Do not pay bribes! (continues...)

(Continues from previous post*)

In one of our past posts, one of our good readers told us that he learnt more about India in the past three months reading our blog than in his entire life.

While certainly flattered, I have to say I feel quite the opposite, i.e. I have the feeling that three lives would not be enough for me to really understand India.

Vishnu and Shiva, Islam and Sikhism, the British and the Mughals, Ghandi and Kashmir, the ‘biggest democracy of the world’ and the cast system, 9% GDP growth and 50% of the population below poverty line, the world’s first woman prime minister and the widow’s ashrams, thousands and thousands of students sent to study in top universities worldwide and arranged marriages... as soon as you have the feeling to have finally understood something, there is suddenly something else that contradict your belief, and you end up as confused as before**...

Bribing. Bribing is another of those things that it is impossible to understand if you are not Indian. Officially punishable by law, socially accepted: it is very difficult to understand when it is a social norm, necessary to 'speed up' things (a ‘shadow cost’, as an economist would define it), and when on the contrary it is a real abuse of power.

An example. We were about to purchase a train ticket from Jasailmer to Delhi, where we spent a week end with our friends Riccardo and Patricia. Unfortunately there were not four seats close to each other anymore, and the only available option was to purchase two tickets in second class and two tickets in third class. No problem, we thought: once we are on the train, we’ll ask Riccardo and Patricia's neighbours in third class if they mind to exchange their seats with our two seats in second class. Who would refuse a free upgrade?

And that’s what we did: we asked the two neighbours in third class if they wanted to exchange their seats with ours in second class, and of course they were very happy to do so.

However, after some time, they came back to their original seats telling us that the ticket inspector didn’t allow them to sit on our seats. No problem, we thought: we’ll go altogether to explain the ticket inspector that we deliberately exchange seats to sit close to our friends.

With our great surprise, the inspector didn’t want to hear us, keeping on repeating that it was not possible to exchange seats in two different classes. Despite our insistence, he was inflexible. With great disappointment we thus returned to our second class seats.

The interesting thing is that Mathilde and I gave two opposite interpretations on the inspector’ stubbornness. In my opinion the ticket inspector was playing hard expecting a little bribe to allow the exchange - bribe that of course we didn’t give. For Mathilde on the contrary the inspector was afraid of being unjustly suspected and accused of having received a bribe to have allowed two passengers moving from the third to the second class - bribe for which he could be liable to prosecution.

Of course we’ll never know what the truth was, but this episode gives you a good example of how difficult is to understand the unwritten rules of this country, to penetrate into the social norms of this society, to behave correctly according to the situation in this mishmash...

And you, just for curiosity, how would you have interpreted the inspector’ stubbornness?

(*) http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/02/do-not-pay-bribes.html

(**) I take this opportunity to signal an article that was recommended to me by Emanuele some time ago, and which well describes this strange feeling of ‘everything and its contrary’ that I am experiencing here in India... (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/15/opinion/15iht-edsebastian.html?scp=1&sq=tim%20sebastian%20&st=cse)

Welcome to Martin

... welcome among our ‘official’ followers!

Pros and cons of being a bachelor

With Mathilde travelling like a spinning top lately*, I have spent quite some time by myself in the past weeks. And considering the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ of being a bachelor again...

(1) I can cook pasta every evening (but don’t get my weekly amount of veggies and vitamins)

(2) I can sleep diagonally in the bed (but don’t get my ‘good-morning kiss’ when I wake up)

(3) I am not forced to speak with anyone before 9 am (but need to wait until 6.30 pm if I want to speak with Mathilde)

(4) I can wander half-naked round our home without running the risk of being caught by the webcam while Mathilde is having a Skype-conference with her boss - or, worst, with her parents! (but in the end a bit of sound exhibitionism is not the end of the world!)

(5) I can switch the A/C off when I sleep (but need to turn it on and wait ten minutes sweating before the house cools down when I go back from work and nobody is home)

(6) I can go directly to the pool without spending two hours shopping before during the week-end (but being at the pool by myself is not that fun)

(7) I don’t run the risk of not finding ‘my’ apples in the fridge because 'someone else' ate them (but cannot blame anyone if I forget to buy them)

(8) I can let my goaty grow (but have nobody who purchases the ‘hair fall therapy shampoo’ for me)

(*) http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/03/times-in-washington-with-me-travelling.html

The Nomadic Orchestra of the World in Delhi – and other thoughts

A few years ago a friend of mine asked me “if you could choose, would you be a farmer or a herder?”.

