HEATHROW – November 4th

There was a row of empty chairs, each one showing the angle at which it had been exited. Above them, the blank Air Oman screens, showing no flights. This felt ominous, and although I had nearly an hour before the flight, it was enough to make me sense the worst. Asked where the Air Oman people were, the two bored BA staff shrugged, and one grunted “Don’t know…they’ve closed.”

The other one helpfully added “How do we know, it’s not our airline”

I raced to the information desk, where I imagined friendly, helpful people might live, but no, this is England in 2011, and I was interrupting a conversation between 4 colleagues with my petty worries. A fat, middle aged woman with sleepy eyes looked at me dolefully. Then looked at her screen, tapped a few keys.

“Sorry you missed it, the Air Oman desks have closed”

“You’ve got to be kidding, CAN’T YOU RING SOMEONE?”

“Sorry Sir, once they close the desks, they don’t allow people through”

“But there’s a WHOLE HOUR!”

“You’ll have to get another flight, let me check for you…”

“I DON’T WANT ANOTHER FLIGHT, I WANT THIS ONE…THE ONE I’VE PAID FOR!

I’d already been cleaned out by human vermin that had broken into my flat and loaded up on pricey camera gear, there was no way I was going to fork out over £1K for a last minute flight. My phone was buzzing, it was Jarvis, who I imagined had already gone through and was sitting pretty or idly browsing the tax free shops. He sounded happy as a pig in shit.

“Hey dude what’s happening”

“They won’t let me through, so I’m not going”

“Ahh, you’re joking aren’t you?”

“I wish I was, but seriously, I’m not going to get there. Apparently you’re already boarding”

“We’re not boarding yet, we haven’t even gone through”

Suddenly, like a genie out of a lamp, an air Oman official materialised, offering to grant me just the one wish.

“You’ll have to hurry sir, there’s no time”

I rammed the bag onto the scales. I figured that if that mutha was on there, I was on my way to India. As I watched it get swallowed up by the hatch, the sheer joy cancelled out my desire to go back and ring the neck of the woman who gave me no hope.

Then they appeared, my two travelling companions, who I had never met before, but embraced like old friends. India was on.

The first leg of the journey was to Muscat in Oman. After some haggling over seats, we managed to get some all sitting together. It was a spanking new plane, a huge beast decked out in neutral tones. I sat next to Frankie, the sole female member of our little group. I knew she was a nervous flier but so far she seemed calm. Then later, as they were running through the safety drills, I suddenly noticed a small animal in Frankie’s lap. Its fur was grubby looking and she was frantically fondling its long droopy ears. What madness is this? I thought. Here was this big girl, a bright university student, kneading a toy rabbit comforter – by projecting onto this was she somehow hoping that her shredded nerves would be calmed and ‘rabbit karma’ would prevent our big bird from plunging into the sea? This was most unusual, and made me wonder how much I would see of this particular marsupial once she was confronted with the stresses and strains that India was sure to throw at us.

By the time we touched down in Muscat, we were all feeling frazzled and ravaged. There was an hour to kill so I sucked on mango and guava juice and bought some grade A Frankincense rocks – there was no telling how putrid and stinking those hotels were going to be. The final leg was just two and a half hours, and we touched down in Delhi at 3:30, ready for whatever the Gods and Demons were going to throw at us.

DELHI, 5^th November

Emerging from New Delhi airport, foggy headed and sleep deprived, our first mission was to book a taxi without being ripped off by the vultures that were sure to circle and swoop in on our tender tourist necks.

It was time to consult the lonely Planet tome for cash saving tips and advice – it should also sharpen us up for any impending scams. Frankie was already on the phone to her parents, tapping them for advice – I pictured them at home in the flock wallpaper study, a remote consul, poised and ready to plough the internet at a moment’s notice. All I cared about was getting to the hotel in one piece, with my pockets still full of rupees. Mum and dad would surely take care of the skyrocketing mobile phone bill.

In contrast to Frankie, Jarvis seems quiet and reserved, maybe a little unsure of himself, maybe not the sharpest tool in the box. Occasionally though, he comes out with the odd witty remark, which he mumbles with a thick Welsh accent. As we hurtle, full throttle into the hornet’s nest that is Delhi, flanked by buzzing motorbikes, honking vans and hulking great busses, everyone vying for road space, all ignoring the white lines, I get the sense that he’s having his mind peeled open like a tin can and all of Delhi is pouring in there – the filth, the roadside monkeys, the derelict grimy shops, the battered vehicles, the weary cattle, the insane traffic and the madness of this whole scene.   

The cab driver clearly doesn’t have a clue where he is headed, and he’s jamming the nose into any crevice that opens up between the cars. I have no idea how we are not being battered to a crumpled heap. Is he feigning confusion just to rack up the rupees? He certainly looks convincing as he does battle with the swarming, crowding vehicles – half looking, aiming our bumper at oncoming rickshaws and tuk-tuks, he plugs his phone into a mass of filthy wires on his lap. The thing comes alive and he makes desperate sounding calls to a remote navigator. We’ve now clocked up over an hour driving time and over 600 rupees and the Satyam hotel is still no where in sight.

Finally, through the smog, MYBAR glows like a beacon. Maciej has told us this is next door to the Satyam so we know we’re just yards from our rooms. It’s a ramshackle joint and looks barely habitable. The street cop doesn’t like where we’ve pulled up and there are heated exchanges. I dish out every rupee I have and our bags are tossed from the car boot like dead pig carcasses.

HOTEL SATYAM

On first sight, the Satyam is a filthy hole, nestled up against the Hells ditch that is ‘the Main Bazaar’. On closer inspection, it reveals itself as a truly wretched little dive with

an abundance of strip lighting and shady men loitering in the reception area. We are led up to our rooms on the second floor, bracing ourselves. Frankie is shown her room first. Upon entering it, she wretches. They’ve sprayed the place with industrial strength bug zapping chemicals, a stench that hangs in the air and burns our nasal passages. To add to the ambiance, a filthy looking sweat stained bed with threadbare sheets and ferociously bright lighting. This is going to be our home for three days.