A Day in Old Delhi

Old Delhi

Sleep – glorious sleep – 12 hours of it – awake refreshed – very refreshed.

The warnings issued to Bernie by her beloved daughters of the dastardly inclinations of Indian food weigh heavily on her mind – she approaches breakfast with trepidation – her trepidations dissipates with every survey step she takes around the buffet bar – she returns to the table - chole-(pronounced chho-lay) – rice bread – potatoes patties – delightful coffee – a happy lady!

The guide arrives – Sunil – proud young Indian – in the game for 10 years – German and English specialist – back yesterday from a 14 days tour with a group of Germans – loves them he says.

Happy to accommodate anything we choose – Bernie chooses the Mosque in the old city – the Red Fort and then show me the “colours of India” says Bernie – Ok but no Red Fort -says he – it is just an imitation of the one at Agra says he.

Off towards the Old Delhi – the roads crowded but less crowded than yesterday.

The traffic continues to amaze - we encountered David and Chris Parker on the way to a cash-only plumbing job on Chris' motobike

And then - surprise - surprise - we encounter Allan Lee picking up a moped that he is going to repair and give to Ken Goff.

As we pass I feel a little sorry for poor Delhi – clearly the oppressive weather has led her to feel tired – so tired that she just cannot be bothered finishing her work  – so tired that she cannot bring herself to fill in the trench that she dug and populated a few months ago – so tired that she cannot be bothered to pick up the papers that have found their way on to the road verges – so tired that she cannot bring herself to repair her footpaths – so tired that she had decided to leave the task of turning the temporary mobile phone towers into something that resembles a permanent installation – poor old regal Lady! – somehow though tired – tired – exhausted - she nevertheless manages to convey an air of the regal – she somehow whispers to the passer-by – “don’t look down on me – I have a better pedigree than my outward appearance might portray!”

Occasionally Lady Delhi will reveal her majesty – we pass a new huge Hindu Temple

As our driver miraculously conveys us safely towards Old Delhi proper, the subjects of the poor old tired metropolis that is Lady Delhi continue to be oblivious to any formal road rules.

For instance, travelling in the opposite direction to the mainstream of traffic is clearly appropriate even if the practice has a tendency to scare the living daylights out of western tourists.

Honking a horn is illegal in India – yet everyone does it – trucks even instruct you to do it!

Riding motors bikes on the walking paths is illegal but if you were a motorcycle rider in Delhi how could you resist a path that was heading in the right direction and was free of cars.

The capacity of bicycles as beasts of burden seem unlimited – the loads unimaginable – one hauling a 1m x 1m trailer piled high with soil – by my reckoning about 500 kg – another piled high with polystyrene blocks so tall that restraining it against the wind was a challenge of unfathomable proportions.

We reach the heart of Old Delhi and the old Mosque – Friday – it is being prepared for Friday prayers – the prayer mats are being spread – the sun shades erected – we remove our shoes – we pay the photography fee – Bernie and tourist of her gender are regaled in colourful cloaks before being allowed to enter.

Again, Lady Delhi shows her tiredness – she was just too busy to bother hiding the retro-fitted electrical services that disturb the magnificence of the marble and sandstone walls of the Mosque’s prayer chamber.

We depart the Mosque and accept the challenge of our guide Sunil to cross the road – we survive but barely – it is clear that there are some hidden rules that are just not obvious to those alien to the streets of Delhi for the locals seem to seamlessly glide across the streets without 

discernible pause, deliberation or accident.

We pass fireworks stands with their wares ready for eager wedding ceremony organisers.

We pass street vendors making Naan bread and other Northern Indian delicacies

Past a Bettel juice vendor

Onto a rickshaw – frightening! – frightening! – keep you elbows in! – watch that motor bike! – confidence in the rider soon takes over – enjoy!

Pass the bottle gas man!

Those infernal horns signal a different sort of danger.

More chaos to be navigated by the rickshaw driver!

Into the spice markets – extraordinary – the aromas – familiar - extreme – pleasant then over-powering – even the guide draws his handkerchief to calm his excited nasal nerves. We pass out past more vendors – we encounter the only tourist trap of the day – we find our way into the spice shop that just happens to sell packaged spices that can be taken back to Australia – the guide is good – the experience pleasant so we purchase spices at prices that Coles in Australia would consider applying to their spice items.

