a foul smell, but found out the body is covered in incense to cover the smell of burning flesh.

A goat in a sweater covered in shit. Love it.

The reason the bodies are cremated here is so they go straight to Heaven. Children, pregnant women, holy men and people bitten by a cobra are not allowed to be burned here because they are considered to already be pure.

Surreal does not begin to describe feeling of witnessing this cycle of life and death. A culture so different from our own, but so colorful and beautiful in its own way.

After watching three bodies burn, we headed to the Brown Bread Bakery for dinner where we enjoyed amazing organic yak cheese from Nepal and the local brew, Kingfisher.

And now to the angry bull. Let me paint the picture: the streets of the old town are small narrow winding alleyways. No rickshaws are allowed in the store lined alleys, but there are cows and bulls everywhere. They literally just sit in the middle of the road, in front of the hotel, anywhere they like as they are considered sacred creatures. I was quite frightened to walk past them, some of the larger bulls must weigh about 2 tons. We were in a hurry to get to breakfast this morning and we came to a road block of a bull and a cow. I tried to quickly skirt around the pair, when the bull suddenly turned to me, rammed me in the stomach and pushed me up against a wall. I screamed and jumped up on the wall’s ledge as I was expecting him to seriously attack me next. Mihae stood there helpless as she watched me get tossed around by the giant beast. But not for long. He turned to her, put his head down and gave her a good shove in the ass.

Mihae skirts past a bull on a narrow Varanasi street.

Some local men came to scare him away. We were shaken up and aside from a scratch on my leg and mud on Mihae’s linen pants, we are unharmed. I think he was just giving us a warning as he could have killed us in a second if he really wanted to.

Good thing neither of us was wearing red today! Until the next missadventure..

Second Class Train

5:00 am, we’re both up before the alarm goes off and pack up our things, we’re ready 15 minutes later and head downstairs to checkout. As we round the marble staircase a sheeted ody lies on the landing. We gingerly step over him to reach the lobby floor to encounter more sleeping bodies, the reception manager on a towel atop he couch and the young porter on the floor. We looked at eachother not quite sure whether to to wake them or simly leave money and the key at the desk. Fortunately the manager sirred and is quick to rouse the others. Minutes later a group from Spain would arrive and we wondered what would have transpried had we not waken them first.

With backpacks strapped on we clumsily climb on a bicycle rickshaw, laughing at the absurdity of what the image must have looked like. Two women with large paks atop a rickety bench that barely fits us while a skinny Indian man with slippers struggles down the rowad not yet packed with traffic.

The New Dehli Train Station is already full as we head to the platform and as if on cue a man asks us for our tickets as Emele wonders aloud if he works at the station. He informs us we need to head to a different office to verify our passports and indicates the WS on the ticket. He states matter of factly, “Waiting seat.” And points in the opposite direction. Now confused we question further, he keeps pointing in the other direction, than seeming exasperated he motions us to follow. We follow unsure, but on edge as we have no desire to miss our train, already ready to leave the hustle and bustle of New Dehli far behind.

We reach an office whose sign reads Goverment Tourism Travel Office, the same yellow color used at the airport. We get inside, where a portly man sits behind a desk and motions us to sit down. He punches a few things into his computer and informs us that one of the seats issued is a waiting seat and there is no space.  He punches a few more keys and says there may be another train in an hour, but shakes his head and says that’s full too. The only train left is 1:55 in the afternoon which means, the half day we had planned to spend in Agra is no longer possible. We try to decide what to do next. Emele is skeptical and makes her motion for a private pow wow. I, however am ready to listen to what the man says, but her intuition proves spot on. He takes our ticket claiming to give us a refund. We peruse the pages of Lonely Planet and it’s as if our morning encountering is written word for word in the warnings about the train station. We grab our bags and head back to the train station without our tickets, as he’d already kept us in his office long enough to make us miss our train. We head to the second class ticket window and purchase a ticket for 136 rupees, about $3.00. It would be the start of a very long day…

We head to the car, a small indescript four door and I almost enter the driver side forgetting the English driving orientation and the fact that this tiny toy car is still a taxi.

It’s 12:30 by the time we hit the highway. I fight to keep y eyes open despite the excitement of having just landed. The traffic is a mix between compact, almost toy like cars and large transport trucks.

The driver, who calls himself Mr Khan, speaks very little English and aside from a polite introduction the ride is pleasantly silent…which is one word I would never use to describe the city. To say that New Dehli is an assault on one’s senses would be to downplay the experience. The dusty air is filled with the constant honks of car horns, while your vision is bombarded with too many images to focus – bicycle rickshaws whirl by as autorickshaws honk and swerve; shops are overflowing with wares and people are everywhere.

We were staying in PAHARGANJ at the Hotel Lal’s Haveli, not exactly the most hospitable of areas, it is however jam packed with budget hotels. Each block seems to be a repetition of the one before it. In fact, I took a walk to the train station, casually noting the plywood store at the corner only to realize on return that every block had in fact a plywood store…I can thank Parson’s for having given me an appreciation for typography, without which I may very well have never found the hotel again, despite having only made one turn.

To say one should be prepared for the touts, cannot prepare you for what awaits at any major city train station in India. You want so very badly to put your trust in someone who calls this foreign place home, but unfortunately you simply can’t. No one will, out of nowhere, assist you to find the correct office, ticket window or track. I’d gone to the station wanting to locate the ticket counter before Emele’s arrival, in the brief 10 minutes I spent meandering the building I was approached no less than 4 times. In fact, if you are approached it is undoubtedly to cart you off to another office where they will tell you your ticket is not valid. Being pressed for time and knowing there was a ticket counter at the airport I left, but not without one last tout, trying to lure me to there “travel agency.”