After my valiant escape from the apartment, Mack's driver took me out of Gurgoan and into Delhi. The air was hot. The kind of heat that warms you all the way to your bones, then rapidly increases the temperature of your exposed skin to crispy roasting. Thank goodness for the air conditioned car, or my sun-deprived body would have given out from underneath me in about an hour.
Zipping along the highway, I was able to appreciate the scenery. Once I stepped outside to see Qutb Minar, I was asailed by another Indian treat: the smell. The air is too-full of everything: old food, old sweat, dust, pollution, refuge. The only smell more intense than the air was that of the men: the were strutting around riper than love apples. Despite my desire to be open-minded to culture and practice, I can to you honestly - I will not miss the smells.
At Qutb Minar, I paid the exorbitant foreigner entry fee (250 rupees, as opposded to 10 rupees for Indias), shook off a greasy, round man with a towel on his head who was determined to be my tour guide, and headed in. Inside, I listened to my audio guide and snapped pictures. It was all rather peaceful, surreal and pleasant. Two nearly toothless old women in saris, with buckets on their heads, gummed grins at me.
"Picture, picture!" They jerked their crooked fingers at my camera.
"You want a picture of me?" I was puzzled.
"No, no. Picture!" They pointed at each other.
"You want me to take a picture of you?"
The nodded enthusiastically.
"Ok." I focused my camera, and clicked. And no, I didn't realize I was acting like a tourist chump until after the shutter snapped.
"Money, money!" They held out their clawed palms. My face fell.
"Excuse me?"
"Money, money! Bucks, money!"
Giving money to strangers is always a tricky decision for me. Giving money for people trying to run a hustle on me, is not.
"Oh, I don't have any money." I looked around, pleasantly nonplussed. Try to trick me, will you? Tell me the price after the fact, eh? Well, two can play that game.
"Dollar, dollar!" They were not-quite-snarling. "Money" they clawed close to my purse.
"I only have a card." I made a swiping motion. "Card only. I'm sorry."
They looked at each other, and at me, with disgust. Too bad, should've talked money up front. They sauntered off to find other likely chumps, and I slunk around the backside of the ruins, to continue snapping photos in peace.
I had almost reached the gross-and-sweaty-head-back-to-the-car point when I was stopped by a young couple. I tried to step out of the way, assuming I was in the background of their photograph, when they spoke up.
"Can we take a picture with you?"
"With me? Erm...sure?"
Later, Mack told me this was a common occurrence. People love taking photos with foreigners. Being a person who hates shots of randos in my pictures, I can't relate. But I smiled nicely whenever I was asked.
Next up, the Bahai'i house.
Zipping along the highway, I was able to appreciate the scenery. Once I stepped outside to see Qutb Minar, I was asailed by another Indian treat: the smell. The air is too-full of everything: old food, old sweat, dust, pollution, refuge. The only smell more intense than the air was that of the men: the were strutting around riper than love apples. Despite my desire to be open-minded to culture and practice, I can to you honestly - I will not miss the smells.
At Qutb Minar, I paid the exorbitant foreigner entry fee (250 rupees, as opposded to 10 rupees for Indias), shook off a greasy, round man with a towel on his head who was determined to be my tour guide, and headed in. Inside, I listened to my audio guide and snapped pictures. It was all rather peaceful, surreal and pleasant. Two nearly toothless old women in saris, with buckets on their heads, gummed grins at me.
"Picture, picture!" They jerked their crooked fingers at my camera.
"You want a picture of me?" I was puzzled.
"No, no. Picture!" They pointed at each other.
"You want me to take a picture of you?"
The nodded enthusiastically.
"Ok." I focused my camera, and clicked. And no, I didn't realize I was acting like a tourist chump until after the shutter snapped.
"Money, money!" They held out their clawed palms. My face fell.
"Excuse me?"
"Money, money! Bucks, money!"
Giving money to strangers is always a tricky decision for me. Giving money for people trying to run a hustle on me, is not.
"Oh, I don't have any money." I looked around, pleasantly nonplussed. Try to trick me, will you? Tell me the price after the fact, eh? Well, two can play that game.
"Dollar, dollar!" They were not-quite-snarling. "Money" they clawed close to my purse.
"I only have a card." I made a swiping motion. "Card only. I'm sorry."
They looked at each other, and at me, with disgust. Too bad, should've talked money up front. They sauntered off to find other likely chumps, and I slunk around the backside of the ruins, to continue snapping photos in peace.
I had almost reached the gross-and-sweaty-head-back-to-the-car point when I was stopped by a young couple. I tried to step out of the way, assuming I was in the background of their photograph, when they spoke up.
"Can we take a picture with you?"
"With me? Erm...sure?"
Later, Mack told me this was a common occurrence. People love taking photos with foreigners. Being a person who hates shots of randos in my pictures, I can't relate. But I smiled nicely whenever I was asked.
Next up, the Bahai'i house.
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