Delhi (In): backpackers, the smell and cleavage

For: Javier Brandoli (text) and Olga Moya (photos)
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It's only seven o'clock. Mechanical doors open from the international terminal and a strong stench shakes my face. I've taken two steps in Delhi and the city and its harshness teaches me. Smells, smells of all, even the air I have a feeling that is solid. I take my backpack and a mob of taxi drivers pounces on me. Business to end a price and get on a car that looks like on the road volatilize. Where will? "Voy a Paharganj, esquina in the Main Bazaar New Delhi Train Station y ". I said as if he knew where he was, with an assurance that it was diluted as it moved that mass of iron and the window was staged after a chaotic world, at that time too weird.

From the car I notice there are people sleeping on the asphalt of the highway itself, attached to the shoulder. They are lying on a floor and must burn, no order, Row, under bridges or in the shade of a tree. They sleep from smoke and noise for all but insurmountable for these disinherited. Out of my car the world is a chaos of rickshaw (mototaxis) that slip through impossible corners, vans, cars ... The sound of honking vehicles soon realized that is the soundtrack of the city. Social castes also be noticed in the road: taxi-bike rickshaw give way to , they give way to private cars of inferior quality and the right lane open for the best cars of more capacity and more careful enamel. India takes its social convictions turning the wheel left or sleeping quietly in rubble, without complaint.

India takes its social convictions turning the wheel left or sleeping quietly in rubble, without complaint

Llego the Main Bazaar. I look out the window as payment and I have the urge to beg the driver to not leave me there, in the neighborhood of the colony Alpha-Omega, sixth galaxy, my eyes. I'm keeping my backpack waiting for Olga, a great friend, full of illusions and impossible I knew that years traveling and we are always in places and situations peculiar. From this corner it happens life I had never referred to in this magnitude. Cross starving cows that graze freely among hundreds of people carrying bags and bags larger than their bodies, the cars bicis. Everything is a movement disorder that has the distinction of being of thousands of people at once. You see people urinating, haircut, try to sell you all kinds of objects, run, smoke, cook, circumvent the traffic ... At 20 minutes she comes, going quietly, and with eyes smiling at what cool where I live?

Olga is staying in Paharganj. He lives in a little over a year touring Asia and is now anchored in India acting as a guide until you get bored. This neighborhood of Delhi's backpacker area and seekers of life. They say it's one of the most dangerous areas of the city, but nothing in this place looks like a risk not survive. We stayed at the Inn Cozzy, christened the resort, whose price per night is less than five euros. My room has a bathroom, (say something), bed, (say something) and views of a junkyard (to summarize). It is a hole, but has its charm. The area has several Inns of rasta and thong.

I remember the book I read days before the Italian genius Pasolini, "The smell of India", in which he states that the Indians smile but not laugh out loud

India decides to get involved soon Olga vein, no half measures. I decide to leave for the first time in a while my camera at the hotel (did not do any photo in Delhi. There would be advanced with a camera of the first corner where there was a picture in every place that looked). We arrived at the Great Mosque, Jama Masjid, most of the city. Facing the imposing Red Fort, was built between 1644 and 1658 by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan. We walked barefoot through the burning ground and out we go into the life of Old Delhi and its crowded markets, which once had a protective wall and 14 gateways. The merchandise is exposed in every square inch, by soil, no room to just walk. The smell of urine mixed with the smell of species and the smell of human crowds. Each hidden alley stalls, baskets or blankets sold in the world and their debris. The market is infinite, seems as big as the city. The smell, Always odor, haunts me every step. I notice also that I hear laughter. I remember the book I read days before the Italian genius Pasolini, "The smell of India", in which he states that the Indians smile but not laugh out loud. It seems certain, There is even a gesture in his eyes content.

Then we get into a Sikh temple, Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. Nice, peaceful, white marble, is an icon of one of the most charismatic religions of the country, Sikhism, practicing in the world around 24 million people. There are men with their turbans, their long beards and their beliefs in a spirituality that blends elements Muslims and Hindus. Leaving give me a fresh pasta on hand that might not look before putting in your mouth (so I). We might even have eaten at the temple itself free.

A guy stuck his head to look at your chest stand (literal). They do it with as much innocence as impudence

We return to the street, the messy world, and note that each step is scrutinized Olga, especially in the area from the chin to the navel. It strikes me in the street look with all the Indians nerve Olga's cleavage. At first I thought it was up to me, until within a rickshaw type put his head to look at your chest stand (literal). They do it with as much innocence as impudence. We drank it in jest and it showed her training months tattooed eyes. (I remember days, and Nepal, we swam in a pool and all men ran a wedding around us staring at the girl in a bikini. I think it went to the boyfriend, the father and the father of the father).

So passed my first day in India too, the only place I've traveled in the world where I had the feeling that overwhelmed me. We ended the evening on al Cannought Place, area semi pija, taking a few mojitos under an air conditioner that was used to detach the body T. But, it does better? was coming: the night I woke up with an Indian holding my hand and giving me slapping (promises, I know). Continued ...

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  • Goyo

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    Fuck, This really is an open end…

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