Good question. On the one hand I strongly feel I need roots, a house, a land, the security of the cyclic succession of the seasons. And I highly value the value of waiting: waiting winter to pass before spring comes again, waiting years before a plant grows and gives its fruits...

But on the other hand every time I observe the nomadic life of the herders, the harshness and yet the beauty of their lands, the neverending horizons and the sense of freedom of their rangelands, and the sense of uncertainty and yet the opportunities that the constant search of new grazing areas offer them, I cannot not be fascinated by their lifestyle. Perhaps because, in a way, I feel a bit nomadic myself. A modern nomad...

Last week-end we went to a concert of the Nomadic Orchestra of the World, a group of nomadic musicians from Rajasthan that plays a fusion of traditional and folk Rajasthan music. The group has been created through an initiative to promote music as an alternative livelihood opportunity among nomadic communities.

The Orchestra played with contagious enthusiasm. I post here a couple of short videos that I took during the concert (sorry, the quality is not up to much and my memory card filled up during the concert - but still, they give a good idea of the rhythms and the kind of music they played):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJkKfL2XDKs and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aqmsQc_J4_o

Within this context, we met Andrea, the leader of ‘Le Nuove Tribù Zulu’, a bohemian street-group from Rome that plays a fusion of gipsy, folk, rock, punk, ska, polka and tarantella music. One of the projects of this group aims at bringing together various nomadic groups from all around the world and blending their rhythms and music. Andrea was here in Delhi to formalize the collaboration with the Nomadic Orchestra, with whom Le Nuove Tribù Zulu already played a couple of years ago.

Below a few videos of the group:

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLu-LGEaCJs&feature=related (‘Zingara’ with Chejá Celen)

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__D8wp-dwTE&feature=related (Concert with the NOW in Villa Ada in 2008)

- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SN7Fcb2iTCs&feature=related (videoclip of ‘Da domani cambio vita’)

As time passes and as my musical tastes evolve, I realize how much I am intrigued by these gypsy rhythms. Perhaps because, as I said above, in the end, deeply inside, I am a bit nomadic as well…

And by the way, you, if you could choose, would you be a farmer or a herder (or a fisherman)?

A lesson of ‘Indlish’...

I had already shared some reflections on the ‘Indian’ English some posts ago (http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/02/indian-dialogues.html). Since then I kept on paying attention and trying to remember those sentences and expressions that sounded ‘different’ or ‘original’.

Here below some that I noted:

- “What is your good name?” means “What is your name?” (as if you have a ‘good’ name and a ‘bad’ name, and the interlocutor is interested to know your ‘good’ name only...)

- ‘Too good’ means ‘very good’. In a way I discovered Indians have a hyperbolic way of expressing themselves...

- ‘Hundred percent’ (often nodding the way Indians nod) means ‘absolutely!

- ‘Updation’ or ‘Upgradation’ is the processes of bringing up-to-date (or upgrading). ‘To prepone’ (as opposed to postpone) means ‘to place before’. Don’t be surprised then if an Indian asks you to prepone a meeting...

- ‘One’ is often used instead of the indefinite article ‘a’ (“Let me tell you one story”). ‘Today morning’ (or afternoon, or evening) is often used instead of ‘this morning’ (or afternoon, or evening)

- ‘Off’ has been transformed into a verb (“Off the fan, please”)

- ‘Hill station’ means ‘mountain resort’, and in general ‘hills’ are ‘mountains’. Good to know, as I thought that in a country with peaks above 7,000 m, it was normal to consider mountains of 4,000 m ‘hills’...

- And finally a word that can save several men from embarrassing questions: ‘healthy’. So, when your wife/partner/girlfriend asks you how you do find her, you can vaguely answer “healthy”...

The 'Wallas'

In Ethiopia I used to be woken up by the morning birds that loudly chirped at my windows (at 5 am!!!). When I moved to Paris I gained half-hour: my alarm clock was the sound of the garbage trucks that collected the garbage at 5.30 am. In DC it was the first bus on 16th Street at 6 am that woke me up. Here in Delhi our wake-up call is given by the ‘Wallas’...

