Freshnosed andinshock Chaotic, traumatic, surprising and contradictory; Catrlona Gray describes her early impressions of New Delhi
Facing page, top: The seatbelt-Iess Ambassador taxis would later prove luxurious compared to door-less autorickshaws. Bottom: A bird's eye view of the ceaseless streets
FROM THE moment we arrived in Delhi airport, the change in atmosphere was palpable. Despite it being the cold season, it was still far hotter, and the air much drier than it ever gets in Ireland. Even the view from the aeroplane window suggested a promise of what was to come: a wide expanse of reddish ground, dotted with the occasional dusty green tree, the panorama punctuated by clusters of low, white concrete buildings. Outside the airport buildings, the culture shock really struck, as we searched for our taxi amidst the throngs of people milling about and shouting to each other in a mix of Hindi and English. There were a surprisingly small number of tourists, all of whom looked very out of place amongst the chaotic bustle of the small dusty area outside the airport. The taxi ride to the hostel was my first experience of Delhi driving. The taxi driver drove his 1950s style, very battered Ambassador at a breakneck speed, beeping his horn constantly as he swerved between lanes of traffic, and displaying a casual disregard for any of the usual rules of the road. Still fresh off the plane at this point, the lack of seatbelts in the back was a bit unnerving, although in comparison to the auto-rickshaw rides that would be our primary mode of transport through-
out our stay, this taxi-ride was sheer opulence. We were staying in Pahar Ganj, which is right in the centre of New Delhi, and is one of the biggest tourist markets, mainly due to its close proximity to the railway station. Picture thousands of people crammed into a very small area, filthy streets lined with stalls covered in brightly covered souvenirs, with beggars, traders and random men all extremely eager to assist you in parting with your newly acquired rupees as you drag your suitcase behind you and desperately try to find your hostel which is located down one of countless, unidentifiable, dodgy-looking side streets. The stalls are nearly exclusively run by men, who spit effusively and constantly, and stare blatantly at any tourist, particularly the female ones. After much trauma, we eventually found the hostel, and immediately embarked upon an argument with the manager regarding the price of the rooms. Money seems to be everyone's overriding obsession - in Pahar Ganj at least - and haggling is obligatory, as prices are automatically hiked up for tourists. Whilst in India, we had to talk and think about money all the time. It was a constant issue, despite the fact that the prices involved were often