Chandi Chowk

‘What’s the cheapest room you have?’

‘Well…we have some rooms in the back that are mostly used by Afganhi war refugees, but you probably wouldn’t wan…’

‘I’ll take it.’

Delhi.

What a fucking place.

Note: Take anything you read from here on out with a grain of salt as my blood is boiling far too hot to be objective about this city.

The more tourists in a place, the more dangerous it is to be a tourist in that place.  Blood is in the water, and the sharks come to feed.  It’s often small problems. Double charged for street food. Overpriced rickshaws with ‘broken’ meters. ‘Oh you want the ticket office? No, it’s burned down. Come, my friend has a travel agency around the corner’.  One endeavors to take it in stride and appreciate the good, it’s the travelers way. After all, this is an amazing city with a history that dwarfs most others. One of the oldest continuously occupied cities in the world, it’s an amazing mix of old (really old) and ultramodern. I wanted to love it.

I arrived as a stowaway on a train from Agra and the Taj. Having missed the train I’d paid for, I hopped another nearby and hoped it was headed my way. A gamble in a country as large as India, but assuming all roads led to Delhi paid off. Ducking the ticket takers with precisely timed trips to the bathroom was easier than I’d thought, and once past the initial check I was assumed to be legit (read: white guy).

Besieged by touts and rickshaws at the exit was like nowhere else in India. It was obvious that this was the tourist jumpoff point. The sharks were out and there was plenty of wounded (jetlagged) prey to be had.  All willing to overpay by staggering amounts because even with the gouge it’s still fantastically cheap by western standards.

Having done India as backwards as possible (a trend this trip) I had ended in the place where most people begin. This meant I was somewhat hip to the scams and gouges, having eased into them in the quiet south like an old man into a warm bath. I almost felt pity for those fresh off the plane who had no frame of reference for what a simple bottle of water should cost (15-20R).

This confidence would prove costly however.  Blinded by pride at having survived six months in some of the roughest parts of the world I got careless.

Napping through the heat of most of the day I rousted out onto the street at 5pm hoping to take in the sound and light show at the famous Red Fort.  The streets were buzzing with life even more than usual, gearing up for Independence Day. Kids everywhere were buying and flying kites. Women – orange, white, and green bangle bracelets. And on every corner, right next to the sandbag machine gun posts, sweets and delicacies were on offer for special feasting.

Perhaps I always have a bad feeling in my gut. Maybe it’s always with me.  I tend to plan for the worst. It’s an ugly pessimism I wish I could kick but it keeps me insulated from the dizzying shock that comes with a travel catastrophe.

That said, the air in Delhi was that of trouble. Too many armed patrols on the streets. Too many predatory eyes watching my every move. If it wasn’t a Pakistani bomb it was going to be something else.  Things just didn’t feel right. The recent border shootings in Kashmir had the whole country on edge and just this morning a submarine had exploded spectacularly in the Mumbai harbor.  If only I’d listened to my gut, and spent the day watching crappy movies like I wanted to.

Taking in evening prayers at the Jama Masjid mosque was pressing my luck to start with. The stares I generally receive in any Muslim quarter I visit differ from the bemused smiles I get in the Hindu areas. There’s a fire in the eyes that is hard to misinterpret. ‘You are not welcome here’.

Hey, salaam brother, I just came for the lamb. Throw me a couple shishkebabs to-go and this infidel will be on his way.

After being politely asked to leave…well as politely as anything is done in a country where English is rudimentary (‘You go now’) I set off into the dizzying maze of Chandi Chowk bazaar.  Everything you could possibly want to buy, build, eat, or fuck could be had.

An entire street, five blocks long, sold nothing but kites. The next street over ball bearings.  Like the world’s biggest open air Walmart spread over an area the size of Monacco. Trying not to get clipped by passing tuk-tuks, rickshaws, and spit on by the occasional camel took full and absolute concentration.

Having been warned of pick pockets I stashed my wallet in a zippered pocket on my thigh, an unusual place which I hoped would go unnoticed, and set off into the fray.

The sights, smells and sounds were intoxicating. Charcoal grilled lamb over rode the ever present sewage smell. The imam’s amplified call to prayer drowned out the buzzing flute of the snake charmer. All senses in competition. It’s no wonder I lost track of the familiar bump against my leg as I walked.