The Wallas (literally ‘carriers’) are pedlars that roam about the streets of our neighbourhoods in Delhi, by bike or pulling a handcart, selling a bit of everything (mainly fruits and vegetables, but also brooms, gas cylinders, etc.), and providing a variety of services: grinding knives, copying keys, and - hard to believe but true - cleaning ears!!! Armed with gigantic ‘cotton fioc’ (cotton swabs) they remove the cerumen from your ears... iiihhhh, disgusting!!!!

They roam about our streets emitting an unmistakable call (a bit like the ‘cocco, cocco-bello’ in our beaches). The first wave passes below our windows around 7 am. When the second wave passes around 8 am it is time to wake-up...

One year ago

Indian breakfast

In the middle of Madhya Pradesh (2)

Certainly one of the things that surprised me the most when I arrived in India was to realize how little Indians actually speak English. Probably deceived by the fact that India has been for long time a British colony, and that English is one of the two official languages of the Republic (the other being Hindi), I expected Indians to be fluent in English.

However, this has soon proved to be a false myth. It’s true, educated Indians can be extremely articulated and refined in English. But the majority of Indians do not speak (or speak very poorly) English. And I am not (only) talking about the taxi driver, the petrol station attendant, or the shopkeeper in Old Delhi. I am also talking about several middle-management Government officials, hotel owners, and other categories of people you would expect must speak English for their day-to-day business.

One of the questions I always had thinking to the fact that English is the official language in India was how it was possible that in a country so rich culturally and linguistically, and at the same time so nationalist, a foreign language (the language of the colonizers!) became the official language. Interestingly enough, it was exactly because of such richness, diversity, and nationalist pride that English became (or, better, remained) India's official language.

In 1950 in fact, after the independence, the Indian Constitution declared Hindi, widely spoken in the Northern part of India, to be the official language of the Republic, and envisaged the gradual phasing-out of English (which was still used for most official purposes) over a fifteen-year period. However, towards the end of this interim period, several non-Hindi-speaking states, particularly from the South, strongly opposed to the end of the use of English. Basically, these states feared that the consequent adoption of Hindi as sole official language would have sanctioned the political supremacy of the North over the South, and progressively undermined their cultures and autonomy. As a result, the central Government decided that the use of English as official language of the Republic would have continued, and at the same time it allowed each state government to choose its own official language(s).

Today there are 22 'official' languages in use in the 35 states and territories. English has remained one of the two official languages of the Republic, mainly for political reasons, even if it is not one of the 22 official languages used in the Indian states, and even if no-one (or just a minority) actually speaks it.

Bizarre.

In the middle of Madhya Pradesh...

How to fly from Delhi to DC avoiding the effects of the volcanic eruption in Iceland

In the era of globalization, even a volcano eruption in Iceland, almost 8,000 km faraway from Delhi, somehow ends up affecting our lives.

Mathilde was supposed to leave tonight to DC to attend the CI Center for Conservation and Government’s Annual Meeting on the Lufthansa flight DEL-FRA-IAD. However, as you all know, all the airports in Europe are temporarily closed because of the ashes of this volcanic eruption, and all the flights from India to Europe are cancelled until at least Monday.

For those who well know Mathilde, you can easily imagine how she reacted this morning when she was informed that her flight was cancelled (‘no panic, no panic... ok: panic’*).

However, arguably one of the qualities of Mathilde is that she never gives up. And so, after three hours at the phone with the poor Sanjay, one of the operators of www.makemytrip.com, during which they went through all the possible routes that could possibly link Delhi to DC (with the poor Sanjay that was repeating ‘no possible, no possible’), she finally found probably the only itinerary to DC that is not affected by the effects of the eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull: Delhi-Dubai-Manama-Kuwait City-Washington DC (with three different carriers: Emirates, Jet Airways, and United).

Mathilde will be leaving on Monday and will land in DC on Tuesday morning, right on time to attend the second day of the annual meetings. Hoping that in the mean time the ashes of the Eyjajallajokull will not reach the little Kingdom of Bahrain as well...

(*) Does anyone recognize the 'erudite' quotation?

Tanti auguri Silvietta

Mt. Everest-Washington DC via Delhi

Delhi is like a seaport: hard to believe it, but it seems that everyone, sooner or later, passes by here.

