I think I got the black lung Pop

Cough, cough. Splutter, splutter. Sniff.

Being in India has not deterred my body from developing it's biannual changing-of-the-season cold. I maintain that it has been bought on by the air conditioning. Air conditioning is a status symbol in this incredibly tropical climate and the attitude is very much if you've got it, flaunt it. The better the establishment the greater the velocity and lower the temperature of their AC.

The trains are the worst. By the end of the 5 hour train trip to Amritsar I must have resembled the abominable snowman as I gradually layered myself with every scarf and item of clothing in my bag to prevent myself dying of exposure in my thin summer shorts and t-shirt.

The concept of seeking refuge inside an AC room is so foreign to me as I am conditioned to take advantage of every day of nice weather by spending as much time outside as possible. I tried that a couple of times but I quickly realised that it is actually REALLY hot - and I wasn't even here for summer! Sadly, I think I am going to have to bid farewell to my dream of coming home as brown as a berry.

Pimp my ride

I finally worked out why there is so much hooting on the roads. Every truck and bus has "horn please" beautifully hand painted on the back. This, from what I can work out is so that they know when someone is driving up beside them. Side mirrors are not big here. They have either been knocked off by a motorbike that drove too close or are bent in to prevent them from getting hit. There is no fear of missing someone in your blindspot however, as they will very loudly declare their presence, often with a hooter that plays the motif of a popular tune.

It's all about the customisation of your vehicle here in India. Every truck and a large number of the rickshaws compete for the most intricate and colourful paintings on their chassis. The hipper rickshaw drivers even have paintings of popular icons on their mudguards. There is no branded signage on any vehicles. Nowhere will you see a truck with "Woolworths. Quality for life." branded on the side. Everything right down to the number plate is hand painted.

Talismans swing from every rearview mirror and India flags are the order of the day. The cars on the Cape Flats are given a serious run for their money. One taxi I went in even had a picture of Shiva on a clear plastic screen attached to the dashboard that flashed variations of blue and red for the entire four hour journey. I kept thinking we were being followed by the cops! My personal favourite though is the plastic wrapped sun shields. Without fail, every second vehicle's sun shields are wrapped protectively in plastic. Some cars even wrap their headrests and seats in plastic.

Matrimonials

“Son of a top-notch ultra rich Rajasthani Brahmin family of international fame having multifaceted business of reputed companies maintaining very high tastes in life, having a palatial residence in Mumbai and abroad.

He is non-manglik 1984 born/167 cms in height, handsome, smart, intelligent, social and with broad outlook towards life, convent schooling, widely travelled, wishes to hear from vivacious very beautiful girl hailing from Brahmin families well established in India/abroad. Exceptionally beautiful is the main consideration. Reply in confidence with attached Bio-Data and horoscope. Photograph a must.”

This is a matrimonial I saw in the newspaper on Sunday. Word for word. I kid you not. You may not believe me but if you take a closer look at the slightly blurred picture you will see that it is true.

Marriage is a HUGE deal over here. I would go so far as to say that you are defined by your marital status, especially if you are a woman. If you are pushing 26 and still not married eyebrows will be raised and it will be assumed that there must be A VERY GOOD REASON why you have not tied the knot. For instance, I work with an amazing and phenomenally successful women in her early thirties whose mother weekly laments that she allowed her to pursue her career because of where it has got her (unmarried in her thirties).

Matching prospects is also very important. Matrimonials take up a good twenty pages of the daily newspapers not unlike job vacancies I can’t help but think. It’s a 180 degree mind shift from the western ideal of being passionately swept off your feet by someone myterious you know sweet nothing about but somehow, it seems to work. Perhaps also because divorce is often not an option and there is no other alternative but to make it work.

Food for thought…

Amritsar and the Golden Temple

Sadly I had to bid Coreen, my partner in crime farewell but Chanda who is equally cool has taken her place. I think the two of us cause a little confusion – the Caucasian South African and the African American.