Bernie was intrigued by the rat traps that were in great demand

An interested locals listens intently as Sunil explains the spice trade to Bernie

Back into the rickshaws – another exciting trip – I could not comprehend what the red, green and amber lights mounted on poles at the intersections along our route could possibly be for – they look light the traffic lights we are familiar with in Australia but clearly they must be something different since neither the rickshaw driver, nor any other users of the road system seemed to alter their behaviour regardless of the colour of the lights. Thankfully the God of good health was there to look after us.

Off to the cremation site of Mahatma Gandhi – large but simple garden – the garden is in a state consistent with Lady Delhi’s state of tiredness – nice but unpolished – neat – tidy enough but no obvious sign of love!

A pleasant – pleasant day – we loved Old Delhi – Lady Delhi herself managed to sneak into our hearts and convince us that though she is tired, she is indeed a lady of significant status.

A transportation to india

Early rise - too many people on the shuttle – taxi provided for travellers.

Indian taxi driver – been here 15 years - don't eat the food says he – I had to have an injection – last time i was home says he – my body has acclimatised to Australian food and conditions – says he.

Where are you going Delhi – Agra – Shimla – I’m from Delhi – terrible – crowded - says he. Ah Shimla says he – beautiful! says he – like Tasmania says he.

Seamlessly through immigration – pause – look back - Australia 2 India 4 – another penalty goal – poor Chinese lady doesn't understand – border force employee points – points some more then ignores – the lady stand confused – the border force last looks back – yells “anyone speak Chinese?” – no one does – the women wanders of in the direction of the border forces extended finger – no attempt to help! – surely she could have taken her up to a translation terminal! – the essence of a letter to the head of Border Force starts to bounce between synapses.

At the gate – crew arrive – door is opened for them to enter – entire crew stands aside so the chief steward can pass through first – more British than the British.

Later on the pilots arrive – no such compliance with british inspired protocols – first there is  first through the door.

Loading commences on time – off to our assigned seats.

Australia 3 India 4 – penalty goal against India -  I have lost the prized Dreamliner seat pair at 39a and 39b – bugger! – we have to make do with a pair of standard economy seats next to a very nice young Indian girl – she proves  to have been endowed with exemplary  bladder control – she is from shimla – beautiful she says – shimla is starting to have a lot to live up to.

Australia 3 India 5 – the Dreamliner departs on time. A3 I6 – lunch is served – superb vegetarian – as tasty an aviator's repast as I can recall!

All is good save for the shoulder that has decided to constantly remind of the reality that I have been asking my left arm and shoulder to do the heavy lifting of our travel paraphnelia – Ian Crossley will understand exactly what I mean! – a mental note has been made to relieve my left side from shouldering any responsibility for portage for the remainder of the trip.

The Dreamliner electrically dimming windows are dimmed – why dim the windows for a daylight flight – a mental note is made to make an appropriate enquiry of Mr. Google.

Australia 4 India 5 - Try the Indian white wine – bears a slight- just a slight resemblance to American street corner lemonade.

Another delicious Indian vegetarian meal – some sleep – some walking tours of economy class - more conversation with the delightful Indian girl.

The windows are rendered transparent – the plane is filled with sunlight – we arrive in Delhi – 5pm

Australia 4 India 6 - A civilised and polite transit through border control – officials go out of their way to assist us when we arrive at the wrong queue – border force officer leaves his station to come and guide us to the right window.

The guide is waiting – escorted to our car – into the Delhi traffic for the first assault on our senses – he issues his first piece of advice that could be roughly and perhaps unfairly translated as “watch the pedestrian crossings – they are only marked with white lines so that cars have a better chance  of running you over” – I did not even have to ask my mind to take a note!

I decide to prematurely end the commonwealth transport contest!

The road rules are clear – there are only two rules – blow your horn and don't hit anyone – that means anyone regardless of the size, vintage, cost or passenger inventory of their vehicle – indicators appear to be used only to indicate that as a driver you have completely erred and that you have a desperate need to change from random lane 6 to random lane one.

Bernie exercises her iPad's image capturing capabilities - an Indian version of a family people mover!

The motorist have to concentrate - look at our driver's eyes.

The Indian motor bike rider is a generous individual.

The bikes take multiple forms

Something of the main street

The hotel is reached – security guards everywhere – guard houses and access control gates – an inspection under the bonnet – no bombs – the security gate retracts – into the hotel compound – old but impressive!

More security – into reception – lovely hotel – nice room!

12 hours sleep and practically no jet lag.