City of Things

Short Version:
Chaos. Carnage. Things.

Long Version:
Our hotel room had no windows. It did have a fishtank though. Probably better than a window, to be honest, given the chaos taking place outside at all hours of day and night.

Even the animals were pulling loopy moves; from the hotel's rooftop restaurant, beneath a sky chock-full of wheeling, diving black kites*, we watched a slender cat attack a long-tailed chipmunk. It missed, nearly falling off the roof. Then a dog tried to eat the cat, but was chased by another dog. Bemused, we ate curry.

Eventually, we braced ourselves for the chaos and the carnage and set off out into the madness again.

There were a lot of people with things to sell. To us, preferably. Some of them were quite vehement about it, despite repeated avowals of extreme disinterest. And as soon as one extricated oneself from the clutches of one thing-seller, there was invariably another right there, ready to sell you THEIR things. And another. And then three more. Not waiting politely for their turn, either, because the only people who wait politely for their turn for anything in Delhi are newly-arrived NZers.

So, things. For you, the things. Cheap cheap. In fact, special price for you, my friend, because you are my friend, because you are from New Zealand, special price New Zealand, very nice country, Black Caps, rugby. You have very nice tattoos, my friend. Come look my things, best things, cheap cheap for you.


No. Fuck off. Don't touch me. Go away. Don't want your things. No. No. No. No.


Luckily, there was not-dying-from-traffic to concentrate on, to take minds off thing-selling people. Anyone who thinks the driving in Tauranga, or Auckland is bad, you're... well, actually you're absolutely correct. NZ drivers are appalling. Delhi traffic is different; it's bigger and scarier, and stinkier and generally mayhemic, but once past the initial pants-shitting stage, it starts to make sense, and then it starts to seem like an almost rational system. It'd never work in NZ, though - NZ drivers, cyclists and peds are all too selfish and too arrogant.

And all through the madness, cows wandered serenely, stopping at intervals to eat... well, things. Not grass, for grass there was none. Things. Some identifiable, others... not so much so. Some raw, some... you get the picture.

Delhi - City of Things







* = Birds, not string-controlled human-constructed flying items