This weekend our motley crew - Chanda, Nic, myself and Ravi the Super Sikh from the US - missioned off to Amritsar and the Golden Temple. Unfortunately Laura/Lauren had to pull out at the last minute because of a bad attack of Delhi Belly. This time we travelled by train in style – second class, AC. We were in Amritsar for all of 18 hours but we managed to see some awesome sights and eat the most delicious food for which the Punjab is famous:

• The Golden Temple is the most sacred shrine in Sikhism. Sikh devotees, for whom the Temple is a symbol of freedom and spiritual independence, come to the Temple from all over the world and ritually dip themselves in the water that surrounds the building. It is inlaid with more than 750kg of gold and breathtakingly beautiful. Respectfully bowing turbans and prayers reverberating around the enclosure combine to create an indescribable air of reverence and an almost tangible positive energy. What amazed me was the sense of community. Everybody works together and everyone is welcome, no matter creed or colour. As we were standing on the edge of the water, a group of about 100 people came past us washing the marble. Everyone helps no matter how young or old they are or how much value they add. There is also a 24 hour kitchen serving a free, simple meal of ciapati and dal serviced by volunteers. The boys bravely slept at the temple whilst Chanda and I copped out and opted for the decidedly more comfortable hotel beds.

• The changing of the guards at the India-Pakistan border was incredibly entertaining. The area gets completely packed and the atmosphere is set by school kids merrily dancing to the patriotice music blared over the loudspeakers. The guards, somewhat incongruously dressed with large fans protruding from their hats and chests swelled with self importance, nightly go to acknowledge the Pakistani border guards on the no mans land between the two borders. The atmosphere turned a little political when the guy behind me starting making machine gun noises!

• The Amritsar orphanage houses many of those orphaned in the 1984 attack on the Golden Temple. Ravi raises funds online for them so we had an opportunity to go and visit them. It was a completely humbling experience. We arrived in the evening in time for their prayers and were invited to join them. I think we were more of a disruptive influence then anything as for most of them we were probably the first foreigners they had met. Nic gained instant favour with the cricket bats he had bought along as gifts. We also arrived laden with an enormous crate of bananas which we handed out with their dinner. The funniest part for me was trying to take a group photo. Every attempt was foiled as the kids repeatedly launched themselves up right in front of the camera just before the photo was taken. Some of the kids were even lifting up their friends by the pants (resembling a rugby line out) to ensure they were the primary focus of the picture. I also received my first marriage proposal! One little kid started with the question and then before long about ten kids had joined in. Although incredibly flatter, I suspect they didn't really know what they were saying.

Culture Shock

There are a few things in India that I am taking longer to get used to than others:

1. Drinking water from water bottle without putting my lips on the rim. I am a spilly person at the best of times and those that know me well will corroborate that I have a chronic hand eye coordination problem when it comes to getting food and/or beverages into my mouth without spilling. You can just imagine the carnage of trying to get the water into my mouth from a distance. I have given up and now drink directly from the bottle. I figure I would rather run the small risk of getting amoebic dysentery then the large risk of dehydration
2. The pollution that caused such a bad break our on my forehead I was convinced I was having an allergic reaction to something. I now have to clean my face daily with rubbing alcohol. Somehow I don’t think the people at Dove would approve.
3. The hocking and spitting done by a lot of the men with great gusto. The pleasure derived from this national occupation appears to be directly proportional to its volume and the amount of time spent doing it.
4. The mandatory three spoons of sugar in every cup of tea or coffee. The sugar is added right at the beginning of the brewing process. Ask for no sugar (cini) and you will be met with a blank stare. Except of course for the very nice guy at work who brings our coffee round and makes me a no (more like low) sugar cup especially.
5. The dearth of beefy Bovril. No explanation required.
6. No Pick n Pay where you can go and do all your grocery shopping.

A love story

I always thought that Indira Gandhi, previous prime minister of India, was related to the great Mahatma or Gandiji as he is affectionately know here. The real story is far more romantic…

Once upon a time there was a man named Nehru. He became prime minister of India after the Partition in 1947. This was a very big task because the situation was fraught with political tension. West Pakistan and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) had been separated from India. Although they tried to create the borders to encompass predominantly Muslim and Hindu areas, thousands of people found themselves having to leave the land on which their ancestors had lived for generations and relocate. Often they didn’t have an opportunity to take their belongings with them. A large number of the people were very unhappy.

Nehru had a daughter Indira. Indira fell in love with a Farsee. When her father found out, he was furious. He told her that marrying him was just not an option and it would just undo all the work he was trying to achieve. Distraught, Indira turned to her godfather and close family friend Gandhiji. Together they devised a solution.

