BEFORE starting, I’d like to apologise to the regulars of this column (hi mum, hi dad) for not delivering last week, but an adventurous meal out left me staring at bathroom tiles the entire weekend. In fact, I spent so much time in the thinking position that I ended up dividing the tile designs into categories of realism, surrealism, impressionism and abstract. But that’s one for the autobiography…
I decided some time ago that I was enjoying myself too much in Delhi. I had a place to stay, hot running water, a toilet seat, great company and anything from the kitchen I desired. It was time to give up the luxuries and really rough it out… on my own… as originally planned before I got stuck to the first couch I sat on. I thought back to the headlines I’d imagined would fill the front pages on my arrival: ‘End to Drought: Intrepid Cypriot Explorer Takes India by Storm’. Taking one look at my spanking new backpack and the neat pile of laundry-washed clothing on the bed, I realised India didn’t even know I was here. My thoughts were broken by the maid bringing in a cup of freshly brewed chai and a toasted omelette sandwich. It was another late breakfast for me, following a midnight screening at the local movie house. I had to hurry though, lunch was nearly ready.
The egg sandwich was a godsend, but something didn’t feel right. I had a dream to pursue and I wasn’t going to do it sitting comfortably in Delhi enjoying the benefits of infinite hospitality and cheap labour. Something had to give. With sarnie in one hand and guidebook in other, I mapped out a plan to see Jaipur at the weekend, land of the Rajputs and Maharajas. The news spread fast. Shuddo, a Bengali lawyer I had befriended, offered to take me there on his Royal Enfield Bullet. I accepted immediately. Imagine what discomfort I would endure on the back of an Enfield for five hours in the blaring sun. I relished the thought. Visions of the lone fearless traveller flooded back, along with the odd discerning headline: ‘Gora Gets Knocked off Bike by Angry Camel’.
The next morning I was up at 4.30am, shaking off a hangover picked up at a party to celebrate my leaving. By 5am, I was packed and ready, waiting to hear the roar of the Enfield charge through the window like a warrior elephant on a rampage. By 7.30am, Shuddo woke up to find 16 missed calls. He apologised and offered to pick me up in half an hour but we both knew it would be suicide riding through the desert state of Rajasthan in the midday heat. Not to be dissuaded and in line with my ‘roughing it’ policy, I bought a non-air conditioned bus ticket for the next morning. This time I would be totally on my own and with no obligation to return. The path was full of possibilities. As was becoming a habit in India, something bad had transformed into something good.
The next morning I waved my goodbyes and set off. I was the only foreigner on the bus. As the vehicle dragged its way to the outskirts of Delhi, I rested my head on the window and watched the world go by. Regardless of caste, class or colour, the whole of India seemed to be engaged in an early morning game of cricket. The fresh green lawns sprinkled with moving, bowling, catching snowflakes were soon replaced by semi-naked boys playing in fields of dirt with planks of wood for bats.
As I passed through the increasingly prevalent poverty I started to worry that the bus might break down, that my contract with middle class Delhi would expire and that I would be cruelly exposed for what I am… a gora with money and that when that runs out, I would be left with nothing but my wits and the good will of the majority of India. All of a sudden, travelling alone seemed less appealing. I opened my sealed mineral water bottle and sipped it quietly. A tap on my shoulder made me jump. A young man sitting behind wanted to read my copy of the Times of India. Just as I regained composure, the school boy sitting next to me started regurgitating and asked to sit next to the window. It was hard not to notice how he spent the rest of the journey head out the window smiling and passing jovial comments to all and sundry.
Five hours later, as the bus entered the compound, three touts sitting calmly on a bench keeled over when they saw a white face in the window. In a touching tribute to the Keystone Cops, they jumped up, untangled themselves and ran alongside the bus, hitting at its sides like a jockey would its horse to reach the finish line faster. Krishna of Bambino Tours got there first. I told him where I wanted to go. He showed me a book of rather stale and polite comments on his services left by previous tourists.
“Sir, where you say, I take you but this place full of bad people, police come, too much trouble, more royal tourists like French and British, they go other places I can take you.”
Reluctant to fall prey to a commission scam, I insisted he take me to my intended destination, Evergreen. I later discovered its more popular title, ‘Neverclean’. Once there I chose the second cheapest room, a whopping £3 a night. Throwing my stuff on an oily bed with what looked like a five o clock shadow, I made my way eagerly to the restaurant. The waiter lethargically threw a menu at me that could have passed for the Magna Carta. Forty minutes later a squadron of flies escorted my food to the table, ensuring no other objects occupied my air space while I ate. Desperate to take something good out of my first outing as a lone soldier I decided to take a swim in the roof-top pool. It was full of pigeons… real ones. Wading through feathers, it occurred to me that if pigeons hadn’t been branded rats of the skies, this would have been a great place for a bit of bird-spotting.
That night, lying in my cheap, shady bed, the ‘intrepid Cypriot explorer’ dreamed of Delhi.
