India, day 1... when Vicki learns that most fears are unfounded
My flight is scheduled to arrive in Delhi just before midnight. Air France, via Paris. When I get on the plane in Paris I am surrounded by Indian families negotiating seating arrangements and luggage storage with no sense of urgency. A flight attendant, sounding exasperated, says over the intercom: “Please! Everybody sit down! We are going to lose our departure slot in 3 minutes!”
I can only smile: I've waited 30 years for this trip. Everything feels exciting and fun, even the airplane food, a choice of French or World Cuisine. Turns out “world” means “Indian”: biryani, hard cakes, raita. It's got me excited to land. And eat.
Please, please, please let me in
I'm half expecting to be denied entry when we get to India; getting a visa felt challenging enough (my travel history, citizenship history, parents’ places of birth, any family connection to Pakistan). The man at the counter is the opposite of the Indian men I see back home, who always give me a friendly wave. He looks at me and my passport. He types. He looks. He types. He doesn't say a word. I start to sweat (the muggy heat in the airport doesn't help). An eternity later, he gives me a silent nod. "Can I go?" I ask timidly, then dash through the gate before he can change his mind.
"Lady, you need a ride?"
The hotel promised to send a driver. When I exit the airport I'm faced with a wall of 50 drivers or more, all men, none holding a sign with my name on it. Cars are rushing by, horns blaring. The artificial light is hazy and the air tastes like smog. Hundreds of people are milling around, almost all men. It feels like rush hour in NYC.I'm wishing I hadn't read so many stories about tourists getting ripped off and women getting attacked in India; I feel vulnerable, even if I'm not. I'm sure I look lost. I can feel eyes on me. A kid - 16, 17 - comes up me: “Lady, you need a ride? I can help.” I've heard about these scams. Suddenly I see my name on a piece of paper, taped to a barrier, looking abandoned. I point to the sign and say stupidly: “That's me.” One of the drivers walks away, grabs a tiny man, and brings him back. My driver! Relief washes over me.
He walks; I follow. He says nothing. We take the elevator to the parking garage. Three men get on, looking more lost than I feel. Another man asks them something in Hindi. He's holding a McDonald's takeout bag; the smell is instantly recognizable. An animated conversation ensues; I hear occasional words like “departure”. Soon the whole elevator is invested in helping these men find their way. My driver looks at me and smiles, as if we’re sharing a joke: silly tourists. I relax.
This taxi respects women
The driver starts to talk after we start: “What is your country? How long did it take? Are you tired? You can sleep - it will take half an hour.”
Sleep? Is he kidding? I'm mesmerized! The road is clogged with cars, tuktuks, motorcycles, and trucks (all saying “horn please” and “keep distance” on their backs: the first is obeyed, the second ignored).
Roadside vendors are cooking and selling true street food; dozens of people stand about, socializing. I see makeshift shelters, and wandering dogs. There are no observable lanes on the road; vehicles dodge and weave, sometimes three, sometimes four or five astride. Horns seem to signal: get out of my way. It's busy, my driver tells me, because trucks aren't allowed on the roads during the day, to control pollution. We pass through a few police checkpoints; checking the truck drivers’ papers, he adds, because the borders are open to Pakistan and Afghanistan.
The paper ledger
We arrive without incident at the hotel; it's 2 a.m. There are two men and a teenage boy in the lobby; they stare at me silently and unflinchingly. The boy gives me an orange drink, a bottle of water, some cookies and a banana. I hesitate before drinking, fears of diarrhea firmly embedded by the travel medical clinic back home, but don't want to offend. I show my passport and fill out the enormous paper ledger; there is no computer. The boy leads me to my room and gives me the grand tour, like I’m royalty at a five star resort, not a sweaty tourist at a barely three star hotel: this is how to operate the A/C, here is the shower, here are your towels, here is the TV remote control. He is so sweet, and so polite.When he's gone I crash on the hard bed. I feel slightly alone and out of my depth, but also safe and slightly exhilarated. I finally made it to India. I'm asleep in minutes, a smile on my face.
P.S. the orange drink was just fine.