(Note: We struggled to write this blog. We wanted to be honest about our own experiences in Delhi, but we also know and want to emphasize that all travelers have very different experiences.  We certainly would not discourage anyone from going to Delhi. However, it has taken us some time and distance to be able to process some of the things we saw there.  The poverty was so extreme that we barely have the words to describe it…)

Our express train from Goa rolled up in Delhi around 2pm.  We got off and were immediately bombarded by taxi drivers, offering to take us for “only” 150 rupees (about US$4).  We knew that the train station had a prepaid taxi stand run by the local police, where we would only pay about 70-80 rupees for an autorickshaw, so we turned down the repeated taxi offers and headed toward the pre-paid booth.

Outside was chaos.  We tried to make our way to the prepaid taxi booth but dozen of men were talking to us, some encouraging us to go to the prepaid booth, others telling us that we didn’t want to go there.  At some point, one man put his hand on Beth’s arm to get her attention.  Suddenly, another man grabbed the first guy and threw him to the ground, yelling at him in Hindi.  We’re still not sure if it was because the guy inappropriately touched Beth or if it was because he was trying to steal away business.

With all this chaos going on, Beth approached the booth and told the ticketmaster (who was either a Delhi police officer or an employee of the Delhi police – we’re not sure how it works) that we wanted a taxi to New Delhi, the neighborhood where we were planning on staying.  The ticketmaster said it was 70 rupees and Beth proceeded to give him a 100 rupee bill, which she watched him slip into a drawer.  She turned to check on Lauren and when she turned back, the ticketmaster was holding a 50-rupee bill.

“It’s 70 rupees,” he said.

“I gave you 100 rupees,” Beth responded.

“No, I have a 50 here.”

“I know I gave you a 100 rupee bill because I didn’t have a 50 rupee bill!” Beth argued.

He shook his head, and Beth realized there was nothing she could do.  After all, who was she going to complain to?  The police?  She handed over another 50 rupees to pay for the ride – costing us 120 rupees altogether (but still better than the offers from the non-prepaid touts).

In the end, the autorickshaw driver was very nice, but he spent the majority of the ride warning us against touts and schemes.  It was a conversation that would hear dozens of more times.

We made it to New Delhi to the main bazaar, the backpacker district of Delhi, and found a hotel that was fine.  We made friends with one of the managers there, who is now emailing Beth on a semi-regular basis.

The neighborhood, on the other hand, was shockingly in disrepair.  Many brick buildings appeared to be crumbling; the streets were broken and covered in inches of dirt.  The layout of the roads were haphazard.  Navigating the streets meant dodging people, autorickshaws, motorcycles, aimlessly wandering cows that were eating garbage off the streets and the occasional ox-drawn cart (no kidding).  At first, it took some getting used to; but in the end, it began to feel like home.

That night, looking into a shop, we were greeted by a smiling gentleman, who asked us where we were from, how we were liking India, where we’d been and so on and so forth. He slyly managed to lure us into his travel agent shop where he began to lay out a plan for our next few days. We did have questions about best modes of transport and where the best places to go would be, so stayed a while to get information. However, when it became apparent that we were getting no bargains or useful information there, we tried to leave. Wriggling out of his clutches proved to be a serious test of wills, and took quite a while.

Heading down the street a bit further, we were again greeted by another smiling gentleman. This time, we were the wiser, and didn’t respond to his questions. But he continued to follow us in a very amiable way, seemingly shocked by our unwillingness to engage him in conversation. He finally said, “hey, don’t you like Indians?” His dagger hit its mark.

“No, no!” Lauren naively responded. “It’s just that we’re getting hassled a lot.”
“Yes, touts are a problem, you must watch out,” he told us in perfect English.

After about 10 minutes of pleasantries, he expertly mentioned offhandedly that he’d been dealing with tourists all his life, and had many friends around the world since his father and grandfather before him had been travel agents. Long story short, again, we were lured, again, we were told the only way to get around was by a taxi that cost hundreds of dollars, and again it took us several attempts at getting away. THIS time, though, we had definitely learned our lesson… or so we had thought. Before we left we had 2 more bad experiences with travel agents and price gouging, one with the “official” government tourist office. Word to the wise, if you’re taking the train, book it yourself on www.irctc.co.in . Oh, and the buses are fine, cheap and often. Feel free to take them as well.

We ended up spending quite a lot of time at Canaught Place, the business district in the center of town, surrounding a large, grassy park. The first day, we went to the Palika Bazaar, a huge underground maze of small stores under the park and bought baggy shirts and scarves. We also spent a night there checking out a “Blues Bar” that played 90’s Rock, sipping Bacardi Breezers, eating nachos, and playing dice.

Our last day in Delhi, we finally went to visit Old Delhi, known for its huge mosque and winding streets of markets.  We got an autorickshaw to take us from Connaught Place to the Red Fort.

On the ride there, we passed through some of the poorest areas of Delhi we’d seen.  There were people digging through garbage for food; others seemingly suffering from polio and unable to walk.  On the side of a major highway, on the road (not the sidewalk), a man who looked like he was maybe 40 was determinedly crawling down the highway, using his hands to drag himself forward, his legs too weak to walk. 

The Red Fort was closed, so we headed to Jama Masjid, the largest active mosque in India, to see it before sunset (when its closes for visitors).  Dusk cast a hazy light as hundreds of merchants lined the streets leading up to the mosque, selling shoes, toys, stereos, and everything else imaginable.

As we walked into the gates that ascend the steps to the mosque, it felt like a biblical scene.  Beggars pleaded for money as we walked by.  Several of them appeared to have open wounds, with blood seeping through their bandages, some were missing limbs and others hobbled by on crutches.

After we left and headed to the merchants, we were shocked to see severed goat heads, still bloody with their brains sucked out, being sold on the streets.  We ate dinner (Lauren was amazed by the chicken curry at the renowned Kamil’s, Beth couldn’t really eat) and then headed out to the streets again.  Here we saw outside of the bakeries, homeless men crowded and kneeling against one another in neat lines four or five rows deep, knees to backs, knees to backs, facing the bakeries with their hands in prayer position, begging for some spare bread to eat.

Lauren was still wandering through street after twisting street when Beth announced, “I’ve reached my limit.”

“You don’t want to walk around the market a little?” Lauren asked.

“Do you want to walk around the market?!?  Cause we can walk around the market if you want to, but I’ve seen enough,” Beth exclaimed, exasperated.

We made it back to our room after a harrowing rickshaw ride through the dark and dusty city streets, whizzing through unbelievably overcrowded roads, narrowly missing zig-zagging cars, barreling trucks, unpredictable buses, kamikaze bicycle riders, and old men hunkered over wobbly canes crossing the street. Cutting through black clouds of exhaust, Beth and I covered our noses with our scarves as horns blared with eardrum shattering intensity, and creepy men occasionally peered into the rickshaw. Passing slums, broken down buildings, burning trash heaps, and crumbling sidewalks that contained mounds of people under newspapers and tattered remains of old sleeping bags, we arrived at our hotel a bit speechless and a lot overwhelmed. “I’m going to have nightmares” is all we could muster.   

The next morning, we got the hell out of Delhi.