Despite this post's title, Delhi isn't nearly as smelly as I remember it in '86. Looking back at my journal from that trip, I see that I had contemplated writing a book on the Indians' need to empty both bladder and digestive tract in public. My working titles were "Defecation Nation", "An Increment of Excrement" or "Incontinence on the Subcontinent". Nehru once said the country would be a lot better off if everyone carried a small shovel and Ghandi's entourage included a port-o-john. Mahatma had a stake in setting a good example for other Indians: he walked barefoot.
In today's news, it's reported that Mick Jagger wants to buy a home in Udaipur, after visiting the Lake City last week. We'll be there in about a week, so I'm interested to see what's special about it. Also, 3 murders were reported in an inside page in a tiny 3-inch column. One was a contractor who was bludgeoned to death by disgruntled laborers. In Pakistani news, a distantly related couple were found in a "compromising position" and, despite their pleas of innocence, were tied to a tree and stoned to death by other relatives. In another incident, some male members of Family A got pissed off when one of their female members eloped with a guy from Family B, so they did what any self-respecting family would do: they raped a female member of Family B and dragged her naked through the village streets. If you really want to know how lawless the hinterlands of India or Pakistan can be, read a book called "The Age of Kali".
We woke to our first full day in Delhi at about noon. It was 79 degrees and we couldn't wait to hit the streets. But B4 we do that, let me just mention a few of the amenities offered by The Imperial. There are electric air fresheners. There are slippers placed exactly on the floor where your feet would hit when you swing them off the bed. There are several travel magazines. You are given the option of 6 newspapers to be delivered to your room each morning, what time you would like them delivered, and they are delivered in a linen bag, with a typed executive summary of the news and weather on one sheet of paper. When you call in a wake-up call, they ask you how many 10-minute back-up calls you would like after the first. Ice is in the bucket when you get back to the room each evening. Fresh fruit is on the coffee table, a flower is floating in a bowl of rose water. There are 3 phones, a full length antique mirror and beautiful old photos and lithographs on the wall. When you get room service, it is wheeled in on a trolley that turns into a table. The food is on plates in a warming oven beneath the trolley. The attendant serves everything B4 leaving. Our B'fast includes fresh squeezed OJ, coffee, tea and hot milk in sterling silver pots covered in cozies, each with a small padded cloth sleeve on the handle, so you don't get burned picking up the pots. There are 8 small jars of preserves, including fig, for the croissants, a small tomato stuffed with mushroom and spinach, an omelette, muesli and yoghurt. Oh yeah: They don't do something as gauche as knocking on your door; they ring your door bell.
Back to New Delhi. Max is on the hunt for saris and other fabrics to make curtains back home. We are assailed by numerous taxi drivers and motor rickshaws as soon as we leave the cocoon of The Imperial's grounds. As we walk down a lane, a young professional-looking chap asks us if we need help and directs us to a motor rickshaw nearby, gives him instructions to a nearby "government emporium" that specializes in fabric, and tells us not to pay him mor than 10 rupees (about 23 cents). What they call "motor rickshaws" in Delhi aren't anything like a real rickshaw. They are what the rest of Asia calls "Tuk-Tuks", basically a motorcycle with an ego.
The traffic in Delhi is actually wilder than I remember it in '86. You initially believe that your death is just a matter of "when", not "if", but soon get used to the wild ride, the constant horns blowing and the total disregard for the ornamental lane markings on the roads. Back home you seldom hear a horn, but if you do, it is usually a result of road rage. In Asia, no umbrage is taken by horn blasting; it is just a polite way of informing the rest of the traffic where you are.
I'll let Max tell you about her purchasing experience. I was just glad it was fabrics. In '89 she bought a full set of Chinese tableware in Hong Kong and we schlepped that through Thailand, Indonesia, Singapore and Australia B4 getting it home (no breakage!).
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