After filing out some paperwork, there was a very long line for passing a half assed swine flu examination. Following this and some more paperwork, there was a very (very) slow line for passing a visa examination. I could have had the swine flu in my lungs and ten or more species of harmful foreign plants in my backpack and the line officials would have been useless but for wasting my time.
I changed US$100 bill into 4500 Indian Rupees (one Benjamin into nine big Ghandis) and met up with my pick-up contact, a youthful looking Indian fellow with a broken wrist covered in a ratty cast (socialized medicine at its best?) He briefed me on the next few days' plan and said we were waiting for another guy and a girl. We were the last of forty volunteers he had been greeting off the planes since early that morning. Fifteen minutes later, the guy showed up. Mathias was his name, a twenty three year old recent graduate in theoretical physics from Sweden. We waited over an hour for the girl, making polite small talk (which only became awkward after I had confused Sweden for Switzerland -- for the record, those ARE two different countries) until it was learned that she had given up on trying to find us and simply gone to the hotel herself.
The three of us wheeled our luggage out of the arrival lounge and into a crowded and very hot room. There were many people simply standing around and some even sleeping on the floor. I looked up at the ceiling. There wasn't one. We had walked a full twenty feet before my mind was able to accept that we were indeed outside. It was thirty four degrees celcius. That's ninety three fahrenheit. It was 3am.
Being outside at such an hour in ninety three degree heat is something that does not immediately compute in your mind and I think I fell into a minute or two of maniacal laughing. Other things that jammed my mind (i.e. culture shock) included the many people sleeping on the ground (not, as I had instinctively thought, because they were waiting for a flight or something, but because that is where they slept) and the size (or lack thereof) of the Delhi cars.
Or taxi was one of these tiny cars. It was a puzzle fitting two tourists with luggage, a guide, and a driver into the cab. After some finaggling, Mathias and I settled in the backseat, looked down for our seat belts, and simultaneously looked up and at each other in surprise. "No seat belts, I guess," he said with his distinctively Swede or Swiss accent.
Who needs seat belts anywho? And for that matter, rearview mirrors!! Hell, our driver, along with every single motor vehicle operator in India doesn't even need street markings or turn signals or speed limits or any driving conventions what so ever! All you need to drive in India is a good loud horn and some steel nerves.
Although it was somewhat dark, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a forty minute cramped journey from airport to hotel and my eyes were glued to the roadside scenery the entire time. Two things ran through my head: scenes from Slumdog Millionaire (accompanied with music by M.I.A.) and the econ101 vocab words 'Newly Developing Nation'.
Last Picture:
Some random large corporate buildings (most likely full of phone technicians on the phone with frustrated American electronics customers) shadow a row of typical looking Delhi tin shacks. Click the picture for a larger version.
No comments:
Post a Comment