On Saturday we hosted Paola, on her way back from Nepal to DC. For once not on an official World Bank mission, Paola was in Nepal to unofficially participate to the ‘Epopeya Everest sin Limites’, a Colombian expedition led by her husband Juan Pablo whose main objective is to bring for the first time a man with an artificial leg on the top of the Everest (without oxigen)*.

The story of Nelson Cardona, the man with the artificial leg, is quite impressive. He had a mountaineering accident four years ago, while he was training to climb the Everest. His leg was so seriously injured that the doctors gave him two options: to either keep it, but without the possibility of bending it and therefore of climbing anymore, or to amputate it, but keeping the possibility of climbing with an artificial prosthesis. Nelson was extremely divided, but he finally made his choice, and today he’s trying to fulfil his old dream.

Paola (and Simon Pietro and Antonia, her six-year-old child and eleven-year-old stepdaughter) reached the Base Camp (5,100 m) before taking leave of the rest of the group and returning to Kathmandu, and then to DC, via Delhi.

Their stories and pictures tickled my fantasy: who knows if one day...

(*) Have a look at their blog: http://www.epopeyaeverestsinlimites2010.org/

Mathilde enters in her thirty

Sorry, we haven’t updated the Blog for a while. But a few events worth being mentioned have happened in the past days, and, as good bloggers, we are going to duly report them.

Last week we celebrated Mathilde’s thirtieth birthday. And as you are thirty only once in your life, we celebrated the event properly.

On Sunday evening, our hosts in Bandhavgarh surprised us with a proper Indian birthday celebration, complete with Indian birthday cake and Indian ‘happy birthday’ jingle.

On Monday evening we treated ourselves by going to what is considered the best Indian restaurant in Delhi. Apparently Clinton had a four-course dinner here during his official visit in 2000, and the four-course meal he ordered is now presented in the menu as the ‘Presidential meal’. For the records, Clinton had a heart attack in 2004 (and,if I am not wrong, another one more recently). We thus limited ourselves to one-course only.

The evening concluded with a surprise party at our home, during which Mathilde had her chocolate cake and her thirty candles to blow out.

Ah, there is no better way to conclude your first thirty (or to begin your next thirty) than with a chocolate cake!

We saw the tigers. And so did they...

Pictures of our trip to Bandhavgarh National Park now available on: http://picasaweb.google.com/mmmarchisio (please, be indulgent if the tigers look small in our pictures: we only had my portable camera with us. But be assured they were pretty close!).

Do also have a look at two short videos we took: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfSAvAkpJU0 and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNy-N-sA8FE. They are not Discovery Channel’s documentaries, but still they give you an idea of our close encounters with those - as an Indian mama defined them - "big orange cats with stripes"...

Mission accomplished: seen them!

Eleven tigers (two cubs) in two days, some of which so close that we could almost stroke them.

The two topical moments on Saturday late in the afternoon. First, when four tigers coming from four different points converged almost where we were. One of them passed just aside our four wheel drive, not further than four/five meters from us - we could feel its stomach's grumbling (and Mathilde’ shaking knees)... Thrilling!

The second one when, on our way out of the park, we saw by chance two cubs hanging on a rock just above us. We could have literally touched them! The two cubs didn’t seem overawed at all by us. On the contrary, they seemed enjoying to pose for us... Divas!

In search of tigers

One of the dreams that we had when we decided to come to India was to see a tiger. We already failed in Periyar in January*, and in Ranthambore in February**.

We have therefore decided to risk everything on a single throw, and today, armed with tuna***, we leave to Bandhavgarh National Park, in Madhya Pradesh, the park with the highest density of tigers in India. O la va o la spacca (It's do or die).

We’ll be back on Monday, and we will let you know then if we’ll have succeeded in fulfilling our little dream…

(*) http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/01/periyar-wildlife-sanctuary.html

(**) http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/02/how-to-spot-tiger.html

(***) http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2010/02/tigers-would-do-anything-for-tuna.html

Going to war or commuting?

A bit of both…

(*) Thanks to Chiara for the anti-dust mask: highly appreciated

Old Delhi

I have been looking for a while for an image that could give a visual representation to those who have never been in Delhi of what Old Delhi is.

