Delhi, and Finding Myself in Rishikesh
It took exactly two hours for me to find my way into Delhi’s seedy underworld. That says a lot, considering I had just landed in Pahar Ganj, Delhi’s notorious backpacker ghetto and market shantytown. My flight arrived at 9pm, and as usual, I had no idea where I would rest my head that evening. Unlike Bombay, the airport tourist info could only point me to “government-approved” hotels, like the Sheraton and Intercontinental. Clearly, the government does not approve of backpackers, freshly tattooed and desperately in need of a shower. Fortunately, I was not alone in my smelly state. Gaz from England had the name of a place in Pahar Ganj, where he was to rendezvous with his friend Lorry-spelled-Laurie. I was a little apprehensive about heading into Pahar Ganj, having smelt it all the way from Goa, but we could split the taxi and at least someone knew something about going somewhere. Sure enough, Pahar Ganj lived up to its reputation. The noise, the cows, the people and the smells were simply staggering. Also staggering were dozens of backpackers in their cotton hippie threads, so I knew I was in the right place.
Vivek Hotel was cheap and relatively clean, with an Internet cafĂ and restaurant and a buzzer in each room. When accidentally pressed, a sweaty Indian guy knocked at my door with an offer to procure any object of my desire, much like room service, but with a hint of desperation and a fraction of the price. Plus you can’t order hookers by room service at most quality hotels. Lorry-spelt-Laurie was nowhere to be seen, so Gaz checked his email and realized that he was meant to be at a different hotel. He had no idea how Vivek Hotel came into his mind, and wasn’t buying my “It’s God-Shiva-Buddha-Allah-Jesus-Gonzo looking after me” explanation. How else could I have found a decent budget hotel in Pahar Ganj, this late at night? Gaz checked out, but not without inviting me to his new hotel to watch the important Chelsea-Liverpool soccer match at midnight. This beat watching my ceiling fan, so I walked a couple hundred meters down the road, gagging only twice at the stench, to their higher priced hotel (it had western toilet seats and cable TV). Everything was just fine until we decided to collectively find some beer for the occasion. Now, one would think that in a backpacker ghetto, full of horny travellers, beer and liquor would be easy to obtain. There are many things one would think of India, but only if one is not an Indian. Everything shuts down in Pahar Ganj at 11pm, as the locals find their space on the street and hit the broken cement of dreams. The only people wondering about are using the potholes as latrines, and a few travellers desperately wishing they could be anywhere but here, anywhere but now. Being tenacious Chelsea fans, this was not about to stop Gaz and Lorry-spelt-Laurie. So we hopped into an auto-rickshaw, hijacked by a drunk local, and headed into the underworld, to buy beer “in the black.” The game would start in ten minutes, but the local, who I will call Mr. Chapatti, assured us we would be back with time to spare. An hour later, we were still tuk-tukking around the deserted, dusty streets of Delhi. Gaz was losing his cool, Lorry-not-Laurie was losing his rag, and I was losing my mind. Meanwhile Mr. Chapatti enthusiastically sipping a half-jack of cheap whiskey, tried to persuade us to visit his linen shop. “Top quality good, ssssir!” Meanwhile, the driver spun the Wheel of Fortune in his mind and decided that his price for all this would be the jackpot. We finally turned into a dark alley, had a brief conversation with cops waving shotguns out the window, and were told that a beer would cost 150 rupees. Considering this was three times the normal price, we did the backpacker retreat and decided getting out of this adventure alive would be a perfectly adequate reward for our efforts. After arguing with the rickshaw driver, Mr. Chapatti, Mr. Chapatti and the rickshaw driver together, each other, the cow who wondered over, and the gas attendant smoking while he filled up the rickshaw, we finally turned homewards. Thousands of people were sleeping on the streets, and I wondered where on earth in Delhi we happened to be, when the rickshaw stopped and I realized we were back in Pahar Ganj. The smell of humanity can be truly incredible. We managed to catch the second half of a completely forgettable soccer game (a 0-0 draw) and I walked alone back to my hotel, a few hundred yards up the street. For the first time in a long time, I felt nervous, especially when three guys came out the alleys and began to walk mighty close to me. Personal space is not a popular concept in India, but at 2am on an empty street, you’d think these guys would give me the luxury of a wide berth. Fortunately I made it to the hotel without incident, collapsed in my room, and fell asleep to the peaceful white noise of the ceiling fan.
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