Paharganj, Holi, and Tears Like Meerkats- India Travel Blog

Decided to start off in Paharganj, the "seedy backpacker's nexus" according to Lonely Planet. Well its not the Hilton, but I don't think its much seedier than anyplace else reasonably priced. Anyway, took an auto rickshaw from the airport. I had been told not to do this, but did anyway. Don't ask me why, I couldn't possibly tell you. It was dark. I was indicisive. I listened to a stranger with a warm voice.

Guy tried to charge me 2000 ruppees, I bargained him down to 500, at which point he pretended he was out of gas, demanded the money to fill up, then pretended to run out of gas again and transfered me to another auto rickshaw where I only paid 35 ruppees more. I knew I'd been had but was confused as to why the second guy wanted to do the rest of the ride for only 35. I eventually learned the going rate is 200, so even the guy making 35 made out like a bandit.  Anyhow, before all this, I first approached some British backpacking girls at the airport to see if they wanted to share a taxi and they said no and ran away. I'm scary I guess. Must be the hat. Anyway, after driving me in circles all around the city the driver finally dropped me off in hell's half acre. A dirty unlit street where cycle and auto rickshaws are parked all along the streetside and one restaurant was open with lots of skinny guys milling around in the middle of the night. An old saddhu came, ate something with his hands on a curb, and wandered away with his saggy drawers and decorated stick.

Ate some biryani there and wandered in the scary darkness of 2 a.m. until I found a hotel with space. Checking into a hotel is like getting booked into prison. They laboriously write down every single thing in your passport in this giant ledger, then you have to write your home address, telephone number, everything. Sign the ledger. Sign a triplicate paper that says you swear your visa is real (or something) and sign something else you are way too sleepy to know what it is. No matter, It's nothing. Just some extraneous form. If you try to read before you sign they think you must be retarded.

"Just sign it! Don't you see the X?"

Paharganj is a no-man's land where tangled telephone wires, stray dogs, occasional cows lying in the road, and everything for sale in the world crowd the main street. Little side streets and alleys are so small and the entries so crowded with items for sale and signs for this and that and banners for Pepsi or something that you don't know if you are supposed to go down there or if it's private or what. You soon learn to push everything aside, including garments on hangers hanging from low-slung telephone wires, and go down the back alleys, where it's quieter and there are little cafes. Its holi this week, a holiday where people peg you with waterballoons. I got pegged twice this evening and I thought it'd be fun, but its not. They throw them hard and you lose your breath and nearly go into shock. Someone hiding in the crowd gets a thrill out of it anyway, and you, meaning me, just try to play it cool and pretend tears didn't just pop up in your eyes like meerkats.