Hello India

Don’t believe what they say. Well, maybe a little bit. The description I had heard over and over of what it is like to get into Delhi couldn’t have been further from my experience. Walking out of the airport and getting to one’s hotel is supposed to be a nightmare of loud, fast paced, mind fumbling disorientation.

Compared to the tiny half-abandoned orange brick building that comprised of Kathmandu’s International Airport, the Airport in Delhi was like disembarking for Heaven. Reminding me very much of Vancouver International airport, I was pleasantly overjoyed to find air conditioning, clean tile floors, huge glass windows of crystal cleanliness, baggage carousels, and not only that, but screens to match flight numbers to carousels! Customs couldn’t have been more customary and when the electronic doors parted and I walked out into the hot Indian air, I dare say it was dead quiet. A hundred taxis were lined up, all silent with only a few drivers lounging around.

I hung my head out the window as the taxi sped towards the city and rejoicing in the heat and the after-glow of business class cocktails. ( because I’d been stuck in Lukla, I’d pushed back my flight to Delhi. The travel agency I had done this through neglected to tell me that this required a change of class also, and when I arrived at the airport, I found out that the only way I could make it to India was to cough up another couple hundred bucks. Sitting in business class with the collision of continents below me, I endeavored to drink back the extra cost of my seat. I lost count, but I’m confident that I succeeded.)


I perked up when I saw a traffic light. I hadn’t seen one since I left the states. (Katmandu uses officers stationed on permanent posts in the middle of intersections as opposed to lights to direct traffic. And they are only present when traffic is the busiest… though every moment after the first morning honk of a car horn feels like rush hour.)

The stereotypical description of Delhi started to emerge, but after the joyously schizophrenic pinball machine that Kathmandu streets had proved itself to be, Delhi was a little tame.

One thing I have noticed about driving in this part of the world is the difference in the use of the horn. In the states, the horn is only really used in two cases: when an accident is about to occur and when someone is just pissed off. The people of these countries have found far more diverse and better uses for the voices of automobiles. Driving, of course, is a visual task, but here in India and also Nepal, people drive using sonar. The horn is in constant use, not because people are agitated or deaf, but really just to say ‘hey, I’m just letting everyone know where I am.’ With every car in your immediate vicinity giving a little honk, you have the invaluable benefit of getting an instantaneous picture of where everyone is without actually looking. Though of course drivers are constantly looking around, the need is not overwhelming to try and compensate for the added chaos that driving in these countries comes with. Sonar seems the best way to describe it.

My god, what a relief it was to sit back with a good friend and a beer and recount the trials of my weeks in the mountains.