And in my opinion nothing represents better Old Delhi than this: an ‘accrocchio’ (mess) of dusty electric cables, wound around each other, disorderly piled up generation after generation, family after family, and now forever part of this urban landscape, as lianas in a jungle…

Matteo & Mathilde in Gurdwara Sis Ganj Sahib

Matteo and Mathilde ‘Sikh’

Visit to the Gurdwara Sis Ganj Sahib ‎

Over the week end we visited the Gurdwara Sis Ganj Sahib, one of the most prominent Sikh* Gurdwara (or Sikh House of Worship) in Delhi. Situated in Chandni Chowk, at the heart of Old Delhi, this temple is easily recognizable for its golden domes that tower over the surrounding market.

Recommended by a friend of us, we were not, telling the truth, particularly impressed. What struck our attention instead was the attached refectory: a huge dining area where about 30,000 people (irrespective of their religious beliefs) are offered a meal every day. You just need to enter and sit, and someone approaches you asking what you would like to have.

And we did: we entered, we sat, and we were offered a chai (masala tea with milk, the Indian specialty) - which I politely declined, but Mathilde accepted it, liked it, and is still alive. We visited the kitchens, we entertained with a few people sitting close to us (always curious to see a foreign penetrate that ‘deeply’ India), we felt for half-hour ‘true Indians’…

In sum… who said that the most interesting part in a temple is the temple itself?

(*) For more information on the Sikhism, have a look at: http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2009/11/guru-nanak-jayanti.html

Discovering the Indian Ocean

As two good environmentalists, we attended yesterday evening the Earth Hour 2010.

Earth Hour is a global campaign which began a few years ago to raise public awareness about climate change. During the ‘Earth Hour’, individuals and municipalities worldwide are invited to switch off the lights for one hour to save energy.

Here in Delhi, the event was celebrated at the Indian Gate, one of the main landmarks of the city. During a tedious ceremony, the authorities on duty switched off a gigantic switch which should have symbolically switched off the lights of the Indian Gate and of the entire city. The turning off of the gigantic switch was preceded by pretty boring and empty speeches. In sum, all quite disappointing.

However, the evening was far from being a waste of time. On the contrary, it gave us the opportunity to make a new discovery. During the hour in which the lights of the city were off in fact, an Indian group that we didn’t know yet performed a concert by candlelight.

The Indian Ocean, that was the name of the group, is an Indian band that plays a mix of a newageish-fusion-traditional-jazz-&-blues music: electric sitar, guitar, bass, drums and percussions. Some of the songs reminded me those of the Tazenda (ve li ricordate???), but beside this vague association of ideas, we found this group and their music pretty original.

I looked for them on Youtube, but didn’t find many videos of them (but have a look at this just to get an idea of the kind of music they play: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0gxeUnP44I - or, if you have more time, click on “Launch Radio” on this site: http://www.indianoceanmusic.com/susmit.htm).

Anyway, you know what? Tomorrow I am going to look for their cd!

Hot showers with cold water or cold showers with hot water?

Our roof-top

Sorry. I know that talking about the weather is a bit boring, and it seems to suggest that someone has nothing else to tell - and I apologize for this. But it is undeniable that since last week the weather conditions in Delhi have become a fixed idea in my mind. 39 degrees. Every day. And my (Indian) colleagues that, sniggering, keep on repeating: “This is nothing. You should see in May or June”. If this was meant to frighten me, well they have fully succeeded…

Anyway, while I have to confess I am a bit scared by the perspective of spending the next six months with temperature ranging between 45-50 degrees (every single day for six months!), I also keep on repeating to myself “If they can bear it, I can bear it as well”. Autogenous training? Perhaps…

For any problem, there is a solution - I was taught. A couple of days ago I had just come back home hot after a ride on my scooter in the Delhi traffic, and I thought that there is nothing better than having a refreshing shower to refreshen up myself. As I automatically do, I mixed cold and hot water, but, strangely, the temperature of the water was boiling. I progressively closed the hot water tap thinking I made the wrong mix, but there were no changes in temperature: the shower was still burning. Depressed, I gave up after a few minutes.

The following day I told the episode to a few friends of mine, provoking ironic giggles: “Obviously, this is your first Indian summer”. Bruno, a veteran here in Delhi, explained me that our water is collected in water tanks on the top of our roofs (ref. picture above): thick tanks of black plastic. Well, certainly a great invention - but the one who decided to install them on the roof-tops of the houses of Delhi is definitively not a genius! These tanks, radiated uninterruptedly for 180 days by the Indian sun, act like a pressure cooker: the water inside literally boils.

