Not Bored in New York

Know that this post was deleted, before it could be typed, and thus has been retyped.

I arrived in Delhi from McLeod Ganj early (6:30) Saturday morning. The bus left the same time the previous night. I was seen off by Kimiko, Chie, and Javid (manager of my guest house). Javid warned me, "When you get to Delhi your rickshaw should only be about twenty rupees to your hotel. (I had a booked a hotel in advance). If you can take a cycle-rickshaw for only ten rupees, because auto-rickshaw will drive you all over in circles before they take you to your hotel, and then you will have to pay more." It was a bit sad to leave Kimi, and Chie. They got me a Tibetan travelling shawl, which is a simple white silk shawl that ensures safety when travelling.

On the bus I was patently cramped. And wasn't able to sleep much, as my legs simply do not fit in the space provided. Herve, a wonderful Swiss gentleman whom I ran into in every city I stayed, was also on my bus, although far in the back and I was up front. He would be continuing on to Benares by train from Delhi.

Our bus had two stops in Delhi: one near a Tibetan colony, and one in Connaught place. Both Herve and I would be getting off at Connaught place. At the first stop most of the passengers got off, and waiting for them like midnight bugs to a light were the auto-rickshaw drivers. As soon as the passengers were off I never saw them again, they were eaten alive by overpriced fares to places not far away, and Pan(a type of Indian chewing tobaco that stains the teeth and aliva red)-stained teeth. And then like pups in search of another tit to draw milk from, the rickshaw drivers started shouting onto the bus, this is your last stop.

Of course we all knew that it wasnt, but one girl (and her boyfriend whome she ordered aroudn) of lesser will than I and those who remained, crumbled and suffered the same fate as those who had gone before her. The rickshaw drivers started to grow hungrier, and one came onto the bus, "This is last stop. Next stop is closed." "The stop cant be closed, its a street in Delhi," came the zinging response of a female passenger. I applauded here in my mind. But they didn't stop, they kept coming. I started to get aggravated, and told them, "You are not my bus-driver, and you are a liar. You are trying to cheat us, and I do not believe you." It was like my wrathless Holy Spirit, whenever they began to talk I unleashed its fury upon them; you shall have no meal upon my back heathen!

Surely enough our bus soon departed for the next stop, but it would not be Connaught Place as intended, instead we were dropped at Bhagat Singh Market. As I stepped off of the bus and into the evil that is rickshaw I was recounting what Javid had told me, but I was not in Connaught Place, and I did not know how far Bhagat Singh Market was from my hotel. I told Herve he could come to my room to hang out, and shower, since his train to Benares would not be until the early evening, so him and I arraned a rickshaw. The driver said eighty, and we got him down to seventy (no great feat).

When we got into the rickshaw the driver's friend joined him up front. At this point the story takes a strange twist, as the fool turned the meter on. This was the first time that I had seen a meter being used in India, and needless to say, I was surprised. A mintue into our ride the driver stopped at a rickshaw pool and shouted in Hindi to his vermin brethren. I cannot be sure of what he said, but based on his 'up up' hand-motion, I assume that he was alerting him to the tourists around the corner who could be (up up) overcharged for a rickshaw ride. The ride continued for only a few more minutes, and when we arrived at the hotel the meter read: 2km, 12.5 rupees. I whispered to Herve and we agreed to go by the meter–Duh.

This is the secene as it unfolded in front of the hotel when we got out. I did most of the talking, being as I was quite angry, and willing to let my temper fly on this scumbag a bit, with Herve occasionally interjecting that the meter said 13 rupees:

Zachary: (hands rickshaw driver twenty rupees, speaking with reserved aggravation) Do you think I'm stupid?

Rickshaw Driver: (smiling) Cost is seventy rupees.

Z: The meter said thirteen rupees, be happy that I'm giving you twenty rupees. 

Rickshaw Driver's Friend: (resets, and turns off meter) Meter is Crap!

RD: You pay me Seventy Rupees!

Herve: Ze meter said sirteen rupees.

Z: No, I pay you twenty rupees. You drove us five minutes, it was two kilometers, and the meter said twelve and a half rupees…

RDF: Meter is Crap! 

Z:…Keep this up and I'll take my money back and give you nothing.

RD: You pay me seventy rupees now!

Z: (points index and middle finger into RD's averted eyes, and then his own, becoming enraged) You look at me! I'm not some stupid fucking gringo. The meter said twelve and a half rupees…

RDF: Meter is crap!

Z:… I'm not paying you seventy rupees. You are a liar, and you are trying to cheat me. Either get lost or I'll go call the police.

RD: You want police? (motions to rickshaw) Come on I take you police.

Z: (eyes widening with anger, assesing whether RD, and RDF pose a physical threat) Fuck you. You're lucky I'm paying you at all. We're leaving now.

(Herve and Zachary walk into hotel. RD and RDF remain, angered and somewhat dumbfounded.)

In India if you are resolute, you get what you want, when you what want, for the price that you wish to pay. At any point on my trip I could have stolen, refused to pay, or bargained prices down further, but you have to measure money (which is quite cheap) against morals, and patience (which do not exist in a universe of price.)

Inside the hotel Herve and I partook in the buffet breakfast which was outstanding. I helped myself to countless bowls of fruit, and glasses of watermelon juice. I arranged an earl check-in, and we went up to the room. I showered, shaved (with a razor) and then napped, while Herve showered and then read.

When I woke up we walked over to Rikhi Ram music shop. Rikhi Ram sold instruments to the creme-de-la-creme of Indian classical music. He also sold George Harrison a sitar. There are countless pictures on the wall. Rikhi Ram is dead, but his son runs the shop now, and he is no less mixed up in the Indian Classical music scene, and whatever foreigners it attracts. I purchased a Benares Dayan (the wooden drum), and what looks to be a Delhi Bayan (the metal drum).

When we returned to the hotel we watched t.v. for a bit and I napped again. When I awoke herve said that he would leave for the train station, so I walked him downstairs. I spent the rest of the night relaxing, and had a wonderful buffet dinner that was capped off with Italian chocolate cake, mango brulee, mango tart, gulab jamun (an indian dessert), and a cup of green tea.

My time in India has been something quite remarkable. I never could have imagined a place quite like this, and I am lucky to have been here.

I miss Kimiko and Chie. I dreamt that they came to visit me at the hotel. My flight leaves tomorrow morning at 2:10 AM. I leave from the hotel tonight around 10:00 PM. I miss you America. See you soon.