The next day, Gandhi went to Nehru and said “I have had a brilliant idea. I think that Indira should marry one of my sons”. Nehru was very pleased and agreed immediately. But when he saw Gandhi’s son he realised what he had agreed to. “But this is not your son! This is the man that Indira wanted to marry. I cannot allow it.” He said.

“Aaggh” said Gandhi “But he is my son now as I have adopted him”.

And that is why Indira Gandhi has the surname Gandhi.

NOTE: I was relaying this story to a colleague and he took great delight in telling me that although a common opinion, it is in fact completely incorrect. Feroze Gandhi (Indira’s husband) had the same surname merely by coincidence. He was not the adopted son of Gandhi.

Damn! Why did he have to go and pop my balloon like that? I think I’m going to go with common opinion on this one. It makes for a much better story.

ANOTHER NOTE: My faith in romance has been restored! I spoke to the original narrator of the tale and is willing to bet his life on the fact that it is true. He apparently did a paper on it at Varsity with lots of research etc. etc.

Delhi Belly

Everyone warned me about Delhi Belly but with all this good food the only Delhi Belly I have to worry about is the one of the more permanent affliction. This morning in the shower I composed a song about my favourite meals/snacks in Delhi

My favourite things
To be sung with gusto (preferably in a shower with good acoustics) to the Sound of Music hit sound track of the same name

Paneer (discovered in SA and still a hot favourite);
Mutton kebabs at the stall at the back of Kahn Market;
Dal at the guest house and sweet lime juice;
Chicken momos at the Gymkhana and pomegraaaanaaaaaatttte...

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddd, I simply remember my favourite things and then I don’t [rousing crescendo] fffffffffffffeeeeeeeellllllll sooooooooo bbbbbaddddddd.

PS. Jennifer at the Linksfield Netcare travel clinic, you were completely over exaggerating. The lettuce here is absolutely fine and I haven’t even cracked open my bottle of Milton yet. I even ate Pan Leaf from the side of the road (the original breath mint) and was fine. I only found out afterwards that they often wash the leaves in dodgy water.
PPS. Asian 2 minute noodles are so much better than the SA equivalent. I had a couple of Coreen’s old stock. They have the powdery stuff and then soy sauce, chilli flakes and this cool flavoured oil

The Midnight Express

So it turns out the sleeper class on the train is neither AC first or second class nor the separate compartment that one might expect from the name. Coreen and I clambered onto the train only to realise that both the lights and the fans were not working in our very stuffy carriage. To make matters worse, a wallah leered menacingly at the window rattling a collection of dangerous looking locks and chains which we realised with horror were for the express purpose of securing our luggage to our beds.

As the thought "What have I got myself into?" reverberated around my head the train stuttered to life and with it the lights and the fans flickered on. Thank goodness. The light highlighted the fact that the bed covers had clearly seen cleaner days but it was nothing that an entire pack of Coreen's antiseptic wipes could not remedy. Coreen, what will I do when you go? The journey actually turned out to be relatively pleasant. At one point in the evening it got decidedly chilly and ill prepared for any cold weather as I was, I was decidedly relieved that we hadn't ended up in the AC compartment as I would have frozen my ass off.

In true style, I had demolished all my padkos before we had even left Delhi. Oh for the day when I haven't finished my popcorn and coke by the time the movie starts.

Highlights of Udaipur

1. The jewellery shop. We arrived a little drowsy but ready to hit the town. We dropped our bags off at a guest house situated right on the edge of the lake and ventured out only to be lured almost immediately into a jewellery shop about 10m up the road by the jewellery seductively glistening in the display case. Magpies that we were we couldn't resist. THREE HOURS LATER we reemerged completely exhausted from painstakingly deliberating and ineffectually bargaining over the equisite pieces. Needless to say we completely blew our budgets.
2. The Crystal Gallery at the City Palace houses the rare crystal Maharaja Sajjan Singh ordered from England in 1877. The maharaja died before it arrived, and all the items stayed packed up in boxes for 110 years later to reveal excess such as a crystal table, couch and even bed!
3. The Rajastani Dancers at the Bagore-Ki Haveli reminded me of bright parakeets with their bright colours and graceful moves
4. The biggest turban in the world is vaguely reminiscent of a large piece of pink boerewors
5. Dinner in a cuppola overlooking the lake with Octupussy playing in the background. The movie was filmed here more than twenty five years ago and today it is still played nightly at all the rooftop restaurants. The full moon joined us for dinner. This is possibly the most romantic place I have ever had the pleasure of eating dinner. I would have quite liked to have swapped Coreen with Brian for the evening although she still made very pleasant company
6. The cooking course at the Spice Box. I can now cook chai masala, paneer, aloo ghobi and biryani with the best of them
7. Learning to play the tabla

