DELHI - Beep If You're Driving

Never again shall I complain on the loudness of roads anywhere in the world. They are quiet, restful places of personal contemplation. The M4 on a Friday morning, or the LA freeway on a Tuesday afternoon are places of ordely conduct and the upmost respect for the rules. Delhi's roads are a free for all. Ruled by the maniacs, respected by only the biggest Mercs and used by everyone. Red lights? Lanes? Merely squiggles on the road and pretty coloured posts. It's a chaos which everyone understands and which very few ever come to harm on. This is India: madness of living a life whilst the sun beats down.


The five merry ladies of Delhi and my companions for the last leg of this trip. Lauren, Mollie, Sarah, Sibohan and Sarah (remember her?)

Living arrangements are one guaranteed source of amusement. Unlike Brazil where our volunteer squad was scattered around our home city in separate families, all six of us are sharing one roof in the scarily named but very pleasant Defence Colony. Our host is Colonel Bindra (Indians like their titles. And ours really is a bona fide Colonel with twenty five years service behind him) who after seven years of retirement has decided he wants to enter the tour industry by opening his house to groups of foreign tourists. We are his trial run and therefore are treated to all the comforts of home, both Indian and foreign. Lisa Kudrow's purple eyed visage stares out from imported napkins, showers run whenever they are wanted abliet always cold or tepid and the toilet roll, a rarity in this counry, is endless and pink.


Government House and one of the many relics of British colonisation built on a massive scale. Perhaps to try and upsurp the city's indigenous places of worship which are also massive.

Work at our school placements begins on Monday. Myself and the Sarahs are working in the special education section of one of the local schools which, in the proud tradition of many former British colonies, keeps to familliar British syllabuses and impeccable school uniforms. With an exciting sideline in social action and responcibility. Indian poverty is, like Brazil, a part of life but, unlike Brazil, is integrated into the middle classes way of thinking. Sometimes in literal ways: most houses employ servants (which poses the usual quandry: servitude versus unemployment) and sometimes simply in the designated areas where beggars can congregate and collect arms.


The seedy underbelly of a Delhi subway. Which means, uh, a couple of dogs trying to get out of the sun. Or maybe even cows if the steps are easy enough to climb down.

You might think of Delhi as a seedy place but, really, it just isn't. It's dirty, dusty and the chaotic road system means a pavement is no guarantee of pedestrian access. But you're more likely to get ripped off by a westernised travel agent than a market stall holder. Or so we've been told. Certainly what passes for a tour is an interesting experience. Seven hours on a coach with Hindi/English commentary is a fascinating way to spend a day (Hindi has picked up not only modern English words to add to its vocabulary but also whole turns of phrase. In a mobile phone shop you can expect to understand everything which is said until pricing becomes the issue, at which point the words "rip off" and "debit card" are all that can be gleaned. I'll stick to postcards.)


The Lotus Temple which marks the centrepoint for world Ba'hia. Now I don't claim to be an expert but it seems to be all about collective love, peace and sitting in silence for a few minutes in the Indian equivalent of Sydney Opera House until the next group comes shuffling in. All very bizarre but, as you can see, rather popular. The Hindu temples and rituals are much more impressive. More on those at a later date.

One name which crops up a lot is that of the Ghandis. Many of them lived and died, and usually violently, in this city. They are the closest thing to royalty or perhaps more aptly, the Kennedy family. Life as a Ghandi, whether Mahatma, Indira or Rajiv consists of growing up with an international education, discovering a social conscience and then waiting for assassination (and giving speeches pertaining to that fact, starting "If I am not here tomorrow...") And yet they are perhaps the closest thing Delhi has to organsation in the chaos. Sonja Ghandi is seen by many as the potentiol link to India's continued development and relations with the west. Whilst we were touring Indira Ghandi's house, and the spot where she was assisinated, the road ahead was closed for Sonja's motorcade to pass. For a few minutes not only did every car stop running, but so did the horns and the shouts. And then the barriers came up, and somewhere someone started screaming about how good their bottled water was.