It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was a season of beauty, it was a time where I stood, exacerbated, with animal feces on my foot. And, it all took place within eight hours and two cities.
My scam detectors were on high alert as I wandered Delhi's shopping and pedestrian hub -- Connaught Place-- by foot and completely on my own. I could hardly walk ten steps before someone would come up to me -- often asking the time as an icebreaker -- and going through the motions of the "tourist" questions: "Which country are you?"; "How long you in India?"; "You are student?"; "First time in Delhi?"; "Where you go next?"; "You are doing shopping?" I patiently answered the first few such interviews, as everyone claimed they simply wanted to practice their English (though nearly all of them tried to funnel me into certain shops or "Government of India" tourist information shops which aren't actually run by the Government). I had finally broken away, exploring a bizarre underground bazaar which tried exceedingly hard to be hip, featuring some items that had me questioning how they possibly came to be sold in India -- like the split-screen "RIP Aaliyah and RIP Tupac" graphic t-shirt.
I exited the bazaar to head to the metro, and was greeted with the same set of questions, and yet another guy following me. However, as I neared the metro, he pointed down to my foot where a huge splotch of dung sat on top of my shoe. I knew full well how it got there -- this is a popular scam in India. A shoe-cleaner purposefully drops it on your shoe, and -- what are the chances? -- is there to point it out to you with a full set of shoe cleaning materials at the ready. I knew exactly what had happened -- I even told him "you put it there!" -- but the beauty of the scam is that the victim has no options. I can't walk around with it on my shoe; I don't want to clean it myself; and anyone who offers to clean it up will charge ridiculous prices as well. Having no other option, I stood there, fuming, as he cleaned my shoe of the feces he put there, paying him far too much for the service. Meanwhile, another guy came over who claimed to be an "ear cleaner." "Do not touch my ear!" I said loudly. There I was, one foot up, while a man cleaned crap off of it, while I protected my ear from a would-be "cleaner." I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Let's be honest -- it's robbery that uses shit as a prop.
I walked away -- counting in my head all the reasons I hate this place -- and headed to the train station to catch my train to Agra -- the site of the Taj Mahal. Though I was hopeful the train journey would swing my India-meter back towards positive, early on, the prospects looked grim. I took sleeper class -- the lowest reserved class -- and found my berth packed with two girls and three guys. The girls, friendly and smiling, talked to one-another while clinging to the window seats. The three guys, meanwhile spread themselves out taking up the room of a few people thanks to their gregarious posture. I maneuvered my way to my seat, and, upon them not moving an inch as I squeezed in, forced my elbows out pushing them back towards the general vicinity of their assigned seat (rather than spilling into mine).
They proceeded to spend the train ride listening out-loud to their mobile phone's music (at first I thought it was just ringtones -- then I realized just how high-pitched and grating a lot of Indian music is), and sitting sprawled out on the benches. One of the more amusing aspects of Indian "guy" culture is how they show affection to one another. I've become accustomed to them holding hands in public, but on this train, they sat legs out, interlinked, with one guy's feet inches from the other's groin, while the other playfully rested his hands on the other's ankles. Yet despite being quite free with showing public displays of Bromance, it is heavily frowned upon for me to even hold a girl's hand in public! As it began to rain, one yelled to the girls to close the window. They tried, but they couldn't force the old, rusty window down. They yelled something again, but remained enamored with their mobile phones, leading me to climb over them, reach over the girls and close their windows as the girls' clothes began to get wet. I'm not saying this to pat myself on the back, as I firmly believe lots of people would have volunteered to close the window as well, but it does reinforce the strange gender relations I've observed during my time in India.
As I was jumping -- in India you don't step -- off the train, in my head I was literally counting the hours -- not just the days; the hours -- until I would be leaving India. I forced my way through the crowd of people milling about and lying on the ground, and made my way to the rickshaw-wallas, mentally preparing myself for a battle over the price of a ride to my hotel. Expecting a price in the hundreds of rupees, I was shocked when the first man I met offered me the extremely fair price of eighty rupees. I accepted and hopped in his ride. On the way to the hotel, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the Taj Mahal in all of its majesty. The sight of it for the first time, is quite honestly, breathtaking. It's one of those sights I've seen in pictures my whole life, but, even in making all the effort to come out here, wondered to myself if it would be worth it. The first glimpse of it suggested it would be -- and more.
My India-pendulum was swinging back to positive as I checked into my hotel and made my way up to their rooftop cafe. There I sat, eating a delicious meal, watching as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon and the Taj Mahal's famous silhouette darkened and eventually blended in to the night sky.
"I love this place," I thought to myself.
I also hate it.
All in the same day.
The underground bazaar:
The Delhi metro is a bit crowded:
Delhi trainstation:
My sleeper car:
My first site of the Taj:
View from the rooftop cafe:
