Waxy Scoop Denial

Short Version:
No, I'll keep my earwax thanks. Shopping. Old things. New things. Special dance, special ink, special drink.

Long Version:
A man tried to sell us his services as a deep ear-cleaner. He had a metal scoop on the end of something akin to a chopstick. We declined. He insisted. We declined. Repeat. Eventually, he set off in search of more amenable dirty-eared whiteys. Of course, this being India, one of his competitiors had moved into the breach before we could say "Jeepers, what a persistent earwax-scooping chap that was!"

We declined all de-waxing services, and went shopping.
Hooray.
Although it's not every day that Evil Indian Robin Williams tries to sell you a carpet made from NZ wool.

We skipped the original shopping complex we'd been aiming at in favor of one which:
a) came more highly recommended by various locals, and;
b) did not have a massive protesting crowd of hat-wearers outside.

After shopping, the National Museum beckoned. Because museums have hands.
We'd read that there was stuff at the National Museum, and that the National Art Gallery was next door for once we were done museuming, so we found a tuk-tuk and tootled off. Tootled is possibly not the most appropriate word for what we actually did - it's a good word for what you expect a tuk-tuk to do based on how it looks, but the actual experience involves much higher g-forces and a LOT more adrenaline than tootling does. Especially when the route goes through one or more of the large roundabouts that punctuate Delhi's major roads.

The museum itself had, as promised, a lot of stuff. 200,000 items, apparently. We weren't allowed to see some of it: there was an ejection of a Puppet from the Restricted Access library, and a number of galleries - including the musical instrument section - were closed for redevelopment, which was a pain in the nethers. Having said that, we still saw a lot of stuff, some of it vastly aged (various Harappan artefacts, dated to around 3000BCE), some of it just plain vast (a 5-storey, intricately-carved war chariot), some vastly cool (a tribal tiger hammered from silver). Many ancient statues of gods and goddesses. Some of the goddesses had vast breasts.

Back at the main entrance hall, we were admiring a statue of Shiva Varanam (Shiva as a dwarf) as a final farewell to the museum when we heard music from a side room. Poking a head through the door (past the ubiquitous smiling, armed, uniformed, moustachioed guard) we saw a stage, with colorfully-dressed dancing people upon it. We slipped inside, and took up station towards the back of the room*.

Unlike the Dilli Haat dance, where the same four people performed a series of long pieces, this recital was more of a barrage of short dance numbers, each performed by a different group or soloist. And each dancer was extra-special, because this was an International Disability Day performance that culminated in a truly grand and epic final number in which all 20+ dancers took the stage more-or-less at once, and danced more-or-less in unison, or at least near each other. Many dancers appeared to have been paired so that a more-competent could lead a more-pliable through the steps. The overly-excitable guy who started doing star-jumps and hooting earned a talking-to from the conductor, which calmed him down enough that he was able to take his place alongside the twisted dwarf girl for what appeared to be a tug-of-war against a girl with Downs, using a tiny girl instead of a rope.

Post-applause, we slipped away, and took a tuk-tuk to the park, where we watched the sun set huge and orange in the haze-laden sky. We were passed on the way by a new Lamborghini Aventador**, which slowed down for a red light just long enough for us - and everyone else nearby - to ogle it before it roared off through the still-red light and away into the distance.

Hungry, we found ourselves amid a streetfood festival. Great combo!
Then we found a pedestrian underpass beneath the busy street, where unlicensed tattooists of dubious qwality were drawing on people. Being inky and pakeha, we were of as much interest to them as they were to us, so we chatted for a while before heading on, to the undies store where we found some undies, and then to the Imperial Hotel, where we gatecrashed an embassy shindig, blundered through the middle of the high-faluting 1911 restaurant, and settled gratefully onto comfy barstools and were served politely and efficiently by impeccably-groomed staff wearing Raj-era uniforms. We ate chips and peanuts from hefty crystal tumblers, and drank cocktails which cost more than our usual total daily food and beverage spend. Lucky we got into those peanuts!







* = Not that the Dilli Haat experience had taught us to position ourselves for a quick and unobtrusive exit in the event that it became necessary or anything

** = Want one? They cost Rs3.69 crore. That's 36.9 million rupees, or USD$750,000.