chunder down under

I landed in New Delhi airport round about midday and after the inevitable delays in the queue for passport control managed to find my driver as arranged in the throng at arrivals. It didn’t seem too hot but the sun was blazing down as I carted my stuff through the airport carpark (cars seemingly parked at random at all angles) while little kids begged for “chocolate”. Then it was off on the journey to the hotel.

Having previously had experience of driving in India I knew what to expect and was not too phased by the total disregard for any kind of traffic rules – although there were only two traffic lanes marked on the road you could position yourself anywhere, sometimes three or four abreast, as long as every effort was made to pass the vehicle in front. The most essential part of the car is the horn, of course, etiquette requires it to be pressed every ten seconds at least. Rather than mirror-signal-maneuver (as taught in UK driving schools) the system seems to be bang on the horn as hard as you can, step on the accelerator and swerve within inches of the car in front, then check the mirror to see if anyone has taken notice, although the nearness of following horns will be an indication. The cacophony of horns is part of the whole driving experience, almost every vehicle bears the battle scars of dents and scrapes and wing-mirrors tend to be absent (which also helps in those squeezing through impossible gaps in traffic moments). Likewise, indicators would seem to be absent as I virtually never saw anyone using them. When it comes to roundabouts the rule seems to be only give way to the bigger or more suicidal vehicle.

In amongst all this jostling metal, however, rickshaws, motorbikes and the ubiquitous tuk-tuk would snake and weave. Motorbikes seldom carry one person, instead they are seen as family transport – I saw as many as five people on one. The man would drive and his wife would sit behind, side saddle of course, seemingly unconcerned about bothering to hold on while various children also perched behind. All the time the bike constantly banked and swerved around buses, cars and other bikes. Only people with a belief in reincarnation could possibly drive like this.

I arrived at my hotel, in the less than salubrious suburb of East Patel Nagar, in a dusty side street full of pot holes. The language barrier proved a bit of a problem checking in but I eventually made it up to my shabby hotel room, where I collapsed on the bed and spent the rest of the day snoozing. To drown out the sound from outside (mainly car horns) and the pigeons in the air-con I switched on the TV, idly channel-surfing through endless Bollywood song and dance routines. I wandered down to reception and bought a bottle of mineral water. Although the cap was seemingly new it seemed to me that it had been opened, refilled and resealed so in a fit of paranoia I sterilized the water anyway, drinking the sweet taste of iodine. As I had to be up by 5am the next morning I quickly fell asleep.