My facial expression must have said more than any word could have said, while the perspective of not having a cold shower for the rest of the summer progressively pervaded my mind…

But here the ‘importance of local knowledge’ comes. Bruno reassured me explaining that there is a simple trick to keep on having cool (if not cold) showers. To switch off the boiler (the water heater) and use the water from the boiler, instead of the water from the tank, to have cool water.

Smart, isn’t it?

Puppets in Udaipur - the show

Puppets in Udaipur

Udaipur is famous for its handicraft, folk music, traditional dances, and… puppet shows!

Puppet shows in a way gather and synthesize all the above forms of art in one. With their carefully painted faces, bright coloured dresses and dazzling jewelry, puppets are indeed extremely refined pieces of handicraft. And in their shows, puppets perform traditional dances at the rhythm of folk music and magic in a captivating mix.

Already back in November, returning from her first trip to Udaipur, Mathilde had signaled us this performance. When we recently decided to visit Udaipur, she insisted that we had to see the show.

And we did: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=goMyGvIJlPY

La mamma è sempre la mamma

(Compare with http://www.matteoandmathilde.org/2009/11/mathilde-et-maman.html - and find the differences...)

From Udaipur to Milan

Over the week-end I flew to Udaipur and joined mamma and Massimo in their last leg of their trip around Rajasthan: Agra, Ranthambore, Bundi, Chittorgarh, and, precisely, Udaipur.

As in most of the cities in Rajasthan, the main attraction in Udaipur was the former Maharaja’s palace, the City Palace. Besides the very nice location though (rising abruptly from the waters of Lake Pichola) the City Palace didn’t enter among the top palaces in our rankings.

However, our stay in Udaipur has been very pleasant, and, above all, an opportunity to chat and catch up after so many months apart.

Unfortunately, as in any self-respecting fairy tale, ‘midnight’ has come too soon - exactly when we were re-gaining that confidence that the time spent apart had made a bit rusty.

Mum and Massimo have in fact left India on Monday morning, back to Milan. Have a safe trip back. Happy you came and, above all, that you managed to see in person another stopping place in my itinerant life…

First day of Spring

21 March: first day of Spring. Yesterday there were 46 degree in Udaipur, and 39 in Delhi when we landed at 5 pm.

(Indian) Spring has finally arrived*!

(*) My colleagues told me that this is nothing, and that from now onwards it will only be worst...

Journey into the darkness of Delhi (3) - The end of the story

(Continues from the previous posts)

Rule number one when you travel: fidarsi é bene, ma non fidarsi é meglio (to trust is good, not to trust is better).

Remember when I paid my driver and dismissed him before jumping on the policeman’s vespa? Well, consistent with rule n. one, I took that opportunity to quickly remove most of the cash from my wallet and keep in it only the change that the driver gave me back. So, when the two cops asked me how much I had in my wallet, I almost apologized showing them that, unfortunately, I didn’t have much.

When I finally left the scene, I drew a deep sigh of relief: “God willing, this night is really over…”

End of the story? Well, not completely…

A few days have passed, and still the annoyance for how that night concluded has gone away yet.

The annoyance for having suffered an abuse of power, a wrong. The annoyance for not having been able to say no, for not having been able to oppose to an abuse. For not having been able to be consistent with my principles and values.

And it little matters that, with hindsight, that has probably been the wisest decision I could take in that very moment, the best way I could handle that situation. That in the end I paid much less than if I had had to pay the fine…

In the deepest part of my heart I know I could have said no. And I didn’t. And this bothers me enormously…

Journey into the darkness of Delhi (2)

(Continues from the previous post)

In the middle of the night, with a tuk-tuk driver as only companion, on board of a rickety rickshaw, I began my journey into the darkness of Delhi - in search of my lost scooter.

And in fact, Delhi by night seems a totally different city. As much crowded and noisy during the day, as empty and quiet during the night - a ghost town: faint light from the street lamps, no one around but a few dogs. All is still, all is motionless. As in a dream...

And yet, every time we stopped at a crossroad looking for someone who could help us in finding the police station, a multitude of individuals emerged from the darkness. Dozens and dozens of skinny and half-naked men, from the garbage piled up on the sidewalks, from the flowerbeds of the roundabouts. Dozens and dozens, emerging from everywhere, as in a Romero’s movie...

