India Journal, December 2009. Entry 2

Friday morning, 5:05 AM


Our Gulf Air flight touches-down in Delhi a full twenty five minutes early. And, as Siobhan predicted, the entire plane population rises and starts to pull down their overhead baggage as soon as we are on the runway. Frantic stewards run up and down the aisles telling folks to take their seats, but no one pays much attention until the Captain halts the plane and gets on the speaker to remind us all of “safety measures”. Much grumbling ensues, but after three or four minutes the crowds is all re-seated and the Captain proceeds to taxi to our gate.

Tim and I are excited to get our first glimpse of exotic India. We are among the last to deplane, though, as we’re too exhausted to become part of the pushing crowd that is filing rapidly toward the exits. Once inside the exit ramp, we’re hit with a wave of choking smoke, the smell of a thousand charcoal fires. I panic. Is there a fire somewhere inside the terminal? No one else seems phased, so we proceed on to luggage claim, where the haze is even denser. I cover my mouth and nose with my scarf and scramble for my inhaler as I start to cough. Everyone is anxious to clear Customs quickly, and the lines are fluid and without discipline. Even though we start out mid-line in aisle one, we are soon back-of-line in aisle two. No matter. The hotel is sending a car for us and we know that the driver will wait.

The Grande Godwin has sent a quiet, tall and very polite young man to safely transport us to the hotel. He holds a sign on which our name has been carefully written in bold, block letters. After we identify ourselves, he wishes us “Namaste” and leads us down a long narrow hallway and out of the terminal. I hope that the closeness and smoke of the terminal will relent, and look forward to getting out into the fresh air. We find ourselves in a dark, muddy parking lot populated by cigarette-smoking cabbies. I take a long, deep breath as the cool air hits my face. My stomach lurches. The smoke is compounded by an almost overwhelming smell of urine and the cooking of breakfast by both lorry drivers and the squatters who live outside of this terminal.

We reach the driver’s car. It is spotless. He introduces himself, pronouncing his westernized name quite deliberately. Jay. He is proud of his English, which is very good, and he tells us almost immediately, and with great pride, that he is from Nepal. When I relate that our niece is from Nepal, he becomes quiet, and remains so for the rest of our trip. Somehow I think I have offended him.

If we slow down at all, beggars run to the car, women carrying babies, children, banging on the windows. Our driver therefore tries to avoid any slowing down. Our breakneck trip to our hotel in the center of Old Delhi is breath-taking. I cannot remember seeing a traffic signal. Horns toot-toot and people shout. Motorbikes, bicycles, pedestrians, rickshaws, cows pulling cartloads of bananas, a camel. The city is teaming, and it is not yet dawn. Vendors sweep the cement slabs in front of their stalls. A few feet away a pile of building rubble and garbage stands man-high. They seem oblivious. From the rooftops of buildings, people rise and shake out their bedding. Sheets and coverlets hang from windows and balconies like crazy flags. On the street level, from under protective tarps, families wake and start their small charcoal braziers for tea, and if they are lucky, a boiled egg.

I thought I was ready for India. In my heart, I know now that I am not.