Dengue fever

Anyone heard of Dengue? I hadn't before I came over here but this morning 2 of the prime minister's grand children were diagnosed with this potentially fatal disease. Like malaria, it's carried by mosquitos and rife after the monsoon when there is a lot of stagnant water around. YIKES. Apparently they only bite during the day. More than 400 people have been treated at public hospitals for Dengue - nearly double last year this time. This doesn't include the statistics from all the private clinics!

Dussehra

Monday was Dussehra; the day that Ram rescued his love Sita from the evil Ravana in Hindi mythology. It was also a public holiday and Gandhi’s birthday which was great. We went to watch the festivities in one of the markets. Had I been 10 I probably would have wet my pants. I’m 24 and I was completely frightened. Dance companies acted out the story of Ram and Sita impressively covered from head to toe in adornments and face make up. At the end of the show, they burned enormous 10 metres effigies of Ravana and his brothers. They were stuffed with straw and strained at guy ropes holding them in place. I was fully prepared to watch them burn gradually to the ground. I was not however prepared for the 16 million fire crackers secreted in the chest of each of the effigies to go off simultaneously. I think the locals found the height I jumped from fright far more entertaining than the burning of Ravanna.

Lou’s Top 5 Indian reads

I hope that some of you will be joining me in India in the next few months. I have not had too many confirmations thus far but I remain optimistic. With this in mind I have included my top 5 India related books.

1. Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts
   A crazy but true auto biography of an escaped Australian convict. You’ll be booking your ticket as you finish the last page.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Noteworthy Nine
   
2. Q&A by Vikas Swarup (the deputy high commissioner of India in SA incidentally)
   An illiterate and uneducated boy from the slums wins the Indian show “Who wants to be a billionaire?”. The outraged show organisers accuse him of cheating. The story unfolds as he explains why he knew each of the answers. A delightful* read. *I’ve always wanted to say that – does it sound like something Barry would say?
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven and a half
   
3. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
   The auto biography of a women in her mid thirties who escapes the claustrophobic pressure of real life by running away for a year. She spends four months in Italy eating in Rome, four months in India praying at an Ashram and the final four months in Indonesia - yes, you guessed it – loving.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Scintillating Seven
   
4. Shalimar the Clown: Salman Rushdie
   A harrowing tale of love and betrayal set in the foothills of war-torn Kashmir [hey, I am really getting into this].
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight
   
5. City of Djinns; a year in Delhi [from whence this blog name comes]: William Dalrymple
   A beautiful portrayal of Delhi and its history. This is the man that helped me to understand Delhi traffic. I’ve included my favourite passage.
   
   “Balvinder Singh [Dalrymple’s taxi driver], son of Punjab Singh, Prince of Taxi
   Drivers, may your moustache never grow grey! Nor your liver cave in with
   cirrhosis. Nor your precious Hindustan Ambassador ever again crumple in a
   collision – like the one we had with the van carrying Mango Frooty Drink.
   
   Although during my first year in Delhi I remember thinking that
   the traffic had seemed both anarchic and alarming, by my second visit I
   had come to realize that it was in fact governed by very strict rules. Right of
   way belongs to the driver of the largers vehicle. .. On the road, as in many
   other aspects of Indian life, Might is Right. ”
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Evocative Eight
   
   

Moving house

I'm moving house. I've found this great little place in Old Delhi. I've included a picture.

Just kidding! Hee hee.

Monkey business

I had my first experience with Indian textiles. I bought a beautiful brocade bag from the Paragang market. Coreen warned me that it might not be colour fast but I stubbornly ignored her. My water bottle was in my bag and leaked a little and now there is a large and indelible red mark on my cream linen pants. The experience reminds me of a floral overdyed top I bought at Green Market Square in Cape Town about 10 years ago that dyed my skin blue everytime I wore it. Lesson learnt: No matter where you are in the world, market merchandise is never colour fast.

We went to check out the monkey dance at India Gate yesterday afternoon. Two monkeys act out an entire play in full costume. Unfortunately they were nowhere to be found. Apparently they have been banned because the monkeys (!) were pick pocketing the audience.

