Delhi (India)

...a straightforward case of arteriosclerosis, Delhi is the outcome of consuming a McDonalds and three packets of cigarettes at every meal. Aesthetically, it can be equally pleasant.

Once you get past the grotesque horrors, however, there are a wealth of things to be done. The Red Fort is probably the most famous landmark Delhi possesses, but it's almost certainly not the most impressive. Not that this is what you will be thinking when ...
...visiting the main mosque in Delhi (worth a trip, though be aware that the flagstones in the central courtyard will be baking hot in the sunshine - the Indians seem unpeturbed, but if your soles haven't been subjected to a lifetime of abuse, and are not the consistency of cowhide, then keep to the shade), and were intending to visit the Sheraton hotel to eat at Bukhara; purportedly the best restaurant in Asia.

Worth a trip in its own ... more

I will always remember Delhi, though I am unconvinced it is entirely for the right reasons. Indubitably, the city is possessed of the omnipresent grime that clogs the capillaries of any developing metropolis; the difference being that where some such cities may be exhibiting a straightforward case of arteriosclerosis, Delhi is the outcome of consuming a McDonalds and three packets of cigarettes at every meal. Aesthetically, it can be equally pleasant.

Once you get past the grotesque horrors, however, there are a wealth of things to be done. The Red Fort is probably the most famous landmark Delhi possesses, but it's almost certainly not the most impressive. Not that this is what you will be thinking when you gaze up at the rearing parapets, shrouded in clouds of soaring black kites. And a word of caution - if a rickshaw driver takes you to the military entrance and says that the Fort is closed for refurbishment, he's pulling one of the most outrageous fast ones known to man. Similarly, don't accept the ride from the rickshaw-wallah who magically offers to open the Fort again, just for you, and charges you the princely sum of 20 rupees for the privilege - just walk the two minutes round the perimeter of the Fort and you can be pretty sure they'll be raking in their entrance fees as usual.

Far more impressive from my standpoint was Humayoun's Tomb, although I fear my memory of it may have been somewhat enhanced by an incident of amusement it caused me. The building itself is widely considered to be the prototype of the Taj Mahal, and it's almost equally appealing. A rich, red colour, one which you will see in the sandstone buildings throughout Delhi, it rises out of some beautiful gardens, where you will find some other family tombs of historical interest. The grounds themselves are extremely attractive, and evocative of an English park, complete with resplendent peacocks; it's really rather a pleasant place to be.

The reason I recall this particulary landmark, quite apart from its undoubted splendour and the magnificent sunset we saw there (if you can bring a decent camera with the right filters, then definitely do so; you can get a fabulous view down the promenade), is for a rather extenuated reason. That lunchtime, we had just come from visiting the main mosque in Delhi (worth a trip, though be aware that the flagstones in the central courtyard will be baking hot in the sunshine - the Indians seem unpeturbed, but if your soles haven't been subjected to a lifetime of abuse, and are not the consistency of cowhide, then keep to the shade), and were intending to visit the Sheraton hotel to eat at Bukhara; purportedly the best restaurant in Asia.

Worth a trip in its own right, Bukhara is ridiculously expensive as India goes - you can expect to pay around £15 for a main course, which I would consider a touch on the dear side in England. It's worth it for the experience alone, however, watching the cooks ply their trade through a glass wall at the side of the restaurant, and being fussed over in a way that makes you wonder what perfume you put on that morning, or if your clothes are looking particularly stylish today. However, we arrived a little too late for lunch (having had an absurd amount of trouble finding a rickshaw driver who had any idea where the Sheraton was or could decipher our mangled Hindi pronunciation of road names), and were directed to another cafe in the hotel complex, being told to try again at dinner time.

Content to sit down and soak up the air conditioning (but looking a bit out of place in clothes that had seen two weeks of travelling and two hours of Delhi - the latter being probably more detrimental), two friends and I were extremely excited by the prospect of salad, adopting the motto that has probably caused the downfall of many a Western tourist in India of 'If it's served in a ridiculously expensive hotel, it must be alright'. Of course, we didn't think of the air miles our mozzarella cheese must have acquired in its perhaps not so brief lifespan.

This all being said, two of us were absolutely fine. The problem was that our other friend, who had pretty much eaten plain rice and the odd chapatti for the entire holiday, and had been looking forward to his marinated leg of lamb in Bukhara for rather a long time, did not escape quite so lightly. After gradually acquiring a zombie-like pallor during the course of our wandering through Humayoun's grounds, he eventually dashed behind a tree with predictable results. To be fair to the lad, he demonstrated the requisite English stiff upper lip, and, stating in no uncertain terms that he was going to have his damned leg of lamb regardless of which end it made its reappearance from, he did in fact make it to the Sheraton.

The problem was that as soon as we got our table (which was remarkably quickly given it was fully booked - apparently somebody didn't turn up), nature called, and he disappeared to the gents. We chuckled over this for a good twenty minutes, before becoming slightly worried that he had either passed out or died in a cubicle. I went to look for him, and established with my ears that he was certainly not dead, though he seemed to be getting well along the way. Suffice to say, I cut my losses and returned to the dinner table pronto. That particular stomach bug endured for a few days, though I can happily say that I remained unaffected.

However, if you don't touch the mozzarella cheese in the Sheraton (or anywhere else), you should be alright in Delhi. Yes, you may get offered a bloodied goat's head in the market outside the mosque (quite what they expect you to do with it, I don't know), and yes, you will probably get ripped off at every possible opportunity unless you are a seasoned campaigner (and even if you are, don't underestimate the ingenuity with which you will be countered!). But Delhi has an odd, filthy charm, in the same way that a particularly flatulent and moth-eaten Rajasthani camel might be termed 'cute', and it is worth taking some time to get to grips with it.

There are a plethora of sights, which I can't possibly state at length; the tombs, mosques, and shrines abound and it's easy enough to find an exhaustive statement in the Lonely Planet guide, so I don't consider it beneficial for me to provide one here. Suffice to say that you won't be left wanting for things to do. Furthermore, if shopping is your thing, then you need look no further; if there is anything you can't buy in Delhi, then please let me know. As long as you have a long temper, all the time in the world, some nous and the courage to counter-offer about a tenth of the price you're given, then you'll be able to get everything you want. And what's more, you'll be a man, my son.

I can't recommend Delhi for its radiant beauty and fabulous weather - it's really rather grotty and the humidity is overpowering at times. However, I can recommend it for being one of the cultural melting-pots of the world, a colourful and vibrant festival of a city, with everything you could expect or want from an Indian metropolis and more. It's all to easy to skip through it in a couple of days and come out the other side barely alive, whispering 'Delhi is hell on earth', but as someone who has endured a night in Varanasi train station, I can tell you that it isn't even close. It's one of those places where you get out what you put in, and although I wouldn't call it relaxing, it has to be one of the most fun places I've been. 

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