I'm in India

First thought: Oh My God I'm in India. 

Second thought:  Hey, this airport is nice!  Apparently it has been rated as fourth best in the entire world, though I always wonder who's doing the ratings.  Still, there are posters everywhere stating "We are fourth best!" and who would say that if it wasn't true?

We landed in New Delhi after a few days in London wondering if we could survive the expense of merely breathing.  Did you know a single ride on the London Underground is US$7.50?  Even with special day-passes that allowed us full access to the subways and busses it cost US$100 for two of us to get around for four days.  Compare that with today's lunch in the Tibetan district of Delhi: six of us shared soups, 32 large and varied dumplings, one of the best crispy honey-chicken dishes I've ever met, copious veggie fried rice, and ten beverages.  The total including the tip: $3 a head.   Of course, familiar Western items are not quite as easy to find and cost considerably more: our gracious American hosts paid $80 for their Thanksgiving turkey.  Fortunately it was "pre-killed"--something that needs to be specified.

New Delhi is a complex maze of fabulous wealth, unconscionable poverty, gargantuan pristine buildings alongside sprawling condemnable slums.  There's air, water, noise and nerve pollution that redefines the scales. Our residence at the US Embassy runs four air-purifiers and six fans 24-7 and still the maids have to dust twice a day to keep the grime from accumulating on the dining room table.  Yes, it is really THAT BAD.  An estimated 18 million people are burning coal, dung and plastic bottles to keep warm this time of year, though the temperature is comparable with Jacksonville.

In Delhi, whatever your mind conjures when considering a task, event or destination, the reality contrasts.  For example, we took a private tour through the city's central spice market, the main distribution center for the myriad cooking spices that make Indian food so distinctive.  We were told it was set inside an old, ornate palace dating back a few hundred years, and we would bear witness to hundreds of merchants moving shipments of the special delicacies.  Close your eyes and picture it based on that description: the mind imagines a mini-Taj Mahal-type structure filled with stalls holding crates of fresh chili peppers, vanilla beans, assorted elements for curries, and trucks moving in and out to send the parcels to the restaurant purveyors throughout the region.

Now click to my other blog (http://airscapes.blogspot.com) to see the reality of the Indian Spice Market:

Hundreds of people living and working in filthy squalor, maneuvering between rickety wiring, multifarious levels and steps that would send Escher's pen spinning, stray dogs amass, feces or all sorts, soapy morning bathing waters running down the walls, people squatting to eat plates of fresh-cooked food heated on smelly kerosene burners, frightening piles of rotting garbage (sometimes smoldering) and yesterday's clothes hanging in the murky air to dry in the morning sun.   Loads are pushed and carried on carts and bicycles.  There are no trucks.  There are no computers.  There is no plumbing.  There are few lights.  Orders are tracked in notebooks with single sheets of overused carbon paper.  This is not a Wal-Mart Distribution Center, and yet, somehow, perhaps miraculously, the spices come in and the spices go out--and this is epicenter of the industry.

On to Rishikesh....