Rolling into Delhi

My ride from the airport to the guest house where I am initially staying was interesting. Since I had visited Delhi a couple of years ago, I wasn’t all that phased by the traffic patterns, or lack thereof. What got my attention were the drivers.

I was told to look for a placard saying USIEF as I left customs (the United States – India Educational Foundation is the Fulbright organization here). The sign would steer me to my ride to the guest house. But when I walked out into the fray, what I found were two young men with a scrawled handwritten sign that said “Kenneth W. Jones, CO 82” [my flight number]. So I said hey, they grabbed my bags, and away we went into the bowels of the parking lot.

They hardly spoke English and I started to worry a little when they didn’t know the name or address of the guest house, in response to my question. One of the two, who seemed to be in charge, made a call, spoke in Hindi, and seemed to have things in hand. But I found myself feeling uneasy, like what if I were being scammed, what if these guys had gotten my information somehow and were going to take me for the wrong kind of ride? Maybe I was getting rolled?

We got into a Toyota van, the guys seemed nice even if I didn’t know what they were saying to each other, and I had to laugh at myself a little for being so suspicious. Then I laughed again at myself for being surprised to see the guy on the right side of the vehicle driving the car (they drive on the left side of the road here).

Then, as we were driving away from the airport into the beeping, weaving traffic, they pull over to the side of the road (on the left) and the guy who seemed to be in charge got out of the car, waved good bye, and was gone. Huh? That didn’t feel entirely comfortable. I asked the driver if he knew where we were going and he couldn’t tell me the address. More discomfort. But he calls on his phone, has a quick conversation in Hindi and I hear him say the words of the address (which I am looking at on my Blackberry, having saved the email message that gave that info). Good.

He took me right to the place, which meant driving from the highway into a neighborhood with some very narrow little streets and lots of people. We met a young man who took my bags and now I am left on a dark narrow street with another stranger. No signs indicate that this is the guest house. The new young man advises me to just go through the door of this house and the guest house is on the second floor. So we each grab one of my too-heavy bags and trudge up some dark flights of stairs (seemed like too many flights for just the “second floor”). We walk into what looked like an apartment, lovely really, and a man comes out looking surprised.

I say my name and that I was sent here from USIEF and ask if this is the guest house. Turns out I’m in the right place, but that Fulbright hadn’t confirmed my being there, so they weren’t ready for me. But they do have a room available and I should sit down and have some chai. The husband, Pradip, chats with me warmly about Delhi, shows me maps, and gives me housing and transportation tips while his wife Vendana gets the room ready. Beautiful people, beautiful place.

What an interesting entry, full of adventure already, even if it was mostly in my own mind. I have a feeling that this won’t be the only time I have misgivings about where I am in this foreign culture. Just rolling with it seems pretty good so far.

Source: http://kensight.blogspot.com/2010/08/rolling-into-delhi.html