Somewhere between my second kebab and my evening chai, my pocket had been quietly unzipped and my wallet expertly lifted. The Artful Dodger couldn’t have done a better job. I wasn’t so much mad as I was impressed.

OK, I was mad. There are a few dents in the siding of a plumbing supply store, and my resulting bloodied knuckles, that will attest to that. Some Indian children may have learned a few new English curse words. But I was mad at myself. If a child accidentally shoots someone, you don’t blame the child, you blame the parent who gave them the gun. I could have left everything at home (not necessarily safer).  It was out of pure overconfidence in my situational awareness that I didn’t.

My bag straps are clipped across my chest to prevent any snatch and grab type theft. My cellphone plays music constantly in my ear, so any removal would be noticed instantly as I am literally tethered to it. With my wallet safely ensconced in my zippered thigh pocket I felt comfortable enough to wade into the sea of turbans and burqas.

Pride goeth before the fucking fall.

A quick street side assessment of my situation, and my bloodied knuckles, proved less dire than originally thought.

I had lost:

1. ‘Bad Mother Fucker’ wallet. A joke gift from a friend I had never intended to use until my wallet was snatched in Thailand a few years ago. The irony doesn’t escape me.

2. 4000R, or about $80. I had just gone to the ATM the day prior, and had painstakingly changed out all my impossible to break 1000 notes for 100’s, leaving me with a gamblers roll a half inch thick. The thief probably thought he’d hit the jackpot when he opened it, and maybe he had in a country where 200R a day is a standard wage.

3. US Drivers License. More useful as collateral for museum audio-guides and the like than as a driving permit. Cambodians never recognized my motorcycle endorsement anyways, it was just about the bribe.

4. FSU Student ID. I had just moved this to my wallet the day before to take advantage of student prices at museums. Bah.  Won’t be seeing a replacement for this one.

5. My last business card. Useful in situations where I needed to pretend not to be just another backpacking bum.

6. A recently purchased bus ticket to Manali for tomorrow. $20 and a pain in the ass reworking my travel plans, but no great loss. If I was leaving any day but Independence day I could probably go to the office and have another printed up before the bus left. But owing to the holiday the office will most likely be closed, and the bus will ride one short.

7. A letter, hastily written on the back of a 500dong note. A keepsake from one of the best nights of my entire trip, if not my life. It’s the only thing I can’t replace.  I’ve fought corrupt cops to keep it. Literally emptying my wallet to show that they had taken all my money already, but that this note was different, and I’d go to Vietnamese jail before I handed it over for some imaginary infraction.

Westley: And our assets?
Inigo Montoya: Your brains, Fezzik’s strength, my steel.

Taking stock of my own (no wheelbarrow unfortunately) showed I had 50rupees at the bottom of another pocket. Thank god I had stopped for that last kebab and tea. The U.S. equivalent of about 80 cents, I doubted it was enough to get me the 20 miles across the city to my suburban hotel.

One subway token, 15 rupees. As everywhere in India, the ticket man had no change. Whereas normally I would walk away and call the 20cents a loss, this was one instance I could not afford to. So I camped in the empty station and waited patiently for the occasional commuter to complete their transaction, picking up 10 rupees at a time until I had my full change. 35R in hand I rode the Yellow to the Blue and alighted at Janga Pura on the edge of a massive shantytown. If a walk through the market had cost me almost everything, then the remaining 5 miles through the slums in the middle of the night was sure to claim the rest of it.

Sprinting across an eight lane superhighway to a sleeping bicycle rickshaw driver I roused him and began the bargaining process. It had to be precise, as there was not a lot of wiggle room in my pocket book. Having lost the hotel address with the wallet I was forced to use my GPS to indicate on a map my destination. The bewildered look was familiar of any over 20yr old Indian interacting with technology. How the hell does that blue dot know where we are?

Sixty…
Ten, it’s not that far.
Fifty, Indian price.
No, it’s not. Twenty.
Forty, I have kids to feed.
Thirty, your kids shall go wanting.
OK, thirty.

Still don’t know what I’ll do with that last coin. Might put in on the bed and just roll around on it.

Maybe I should buy a boat…