So here we are, stepping out into the sticky New Delhi night, breathing our first breath of fresh air in the subcontinent. Our prepaid taxi vouched says to head to stall 41, but immediately we're out the terminal we are surrounded by taxi drivers saying we should hop in with them, regardless of what our ticket says. Its only when they look closer at our ticket and realise we're heading to a small train station that they give up and let us on our way. Writing this blog a good week after my experience, I now know that the drivers stopped hassling us because there was no scope to earn some commission by dropping us off at a tiny train station!
But I digress - let's get back on track... our LPG powered Maruti zooms out of the airport and into the twilight, as the driver tries to expel a lung along with his bile. The dawn can't come too soon, as the highway leading into Delhi is lined with rickshaws with no lights, overloaded trucks with no lights, bicycles, pedestrians, and more cars with no lights. The general rule seems to be to drive without your lights on, and toot your horn as much as possible - most trucks, rickshaws and taxis have a handy "horn please" painted onto the back just to remind other drivers they should make their presence known!
Our destination was the tiny Sarai Rolla station, one of the minor Delhi transport hubs. It was quite a shock to the senses - people sleeping in the dirt, open sewers, heaps of trash, and hardly anyone who could speak English! It took us a few tries but we eventually figured out that there was no Left Luggage service at our station, so we decided to head to New Delhi Train Station - the one the guide book warned you about! Well, dear Lonely Planet, you didn't warn us enough!
I hate being so negative about anything, but everything that we did in our first 3/4 hours in Delhi that was connected with the Train Station was a horrible attempt at ripping us off, wasting our time or leading us on wild goose hunts.
Our e-ticket for the night's journey to Bikaner was listed as RAC - reservation against cancellation - meaning we could get onto the train, but might not be guaranteed individual sleeping berths (we might have to share one bed between two). Well, according to the very friendly and honest (sic) sharks at the train station, our ticket was not any good. We needed to get it confirmed at the "recently moved" Official Tourist Office. I protested that the office is actually in the station, and pointed out a sign that said as much; to which I was told "are you stupid? don't you know that since the Mumbai attack we have no offices in the station?" Well, it was very early in the day, and try as we might we couldn't find the official tourist office inside the station, so we humoured the tout and followed him to the "New, Official Office". As you can well imagine, it was a dud, and we were told our ticket was no good, we needed to forget about taking trains in Rajasthan, and should instead go for a minibus.
We left that office, and took a rickshaw (which another friendly local helped us arrange) to the OTHER real, bona fide, Travel agency suggested in the Lonely Planet guide book. Guess what... we were taken to three or four different offices, each one with the same name, but not matching the right address! When we asked to see business cards for the office (so we could compare phone numbers with our guide book) we were told "we are a big company, we don't need to prove to you that we are who we are. If you think we are not official, the door is open" .... well, you are the weakest tout. Goodbye!
After being bandied back and forth like so from 6am till about 9:30am, we sought refuge in a McD's (vegetarian food only!) for a hashbrown and coca cola breakfast. Our first few hours in the subcontinent weren't going so well, so we found a guest house in the guide book and sought refuge. Turns out this would have been the smart thing to do all along - the friendly staff at Ringo Guest house told us that our ticket was indeed valid, and we just needed to find our berth numbers when we got to the station, and that the New Delhi station is crawling with touts who know no limit to their duplicity and dishonesty!
Old Delhi-ghtful
Now that I've got the rant off my chest and have warned fellow travellers about the dangers of Delhi, let's move on to the little bit of sightseeing we did in India's capital.
After a few hours' kip and a shower our first stop was at the Red Fort, in the heart of Old Delhi. This decaying fortress dates back to the 17th Century, and it was built by the Mughal Shah Jahan (he of Taj Mahal fame). Built entirely of red sandstone, the bastions surrounding the fort make quite an impression as you're waiting in the queue to be allowed in.
It being a Sunday the locals were out in their hundreds, and they seemed to be quite as interested in snapping photos of the tourists as of the Red Fort itself. At first it was funny to Aaron and I, having locals walk up to you and asking to snap a picture with you, but when we had a queue of 5 or 6 guys, all with their mobiles at the ready, waiting to be photographed with us...
But let's get back to the Red Fort - I was still getting to grips with being in India and the ordeal with the touts in the morning, so I didn't quite absorb much information ... WikiPedia can be quite helpful in these situations though! The fort grounds made for a very pleasant stroll, and there were plenty of trees for us to take refuge from the sun.
After doing the rounds of the Red Fort we crossed over to Chowdi Chowk - Old Delhi's insane bazaar! I'm getting used to the chaos of Indian bazaars now, but on our first day in India we seemed to be getting a baptism of fire.
There were open sewers to the left, raucous monkeys to the right, and people asking for our custom all over the place! We just ducked our heads, clicked the camera, and made our way through to Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque. This behemoth of a building can hold up to 25,000 worshipers in its courtyard. Its another monument paid for by Shah Jahan, and when we visited it felt more like a playground that a place of prayer. Children were running allover the place, while the alcoves were taken over by families having a nap or a chat in the shade. Here we were again approached by people asking for us to pose in photos with them, and got the usual questions - country, name, job, nice to meet you, bye!
So Long, Delhi!
Still feeling the pinch of our flight into India, we retreated to Ringo guesthouse to freshen up and have a rest before our night train.
Back at Sarai Rolla station, we managed to find our names on the passenger list, and had a bit of a jog up and down the platform to find our compartment. We were expecting a pretty grim sight (3rd class, aircon), but were met with quite the opposite. Yes, the carriage was old (I would say 60s or 70s), but the bunks were spacious, the linen very clean, and the others sharing our compartment very friendly.
As the train rolled out of New Delhi I crept up into my top bunk (a bit cramped up there for someone who's six feet tall) and checked into dreamland, where I had a wonderful stay right up to an hour before we rolled into our destination: Bikaner, Rajasthan.
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