This post concludes my first day in India, a colorful, dusty, muggy, intense, loud blur of a day. We arrived at the Tibetan Colony of Delhi late last night after a taxi ride from the airport spent slipping back and forth between lanes, narrowly sliding past nearing trucks, dodging overcrowded motorcycles driving the wrong way, and nearly hitting wayward pedestrians. Walking through the narrow, dim alleyways of the Tibetan Colony, exhausted after a fifteen hour plane trip, I had almost no sense of where I was or what Delhi was like. All I could think about was putting down my 30-pound backpack and taking a nice, refreshing shower. And then I saw the shower. A loose shower-head and a bucket sitting in a bathroom whose door didn't close. But, in the spirit of my trip, one of reevaluating my own standards and embracing a new way of life, I just jumped right in. And a room that, upon first entering, had appeared dirty and dismal, and had caused the mind involuntarily to recoil, suddenly became comfortable and clean.
In the morning, after spending just over a dollar on an exotic tea and a delicious crepe-like pancake, Ada, Mackenzie and I walked around the Colony, cautiously navigating the alleyways, beggars and stares of passerby. If you've ever been to Old Havana, it looks a lot like that: dilapidated buildings with dangerously rusted balconies and uneven cement, dirt-encrusted ground. The only difference is the plethora of tiny street-level shops with neon signs and flashy interiors. At the end of the main, pedestrian-only thoroughfare is a small park, the sky striped with lines of Tibetan prayer flags, the benches dotted with red and orange-robed Buddhist monks.
Soon drenched in sweat, we returned to the hotel for a briefing on India and another laughably cheap meal.
It was only after lunch, though, that the action really started. We took a taxi to Old Delhi, where we all hopped on rickshaws for a makeshift "tour." The first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Old Delhi, the one word that sums is all up, is the traffic. But not in the LA sense, the unmoving line of vehicles sense; rather, when talking about Old Delhi, traffic is the literal traffic - the many different beings that make up the jigsaw puzzles that swarm the streets. Traffic means rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, bikes, taxis, business men, old women, young children, teenagers, dogs...all darting in front of one another, edging other beings and vehicles out of the way, stopping short, almost colliding, starting up again, and honking, always honking. It would come as no surprise then when our rickshaw turned in to oncoming traffic or drove the wrong way down the street. That was simply the way things worked.
It is true when I say that the most striking thing about Old Delhi was the traffic. The buildings, the signs, the leaping monkeys, the street vendors serving up what appeared to our safety-briefed eyes to be Giardia-invested delicacies, the many silks and colors were all secondary. But the colors were certainly a close second. Colorful signs and silks, rainbow fruit stands and saris, painted rickshaws and advertisements, all competeing, clashing and combining in to to an overwhelmingly interesting whole.
Through congested thoroughfares and narrow alleyways, our rickshaws fought their ways, yelling and swerving and turning around to try and haggle with us for more money. We left them at the Jama Masjid mosque, a massive, red-stoned, fortress-like building. Upon entering, Mackenzie, Ada and I were unceremoniously wrapped in flower-printed kimono-like robes by a old man with a hawk's-eye for Western (inappropriate) dress. The inside, a huge open square surrounded by minaret-topped prayer rooms, was a people-watcher's heaven. There were groups of women in beautiful saris, packs of men in white prayer robes, little children feeding pigeons and families, wandering.
Then, the staple adventure of Delhi was repeated: another crazy auto-rickshaw ride later, we arrived back at the Tibetan Colony. Time for things like Chai, semi-functioning air conditioners, and people offering to clean out your ears. One day down, and still processing, I leave you with that - very Indian - image.
In the morning, after spending just over a dollar on an exotic tea and a delicious crepe-like pancake, Ada, Mackenzie and I walked around the Colony, cautiously navigating the alleyways, beggars and stares of passerby. If you've ever been to Old Havana, it looks a lot like that: dilapidated buildings with dangerously rusted balconies and uneven cement, dirt-encrusted ground. The only difference is the plethora of tiny street-level shops with neon signs and flashy interiors. At the end of the main, pedestrian-only thoroughfare is a small park, the sky striped with lines of Tibetan prayer flags, the benches dotted with red and orange-robed Buddhist monks.
Soon drenched in sweat, we returned to the hotel for a briefing on India and another laughably cheap meal.
It was only after lunch, though, that the action really started. We took a taxi to Old Delhi, where we all hopped on rickshaws for a makeshift "tour." The first thing that comes to mind when thinking about Old Delhi, the one word that sums is all up, is the traffic. But not in the LA sense, the unmoving line of vehicles sense; rather, when talking about Old Delhi, traffic is the literal traffic - the many different beings that make up the jigsaw puzzles that swarm the streets. Traffic means rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, bikes, taxis, business men, old women, young children, teenagers, dogs...all darting in front of one another, edging other beings and vehicles out of the way, stopping short, almost colliding, starting up again, and honking, always honking. It would come as no surprise then when our rickshaw turned in to oncoming traffic or drove the wrong way down the street. That was simply the way things worked.
It is true when I say that the most striking thing about Old Delhi was the traffic. The buildings, the signs, the leaping monkeys, the street vendors serving up what appeared to our safety-briefed eyes to be Giardia-invested delicacies, the many silks and colors were all secondary. But the colors were certainly a close second. Colorful signs and silks, rainbow fruit stands and saris, painted rickshaws and advertisements, all competeing, clashing and combining in to to an overwhelmingly interesting whole.
Through congested thoroughfares and narrow alleyways, our rickshaws fought their ways, yelling and swerving and turning around to try and haggle with us for more money. We left them at the Jama Masjid mosque, a massive, red-stoned, fortress-like building. Upon entering, Mackenzie, Ada and I were unceremoniously wrapped in flower-printed kimono-like robes by a old man with a hawk's-eye for Western (inappropriate) dress. The inside, a huge open square surrounded by minaret-topped prayer rooms, was a people-watcher's heaven. There were groups of women in beautiful saris, packs of men in white prayer robes, little children feeding pigeons and families, wandering.
