At least, a consolation after the cold nights, it is finally getting warmer again. If there's something I can't stand, it's those days when you never really get warm, when every hint of warmth is blown away in a matter of seconds by a cold breeze, an open window, an unheated restaurant.
Therefore our warm socks and blankets disappear to where they belong, in the bottom drawer.
DAK Bungalows
After yesterday's exertions, there is little desire to drive long distances once again, but this remains a pious intention. Shortly after Jammu, we finally meet up with our long-term companions again - we had lost them in the meantime - but they have decided to continue on to Ludhiana, just under 300 km, so what the heck. So we set off to find a place to stop at our destination before nightfall to find a DAK Bungalow.
A dak bungalow or a dak house is a government building in British India under Company Rule and the Raj at this time. These accommodations are our preferred place to stay in India, they provide everything we need: a garden where we can park our vehicles, toilets and showers and just peace and quiet after all the chaos outside the walls.
The usual drudgery
Sometimes we believe that we have adapted to the road conditions in India, that our nerves have become steel girders and that nothing and nobody can upset us anymore.
Today proves that none of this is true. The roads as such are better than expected, but the traffic on them is pure India. Cyclists who don't want to get out of the way even when the horns are honking at a hundred decibels. Pedestrians on the road to nowhere. Dogs mating in the middle of the road. Cars, most of them run-down but drivable, and then of course the trucks and buses.
The masters of the road!
The first painful lesson for every driver in India - the bigger one always gets the right of way. The bicycle has the right of way over pedestrians (who at best have the right of way over dogs), the car has the right of way over bicycles, the truck or bus has the right of way over everything, probably even over God, if he were to venture onto Indian roads (and wonder whether something went wrong during the creation of the world, especially the human species).
For us, although we are a kind of a hybrid between a car and a truck, it means that the only way to avoid a collision with overtaking or oncoming trucks or buses is to brake brusquely or swerve onto the grass.
So the day doesn't end well, our nerves are shattered, and when the Resthouse in Ludhiana is also closed to tourists because a high-ranking official is supposed to be staying overnight, we have had enough and wish all Indians with all our hearts to hell.
Chandigarh
On the way to Delhi, we pass what is probably the world's most famous retort city - Chandigarh.
Chandigarh is a large city in northern India. It was built in the 50s according to the plans of the architect, architectural theorist and urban planner Le Corbusier (1887-1965). The city is divided into almost 60 sectors, essentially small villages on a large scale, and a third of the area is left to nature.
As from Swiss origin, we should be proud that the city was essentially designed by a (albeit very controversial) fellow countryman. The first impression is not bad - green spaces between the buildings, wide avenues, no rubbish along the streets, but the city remains, or precisely because of that, sterile, stiff, lifeless. Many years later there is a similar post about Doha – The Imitation of Life!
In the Square of Powers, surrounded by buildings that really can only have been the product of Le Corbusier's imagination, pride sticks in the throat. The discrepancy between the unspeakable poverty of the population and these magnificent buildings, that belong more to Manhattan than to India, is painful.
On taking off, we are glad to leave these cold concrete structures surrounded by such a vibrant world behind.
An angry reporter
But the subject doesn't let go of us so quickly. A pretty young Indian woman, who turns out to be a reporter - young, attractive, career-conscious - for a local newspaper, grabs the innocent tourists. Obviously with the aim of eliciting as many positive things about her city as possible.
But it's definitely not her day, because the supposedly enthusiastic hippies quickly turn out to be pretty skeptical contemporaries. We are interviewed with all the tricks of persuasion - the voice is gentle, the eyes are challenging. And not surprisingly, her questions are suggestive; she wants at least a nod, or even better, words of approval. You can't blame her.
Whether it's a bit of shame at having to confess a Swiss of all people to be the author of this monstrosity, or the stress on India's roads - in any case, we are annoyed and anything but willing to listen to her praise.
At the word "anachronism", her forehead creases deeply for the first time, which doesn't suit her beautiful face at all, but as we list all the weaknesses and problems described above, the interview is over from one moment to the next. With one last disdainful glance over her shoulder, she walks off, the photographer, who can't help but grin secretly, in her wake.
The first elephant
As much as it may come as a surprise, the roads remain good throughout. Everything else remains the same: borderline idiotic cyclists, relaxed water buffaloes and zebus, exasperated drivers whose honking concerts mistreating the ears.
However, a very positive surprise awaits us in the afternoon, in many ways a compensation for the bad morning - a real elephant with a mighty painted head waddles past, passengers swinging on its back with proud expressions on their faces.
And another surprise – the camp where we want to spend the night is a revelation. Not only is it pleasant and equipped with everything our heart desires, it is well maintained and of a quality that we haven't encountered in a long time.
Arrived at the destination
Then the last kilometers to Delhi, and hey, contrary to expectations, we actually arrived at the destination after a good 10000 kilometers. Not always with pleasure, but the problems have taught us to take things as they are and to look for solutions.
That's at least is something.
Our glorious entry with trumpets and trombones is just a pain in the ass. Neither trumpets nor trombones, just streets without names and useless maps.
It is doubtful whether anyone knows the number of inhabitants. A few million more or less doesn't matter, and their number changes from day to day. The top ten thousand live on the outskirts of the city, where the heat and noise and everything else that defines this city is barely noticeable.
Most residents, on the other hand, are less fortunate. Their houses are not cooled, if they live in anything like buildings at all. Thousands of people live on the streets, on the sidewalks, in backyards, with all their luggage and children and everything.
And in the morning, very early, the trucks drive up, load those who died during the night onto the loading bridge and take them away (before any tourists might see them).
That's the way it is – India polarizes. You love it or you hate it. Black or white, nothing in between. And yet I always come back later to India..
After what feels like hours, we reach Connaught Place, the center of the city, but the Irwin Hospital, close to the campsite we are looking for, once again proves to be a mirage and forces us to do what we have learned to hate in the meantime - searching for something in the middle of nowhere.
Boy Scouts and crowded campsites
With the last liters of fuel - who would ever think of such problems - we barely make it to the aforementioned campsite, which to our surprise is full. With the very last drop we reach another site, which is supposed to be in the south of the city and is described as a boy scout campsite. A boy scout campsite?
That actually sounds pretty good, but what awaits us is anything but good. A few hundred young people actually seem to be holding something like a jamboree. We are generously allowed to stay (“a good deed every day”), pay 3 rupees and prepare ourselves for all sorts of unpleasant things.
It starts with the sanitary facilities, which - it's hard to describe without taking the olfactory factor into account - consist of a few holes in the ground that we have to share with a few million flies when we use them.
Did I mention the heat? It hisses at you as soon as you leave the car (which is not cooled, but somehow provides a certain level of protection). So after the cold in Kashmir, now the heat in Delhi. This is probably how Dante Alighieri imagined hell when he thought about the worst torments while writing the Divine Comedy.
However, the real climax of the day (or hell) happens in the middle of the night. Apparently they are celebrating a festival that begins relatively harmlessly with a campfire, but quickly develops into a maneuver exercise in true Prussian tradition. This includes loudspeakers and announcements and music and cheers from hundreds of voices.
Only tiredness saves us from having to listen to the noise any longer.
Matching song for the year: Bad Company – Run with the Pack
And here the trail continues… in Delhi
