Touching down in an Indian airport is always a shock – the sounds, smells, noises and sheer number of people is an absolute bombardment of senses. Indian airports have seen some fantastic changes in recent years as the Indian Government have pumped money into everything ‘tourism’. Once you leave those sliding doors however, the real India takes a hold on you, thrusting you into a world so detached from your homeland, it is difficult not to wince.
That is not to say that India is a bad place to travel, far from it. Every time I have visited India I have left thinking, “That’ll be the last time”, but the truth is that India is an intoxicating place, rich in culture, heritage, fantastic food and even better people. It draws you back, opens up another chapter in its mystical book, and gives you the opportunity to explore its ancient wares and amiable inhabitants.
It all started on my first round-the-world trip. I had been to university and done some travelling before, but had always wanted to visit that spiritual place I had only read and dreamed about. It seemed a long way away but the more I read about the vibrant culture, the hippy hangouts and dramatic mountain vistas, the more I could not wait to board that plane to Mumbai.
As I left the plane in Mumbai airport, the first thing to hit me was the heat. I have never been particularly good in hot places (why was I in India again?) but this was like nothing I had ever experienced. I sweated my way to reclaim my luggage, passed through customs and made my way into the main hall.
“Sir! Sir! Taxi! Taxi!” came at me from all directions. I was being harassed from every angle, my pasty but flushed face and overinflated rucksack acting like a magnet for every taxi driver within a fifty-metre radius. They pushed and shoved, shouted louder and louder and occasionally made contact. I had read somewhere to keep my cool in this sort of situation, to play it easy, do not let them know your weakness.
They persisted, gradually wringing out every last drop of sanity from my baked brain. Suffice to say my game plan did not last for long and the stress got too much,
“Leave me alone!” I shouted at several decibels louder than a gaggle of about thirty hungry-for-new-blood taxi drivers, “I’m walking and I DO NOT need a taxi!”. I stormed outside into the oppressive sun and began marching down the highway leaving a melee of confused men in my wake.
It was at least three hundred metres before I stopped and had to admit defeat. I was young and arrogant, confident that I could overcome the heat and certain that I wouldn’t need anyone else’s help to get me to a hotel. I was wrong. Lightheaded and dehydrated, I flagged down a passing taxi (much to the disdain of the taxi drivers that were still watching me from the airport entrance) and told him to take me to the city centre.
It was then that the real India grabbed me and gave me a hot, sweaty bear hug as if to say, “Welcome to the world you’ve never seen and probably didn’t even know existed”. For anyone who has flown into Mumbai airport, they will say something similar. The contrast from the plush airport interior, to some of the worst depravation and poverty known to man, then back to multi-million dollar high-rises was startling. Is was like a huge, nasty caste-sandwich but the bread was too heavy and overwhelming, burying the unpleasant, unsightly filling. This was a real adventure
I was shown to a dodgy hotel by the taxi driver. I was drenched with sweat and extremely nervous about the next few months in this country of two halves. I lay under the pathetic fan and planned my next move.
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