As we started our descent for New Delhi airport I realised I had very little factual knowledge of India or Indian Culture. In fact, all I had in my locker were the repeatedly regurgitated stories of absurdity I had been exposed to on the various travel blogs I’d read. At the time, I thought this to be a flawless form of research that would elevate me above the guide book toting, gap year twat brigade. So much so that I had demanded my girlfriend at the time, leave the chunky copy of Lonely Planet on India at home.
As we glided over the suburbs of our destination, I tried to take in every possible and impossible sight, much like a scientist looking for an answer through the lens of his microscope. The housing appeared to be in clusters of modern - as in new, not stylish -apartment buildings. From my elevated view point, it seemed like someone had dropped these settlements into the middle of what was clearly a desert. I thought about how these people lived, where they worked, how they got to work and what kind of furnishings they had within the walls of their dusty white blocks. This was the last trail of thought I would have involving logic for a while!
New Delhi airport was in the process of being rebuilt when I had the pleasure of going through it. There seemed to be more staff than passengers present as I made my way down some unusually slow escalators towards passport control. The two chaps responsible for checking my papers were in order, took a quick glance at my Visa, handed me my passport back and said "move". I put this down to bad English due to the lack of venom in their tone and did exactly as they said, smiling inwardly. Whilst awaiting our backpacks to appear on the carrousel, we befriended a young British girl called Melissa. Melissa told us that she was 18 and that she had decided to travel around India for a while until she was ready to go home. She had the air of someone who would not last 10 minutes in Edmonton Green Shopping centre, let alone India. We took pity on her and asked if she wanted to share a taxi into town.
Indian law dictates that Rupee's cannot leave the country so I’d brought a few hundred of the queens finest with me. Our newly adopted friends’ bags had turned up pretty quickly and naturally mine was taking centuries to surface. To avoid the customary 'oh god, I bet they've lost it' circling its way around my jet lagged brain; I left them on guard and went looking for a bureau de change. I found it in the form of a man, occupying what was clearly a child's desk and chair with an armed guard standing to his uncomfortably immediate left, who was about half the size of his rather eye catching, antiquated rifle. He didn't like my eyes catching his rifle one bit!
"Stop"
so I did, and threw him the most patronising, British look I could conger, shortly before noticing the remnants of a single yellow line drawn across my path with the word 'stop' in bold capital letters. The money guy shuffled uncomfortably in his miniscule furniture set and produced a form for me to fill. pretty basic stuff....how many rupees do you want; what's your mothers' maiden name; do you intend to fund any narcotics, arms or sex trafficking deals with the said currency?... that sort of stuff. I ticked all the right boxes, so to speak, and handed it back. A quick glance, a friendly smile, several badly aimed stamps and a customary shake of the head later, he produced the biggest wad of cash I have ever seen out of the smallest draw in the world.
"No no, I only wanted to buy 16000 rupees"
"Yes, 16000 rupees"
I looked down at the wad of severely used 20 rupee notes and before I could ask for larger denominations, I nearly passed out from the smell. If you've ever had to borrow someone elses' goalkeeping gloves and made the error of sniffing the interior before pulling them on, you'll know what smell I mean.
"Do you have any bigger bills?"
He didn't like that
"No bigger bill. India poor country, no one give change for big bill so you have problem"
Fair point, I thought.
"Thank you Kindly"
A word of advice: Indians are very cautious about accepting torn notes. Of the eight hundred 20 Rupee notes I had in my possession, about eight hundred of them had some kind of tear ranging from slight incisions to the absence of at least half of the bloody note.
"You’ll get ripped off in India... no matter what happens, you'll get ripped off in India" That was the advice I’d received when I was toying with the idea of my trip, from a former colleague who was Indian. He was right.
Best writing so far!
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