These are the ‘PBPL’ of our reports and statistics: ‘people-below-the-poverty-line’, the poorest of the poor, individuals with no name, no age, no house, no rights or entitlements: nothing of nothing.

Deformed, ugly, stinky, and yet friendly and warm-hearted: they all took my case to their hearts when the tuk-tuk driver explained them the situation, and tried to be helpful as much as they could: spreading the word to the other tramps, offering to accompany us to the police station, simply being solidly behind. A gleam of human warmth in the middle of all that misery…

Following their directions, through a labyrinth of lanes and alleys, we reached three different police stations. Rather dreary places: shaky neon lights, stale smell, half-sleepy policemen in empty offices. Reluctantly, we were accompanied each time to the station's car deposit (more similar to wreck deposits than anything else) - each time to verify that my scooter was not there.

I had almost lost all my hopes, when at the forth police station we visited, the policeman on duty (a more zealous fellow than the ones we met before) asked me a few questions, made a few telephone calls, and finally told me to go with him.

Pervaded with a new hope, I paid and said good-bye to my trusty driver, and jumped on the Vespa of the policeman. In a few minutes we reached another deposit, where another cop was waiting for us. I hadn’t even crossed the gate of the deposit that I recognized my scooter parked there. I heaved a sigh of relief: “End of the nightmare” I thought.

We spent the following few minutes dealing with the usual paperwork: I showed them the documents of the scooter, they asked me the usual questions (name, address, what I was doing in India, etc.), etc., etc.

I had just finished pronouncing my deepest thanks and was ready to leave, when the two cops mumbled something. Before I understood they were saying “tip, tip”, one of the two asked me straightforwardly: “How much do you have in your wallet?”.

“Oh f…ck!” I thought, analyzing the situation. I was alone in a car deposit, at three in the night, with two armed cops who were asking me how much I had in my wallet. And I had just withdrawn cash that day…

“Oh f…ck!” I repeated to myself…

(I’m leaving tomorrow eve to Udaipur, Rajasthan, to join my mum for the week-end. I’ll be back on Sunday eve, and will conclude the story and tell how I dealt with the situation at my return. I am however curious to know what you would have done if you were in my shoes. Do let me know…)

Journey into the darkness of Delhi

“Is it safe to leave your scooter parked outside unattended?” asked me Garvey while we were saying good-bye to each other yesterday night. “Well, I’ll tell you in five minutes” I answered laughing, leaving the hotel.

If there was one thing I was quite confident about Delhi in fact was that it is a safe place. Never experienced or heard of any theft, robbery, etc. In short, never been worried of leaving my scooter unattended.

You can then imagine how I felt when I realized my scooter was not where I parked it anymore.

After having cursed Garvey (“Bird of ill omen!”), I started cursing myself: “Why didn’t I take a taxi tonight?”, “Why did I park it here?”, “Why me???”.

However, if there is something I recognize about myself is that I rarely panic. I noticed a few tramps who were sleeping on the sidewalk where I left my scooter. I approached them, I woke them up, and (gesticulating) I tried to ask them if they knew what happened to my scooter.

In an instant I was surrounded by a dozen of tramps who were confusedly speaking to me in an unknown language (Hindi? Urdu? Telugu???) while holding me by the arms, by the legs, by everything (!) - while other odd characters were appearing from nowhere and adding up to the small crowd. I was trying to politely wriggle out and sneak off, when someone in the crowd said “Police”.

“Police?”.

In short, what I guessed out of the conversation with this person (but please, do imagine the situation: trying to ask questions to someone that only speaks Hindi - if it was Hindi at all) was that the police removed my vehicle as it was illegally parked on the sidewalk.

I gave a sigh of relief. Even though I was literally astonished thinking that the police had the time to remove a scooter from an empty sidewalk in an empty neighborhood in the middle of the night (they really have nothing else to do!), at least I was relieved by the fact that my scooter seemed not to be stolen. However, immediately after I started wondering “How the hell can I find my scooter back in the middle of Delhi in the middle of the night???”.

With the help of my tramps we managed to find a rickshaw (indeed not an easy task as all the streets were empty as if the city had been abandoned). I jumped on it and - ordering the driver “Police-station, police-station” - I started what, in truth, has become a journey in the darkness of Delhi…

(Continues…)