I wrote this next bit when we returned to Delhi after four nights in Ranthambore Nature Preserve:
On the train from Ranthambore we met another kind couple, this one from Delhi, Mr & Mrs. Jain. A first-class compartment seems to be a good place to meet people and have interesting chat. Third-class is no place for large Americans with big suitcases where people are crammed into the cars with plungers and shoehorns and opportunists wait for you to doze off and relieve you of your stuff. In first-class (a place in life I so clearly deserve) the local people are more likely to speak English which makes it possible for us to speak with them. This is especially appreciated since my Hindi is limited to “Go away, leave me alone.” “I hope I see you again soon,” and “I honor the divinity in you.” Doesn’t leave a lot of room for delving into life’s complexity.
As you can see first-class is super classy!:
Anyway, Mr. Jain is in diamond sales. Fortunately he did not ask us to help him carry any precious gems into the US for him (apparently that’s a common scam that must catch the really naive and greedy types, similar to those who respond to unsolicited email from Nigerian strangers wanting to make them rich.). The Jains were really nice to us, and as happens all the time on trains, they shared their snacks and were interesting and interested in talking with us. They were looking forward to Barack Obama becoming our new president (as was every Indian we talked to, from the tuk-tuk drivers to the head of finance for the municipal railways system). They lived in what I think is the good part of Delhi, not the shady Paharganj area that we were going to be staying in:
I don’t have too many good shots of the worst places because I don’t like to break out my phat camera and draw attention to myself, my touristy-ness and my apparently immense wealth.
And I’m always bummed that I forget to bring food to share on trains. Anyway, when leaving the train in Delhi, Mr. Jain helped keep shifty luggage grabbers away from us, made sure we were walking in the right direction to find our taxi, and most memorably, gave a great recommendation for a restaurant in Delhi—actually their 23 year old son called him and suggested the place.
I think local twenty-something university students are the best people to ask for that kind of advice—they know all the coolest places. This restaurant was off the Lonely Planet’s beaten-to-a-pulp track. It had great atmosphere, was full of locals (and us), had really good food and happy people working there. It was just what we wanted, so I hesitate to name it for fear it goes the way of many Lonely Planet recommendations–the last place we went to in Jaipur came out of that book–it was so full of white-haired, white tourists, it was how I imagine eating dinner on a Kathy Lee Gifford Carnival Cruise ship must be. Anyhow, that last night in Delhi dinner was grand. We are much more at ease in Delhi now. I’m not sure if the city chilled out somehow or I am less culture shocked now, but either way, it seemed less scary, crappy, crowded and intimidating, and more enjoyable, even at night.
If you plan to be in Delhi in the future, email me and I’ll spill the name of the restaurant. =)
Thoughts I had in Delhi the next day:
- Any spoiled American child would benefit from a trip to Delhi. Tough town.
- Always bring snacks to share on the train.
- I woke up feeling mean. I blame Jet Airways. Still grappling with them. I hope I make it home sometime this month.
- I have stopped trying to fit in here; it’s hopeless. I am too tall, too (comparatively) white, hair’s too curly and too short, clothes are too dark, unflowy, unsparkly,—let ‘em stare. Not that I’ve started going out in miniskirts and tube tops mind you, but I have accepted the fact that in India, I am a circus freak.
- By the way, staring shamelessly at women is perfectly acceptable here. But now I feel secure enough to stare them back down with added stink-eye when I’m in the mood.
- I am also now capable of successful arguments with even the most supremely pushy taxi drivers. Apparently it is their job to press, and mine to resist firmly, but then smile in the end.
- All barfi is not created equal.
- Never acknowledge beggars at all. Period. To acknowledge their humanity increases their intensity and numbers. If you acknowledge them and then don’t give, they turn on you and get angry as if by acknowledging them you have pledged a donation. This is how they intimidate the tourist into giving and it really pisses me off now. I think they sense newbies, and I am happy I am no longer one of them. It is better to be callous and indifferent, or at least to seem that way.
-People think nothing of asking how much you make, or what you paid for anything—it’s normal for Indians, but awkward for me. I have developed some pretty effective evasion techniques though. Sometimes I look confused and I pretend I don’t understand, or can’t do the conversion (which makes me seem kind of stupid because the conversion is not very hard, but it usually ends the line of questioning), or I say something humble and flattering, and then change the subject: “I make not so much as a diamond seller of course, but enough to go on a journey once in a while. Do you know what the name of the next station is?”
-I’ve figured out that Indians don’t want to disappoint you or answer negatively, even if this causes confusion. This is so unlike us. Now that I understand this, I have an easier time, and even try to beat them at their own game.
-I think Sunday is haircut day for men and they all get their haircut by barbers in the street. As far as I can tell, no Indian women get haircuts–ever.
- Red-brown betel-nut chewer teeth are most unfortunate.
- So many dogs, but where are the cats? This gives me pause.
Next destination: Mumbai which I will call Bombay from now on because I like the sound of it better and so many Indians say that anyway I don’t think it matters much. I’m happy we’ll be flying–ever heard of Kingfisher Air? Kingfisher is also the name of their most popular beer, the Budweiser of India. So it’s like if Budweiser had an airline, we’d be flying on that. Sweet.