We went from there into Old Delhi to the Jama Masjid mosque which is the biggest mosque in India and can hold up to 25 000 people. We arrived there just before evening prayers so we weren't allowed in. Undeterred, we sat on the stairs to soak up the atmosphere and almost jumped out of our skins when the cannon sounded announcing sunset - typical paranoid tourists. It was an awesome experience to be surrounded by people praying and the voice of the muezzin booming over the loudspeaker. We watched as all around us people broke their fast. I don't know how Muslims cope in India in the month of Ramadan. It is so hot and humid during the day (which is why my running training is going so incredibly badly) and nothing is allowed to pass their lips, not even a sip of water. RESPECT. I can't even go half an hour without drinking about a litre of water.

Lost in translation

Did you know that Laura pronounced in the Italian way (Low-ra) means penis in Hindi? European Laura that is staying in my guest house did not know that small but relevant piece of trivia either. She figured something was up by all the tittering every time she introduced herself. It was left to the owner of the guest house, a very proper women in her mid 60s to enlighten Laura. To add insult to injury her surname is Kok which bilingual English/Hindi speakers find hysterical. Laura is here for 3 years as a refugee protection officer. As you can imagine, 2 weeks ago she changed her name to Lauren.

No one can understand me on the phone no matter how slowly and clearly I speak. Last week I was speaking to a woman from an affiliate organisation. I had to repeat myself about 6 times and she still didn’t understand what I was saying. Eventually I got in the car and drove all the way across Delhi to meet her in person. The meeting took ten minutes and she didn’t ask me to repeat myself once.

It would be more accurate to say that I was driven. I have a driver; Nerinder. We have a special way of communicating. He speaks Hindi and I speak English, neither of us understands what the other is saying but we both smile and nod. We use lots of charade type hand movements. He picks me up in the morning and takes me the hour to work in West Delhi. He sits and waits for me the whole day (he does not leave the car) and then when I am ready he takes me back again. It’s more affordable to hire him for the day than for the two separate trips to and from work. As you can imagine, this gives me serious working class guilt.

Yesterday I found myself in a situation that highlighted the challenges of not speaking the same language. Before I went to work I moved back to my old guest house - October is a very popular tourist month and my lack of foresight means that I didn't book far enough in advance thus have to move around a bit. Another driver took me to the guest house in a beautiful old Ambassador and then Nerinder picked me up and took me to work. When I got to work I realised that I was without my phone. Why do I always have to be so loskop? I retraced my steps and realised that I had probably left it in the first taxi. However it was on silent which is a very unusual concept in India. Caller tunes are HUGE here and noone wants to go unheard. So, try explaining this to someone that does not speak English. Not easy. It took me about 2 hours to hunt down the original driver and then search his car. To my great dismay, it was nowhere to be found. As I was about to resign myself to the fact that it was gone for good, I felt a vague but distinct vibrating under my hand. It was my phone! It had slipped into the seat lining.

What I learnt in London

1. Heeled shoes should never be worn to work. No matter how comfortable they may seem in the morning, thanks to commuting they will be killing you by the end of the day and you may have to walk home barefeet
2. Don't allow yourself to day dream because you will mislay your handbag with credit cards inside causing a good hour of panic and running between pub and office to locate it and in the process scraping all the skin off the fourth toe of your right foot and making already uncomfortable work shoes unbearable
3. It doesn't matter how long it has been seen since you have seen your best friends. You know each other so well that when you see each other again it is as if no time has passed at all. I miss my best friends.

High voltage

This morning I sat in the departures hall of the Delhi airport and watched all the foreigners going home swathed in India in an attempt to take a piece of it home with them. I think developing countries do that to you, like malaria they get into your blood and awaken a part of you that often lies dormant. It’s a part of you that overlooks the smells and the chaos and sees something much bigger; the energy.

I was trying to explain to someone what it is about India that reminds me of South Africa and I came up with the following analogy. The differences between South Africa and India can be likened to the differences between the plugs of the two countries. To start, both countries experience frequent power cuts! The Indian plugs are also three pronged but slightly smaller than its SA equivalent so that the SA two prong “fits” in the bottom two holes leaving the apex of the plug ominously empty (if I dust off the cobwebs of my Std 8 Science knowledge is that not earth?). It’s not an exact fit and you have to be careful you don’t knock it or risk a barrage of sparks but at the end of the day it’s the same voltage running through the wires.

