And I Still Got Love for the Street

TRAFFIC

“Do you think you can drive here?” seems to be the question on everyone's lips.

I say a silent prayer to every God I've been introduced to along this journey when I pull the car door shut behind me and settle into the tiny aluminum cans that fill these streets with a kind of rapt excitement; 2 parts dread, 1 part thrill.

The streets of India are a kind of alternate universe. In this universe there are an entirely different set of laws and cultures. A camel trots along the edge of the road- trailing an oversided cart in its wake. An elephant plods toward us, it's ears waving frantically to cool its face.

I could spend a lifetime trying to comprehend the language of beeps and squawks that fill the air. I can hear them now in my hotel room above the road. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. Squawk. Chime-didily-chime-chime (some kind hiccuping duck- sorry UO fans). The big rigs are the strangest- they emit a sing-song-y tune that is so silly coming from such a large vehicle (reminding me of an ice-cream truck in summer).

Sense of sound is some much more relied upon here than sight. In fact, many drivers choose to tuck their mirrors up against their cars to prevent them being ripped off by a close encounter. They drive half blind and use this secret horn language to avoid collision.

Vehicles, for the most part, drive on the left side of the road. This, however, appears to be optional. Traffic lights also appear to be optional (especially for rickshaws and cyclists). There is a weaving and dodging pattern to the flow. A jerk forward to a slam of a stop, barely missing the back tire of a motorbike slipping in front of us.

It's like a video game- for reals yo. Terrifyingly delightful. The redeeming quality, the fact that, because of traffic, vehicles are not able to exceed more than about 30 mph (at best).

My other favorite thing about traffic here: the art work I'm surrounded by as I journey along. The truck drivers here take a certain pride in their forest green trucks, decorating them with hand made paintings, and draping their mirrors and dashboards with idols and flowers. Sometimes the calligraphied instructions on the back, advising other drivers to, “Stop. Honk Please. Stop” is spelled particularly creatively, and occasionally the classic painting of a cow her calf often actually depicts a bull with udders.

To answer their common question: NO, I don't think I could drive here.


OLD TOWN
Yesterday we adventured into “old” Delhi", a title earned by impressive relativity, as everywhere in Delhi is old (in fact, the area known as “New” Delhi was built by the British in 1931, a monumental new quarter of the city designed by the British architect Edwin Lutyens to house the government buildings).

The buildings in Old Delhi a made of a hodge-podge collection of materials. The bottom level is filled with shops selling specialty items- with alleys dedicated specifically to shoes, or books, or jewelry. The upper stories are less solid appearing, with corners crumbling, falling away from themselves. Laundry on lines strung between windows hangs heavy above our heads.

The disrepair of the second, third, sixth stories are quiet; a series of ruins connected to one another in crisscrossing patterns- a piece of yesterday floating eerily above us. The cracks and chips give the building character, personality, wisdom.

Below, the incessant clamor and bustle breathes a life of its own. The street level of Chandni Chowk is a throbbing, vibrant, pulsating organ. The push of pedestrians, rickshaws, motorbikes, cyclists, cars, and carts swarm around us- seeming to feed off the heat swelters and invades every nook and cranny. They brush against one another lacking order and structure. There are no rules in this piece of the world.

Our rickshaw thumps and careens through the solid wall of people. We squash together in the old space, surrounded by brightly colored ribbons, sequence, lays sold exclusively on this unnamed (as far as I can see) alleyway. This street is an inlet of a larger alley, selling only shoes.

As we jut down the alleyways the stares come in twos and threes. A wide eyed, unembarrassed gawk that lingers as we pass. White, here, is exotic. I see their eyes snapping pictures of my alabaster-ness as they slump against a wall, sit heavily on a stoop or wonder past in the other direction. They do not care that I see them seeing me. They smile and sometimes wave. A novelty.

These ancient paths- no more wide in places than the rickshaw jarring me in one direction and then the other- come together and apart. These paths are the veins of the city, bringing life and warmth to the shops and restaurants. The blood flow in these tiny capillaries is unbelievable. I fear they should burst and hemorrhage a hot bath of city in every direction. I love it.


Here's some shots from our trip to Old Town. And a sneak peak at the stuff for our next blog. Stay tuned.