India, day 1, part 2... when Vicki learns that she'll never be alone in India
I’m suspicious, but I also need help. Getting to the metro seemed easy on Google, but now seems impossible. Six lanes of cars, tuk tuks, cycle rickshaws, bicycles, mopeds, even cows stand between me and the entrance. There are no traffic lights or pedestrian crossings. Locals skillfully dodge between the riot of vehicles; I'm not so brave. I take the offer of a tuk tuk ride, boldly saying “50 to Hauz Qazi Chowk?” then readily agreeing to “200.” I need to work on my haggling.
"Wave your hand at them"
A thrilling 20 minutes later, we arrive – I think. My driver doesn't seem exactly sure. More men appear on the scene, and they all seem invested in getting me to the right place. I show my map. “Ah! Yes, this is it!” They seem more excited than me. I offer no tips, and wonder if any are expected. Are they just being helpful? Is there a catch?
“Are you here for the tour?” She nods. Success!
“They make it look so easy,” I remark, as we watch locals crossing the road casually, magically avoiding getting hit. “Wave your hand at them,” she tells me, and it's true: the locals assertively wave their hands or scarves at hip height as they step out into the traffic, and everyone slows just enough to let them through unscathed.
A food tour of Old Delhi
Our tour takes us through the streets of Old Delhi: a maze of narrow alleys and once beautiful, now crumbling havelis (private mansions) turned into stores, businesses and apartments.
The stores are tiny: smaller than my modest kitchen at home. A mess of tangled wiring is strung from building to building, and occasionally a family of monkeys crosses overhead. Dogs are everywhere, tending pups, gnawing at fleas, sleeping. People sweep the areas near their stores with straw brooms; a few men strip down and wash in the streets.
Signs of faith are abundant: Hindu swastikas, shrines, pictures of various gods. Many stores display wreaths of marigolds to honor ancestors, and strings of seven chilies and lemons to ward off evil spirits.
Most stores are closed this early, except the food vendors: parathas, chapatis, dahl and masala chai are being prepared in tiny stores or small carts in any available space. Groups of men surround every vendor, chatting lazily, staring at the tourists. I wonder where the women are; I've only seen a few, threading marigold necklaces, sweeping, rolling chapatis.
We watch a man, sitting cross-legged, skillfully rolling balls of dough and stuffing them with a mixture of potato and spices, then tossing them in the largest wok I've ever seen. I eat two parathas fresh from the pan, 70 rupees each. I'm in heaven.
After some chilled lassi, we tour the spice market. We each start to sneeze: spices get up your nose. I think about my cushy corporate life as I watch men carrying enormous sacks on their heads, and scrawny teenagers pushing rickety carts piled high with goods.
The whole scene appears dusty and chaotic, but beautiful: the elaborate fabrics, the colorful mounds of chili and turmeric and fragrant rose buds, the piles of marigolds. Sometimes I feel like we're in the way – this is a place of work, as much as a tourist attraction. Other times I feel like we are the attraction.
We climb a narrow staircase up to a rooftop. We're only a few floors up, but we can see the city sprawling in every direction under the hazy smog. Looking down we see a courtyard surrounded by apartments, all in various stages of repair and disrepair; dusty satellite dishes hang onto rusted balconies, and precarious ladders stand on equally precarious roofs.
I see the bricked-in windows and safety hazards, but I'm also struck by the beauty: decorative stone, brightly painted facades, colorful fabrics out to dry.
Our guide takes us down a narrow alleyway and knocks on an unassuming door. Inside is another world, a cool and serene haveli filled with stained glass lamps, restored antiques and plush furnishings. Strings of lucky elephants grace each doorway. Our host treats us to lunch in his family home; while he tells stories and answers our curious questions, his wife sends dish after delicious dish from the kitchen. We never see her.
An afternoon with Lucky
I wedge myself into the crowded carriage and catch a woman surreptitiously taking a selfie with me. She smiles nervously, then gestures her request: can I take a selfie with you? I nod: okay, slightly bemused.
At home, I tend to keep to myself; I wear headphones in public, keep my eyes down and avoid the spotlight. I'm deeply conscious of how much I stand out here: tall, blonde, short hair; camera bag, expression of sheer awe. No wonder they stare.
I arrive at Connaught Place, a massive roundabout with white buildings housing GAP and H&M around the perimeter, and a park with an enormous Indian flag in the center.
"What is your country?" I hear a man say. "Canada," I reply. "What is your name?" he asks.
His name, it turns out, is Lucky. We spend the next three hours together, watching Punjabi performers in the park, visiting India Gate, chatting about our lives. He answers all of my questions about Delhi, and India. Once again I think: what's the catch? What does he want? As the afternoon wears on, I accept that there is no catch; he's just as interested in my life as I am in his.
I head to Karol Bagh and my next hotel, where I'll meet the tour group I'm spending the next two weeks with. An auto rickshaw driver starts following me when I leave the metro station. “Where are you going?" he asks. "I have tuk tuk; I can take you. Tuk tuk?”
I repeat "no thank you" over and over, but he's relentless. When I reach the hotel, he's still by my side. I expect I will never feel unnoticed or alone in India.
My India tour group
I'm not a tour group kind of person, but it seemed like the easiest way to see India for the first time. (And the safest, based on everything I read after googling "single woman travel India.")
There are 13 of us altogether: two mother-daughter pairs from Australia, a Portuguese father-daughter pair, two friends from Australia, a British couple, another singleton from the U.K. Plus me and Sunil, our guide.
We enjoy the first of many delicious thalis, then head into Karol Bagh market to buy scarves for our visit to the Sikh mosque tomorrow.The market is crowded and chaotic. At every step another man asks: “You need watch/ socks/ cellphone case/ memory stick...? Only 100/ 200/ 250 rupees.”
We find a stall run by two friendly turbaned men. It's hard to choose from the endless variety of colorful scarves, each marked at 250 rupees. When I hesitate, toying between two scarfs, the vendor puts them both in a bag: “Only 450.” I can't help but laugh.
In the end I pay full price for a gorgeous purple, orange and red scarf; I find it hard to haggle when I know that my dollar means a lot more to them than it does to me.
On the way back to the hotel we bump into my persistent tuk tuk driver. "I know you!" he exclaims. "You walked all the way from the station today!” He laughs, as if walking is a ludicrous idea.
I've been in India less than 24 hours, and I already love it – the color, the chaos, the food, the friendliness. The attention is overwhelming, but it feels like a small price to pay.