Pride comes before a fall

Now that I am a bona fide blogger I should probably only tell you stories that paint me in a good light but I just have to tell you about my first training run. I set off to Lodi Gardens for my first Indian jog. Lodi Gardens is conveniently about 1km from my place. Of course I walked there. I haven’t really seen anyone else jogging on the streets and I didn't want to stick out like any more of a sore thumb than I already do (to be completely honest, it was more because I did not want to be too tired to carry on running when I got there). On my way there, I narrowly escaped death at least twice. The first time was when a motorbike popped out from behind a bus as I was walking past it. The second and more life-flashed-before-my-eyes time was as I was rushing across an intersection where the robot was red. **Note for the future: they don’t wait for the green light here. They go when it is orange for the other side.

That at least got the adrenalin pumping and the first (of hopefully many) training runs was relatively successful. I didn’t have a watch so I managed to convince myself that one loop around the gardens was at least 5km. I was quite cheered when I ran past a guy who remarked “You’re coming round again? But you only just came past!” until I worked out that he must have been dreaming because I only did one loop. I felt pretty cool running along with my iPod (thanks B2 team). But typically pride comes before a …. YIP.

I was running home and I decided to take a short cut. Suddenly I was in an area I did not recognize. It is a very bizarre setup here; I live in a very nice area but the roads alternate between huge sprawling properties and jam packed and completely run down blocks of flats. All the people jam packing the afore mentioned flats watched me curiously as I came running up the road trying to look professional but probably more closely resembling a crippled hippo or some equally ungraceful animal. When I realised I had come to a dead end, I tried to turn around as nonchalantly as possible and as I headed back I tripped. Not just a little trip mind; a huge arms flailing, 10 metre consuming trip. In front of about 30 highly entertained onlookers! Luckily I caught myself just before I planted my face into the tarmac. The most embarrassing part was that I didn't actually trip over anything. I just stumbled.

Oh well, if nothing else I think I at least put a smile on a good few faces that evening. I aim to entertain.

Does a cow have calf muscles?

This is the poster above my desk at the client. I don't know. I assume yes. What I do know is that I have a problem. Aside from the high fliers, I have made only one acquaintance here. He always seems to be at meetings so has not been unable to join me at the buffet style canteen for lunch as yet. It seems pretty straight forward

1. Take a tray
2. Take some food

But not for the unitiated such as myself. You see, there is one plate and 2 little bowls next to it. There are about 5 dishes to choose from. What to do. I can't ask the canteen servers because they don't speak English very well and I can see the amused look in their eyes as they watch me flounder. Instead I quickly smash a bit of each dish into the closest receptacle and rush to sit at a table with my back to everyone so they can't see how wrong I got it. On my way to the table I try to surreptitiously look at how everyone else does it. Fordsburg friends, please save me from the mortification!

Old Delhi

On Tuesday I met the South African Deputy President. This morning I met the leading actor of an Oscar winning movie. This street kid played the lead role in the short film The Little Terrorist.

Today I went on a tour of Delhi with a difference. The tour was run by the kids of Salaam Balak (salute the children). Salaam Balak is a shelter for the street kids that lived in and around the New Delhi train station. The kids that took the tour guided us through the lives they lived before they came to the shelter. They explained to us in broken English how each train platform was run by a different gang of street kids. They relayed stories of physical and drug abuse. Mind blowing. Our main guide was in his early twenties with a rakish air and a devilish grin. He is currently studying dance and drama through correspondence and aspires to be an actor.

And then they plunged us into the heart of Old Delhi upon whose streets they roamed. Old Delhi is wild, dusty and chaotic and in sharp contrast to the wide and leafy avenues of New Delhi. I met a potter who has been moulding clay at the same stall for 90 years. I saw a goat serenely assessing his surrounds like a Maharaj from atop an abandoned car. We were invited into the court yards of buildings where royalty used to live; where ornate paintings and inticate mouldings have been superceded by heavily burdened washing lines. We took bicycle rickshaws through the narrow streets and narrowly missed knocking over a wallah pushing his water barrow.

Lastly we went to the shelter where the kids seek refuge and where I met the Oscar nominee. On the way there we crossed one of the busiest and most chaotic intersections in Delhi where even most taxi drivers fear to tread. I took a video of it but my blogging skills are still very underdeveloped so I can't work out how to post it.