Tag Archives: New Delhi

Happy birthday from Air India. Here, have a three hour delay (the lost blog entry)

Back when I was in India, I wrote a blog entry on my birthday that never quite made it onto the interwebs, due to a power surge killing my computer quicker than a fat girl kills her boyfriend while trying the cowboy position. Anyway, I found it on my computer amongst the porn and the photos of Gary Coleman, and here it is. So hold on tight as we travel back to India with me, we’re in for a bumpy ride.

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It’s my birthday today, and here’s what I’ve received so far; a hangover after spending the night drinking Kingfisher at a crappy bar on the roof of a dilapidated building while watching cows wander the streets of Delhi; the opportunity to wipe my arse with my hand because they don’t have toilet paper here, an act made even more fun by the fact my guts are garbage at the moment; and my flight to Jaipur delayed by three hours, meaning I’ve now been delayed a total of six hours in two flights with the idiots at Air India.

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Crappy birthday to me

I was planning to from Delhi to Jaipur by train, but as is usually the case in India, even buying a ticket for that was an arduous adventure fraught with danger, so I ended up going for the big bird in the sky and save myself the hassle. But hey, this is the Democratic Republic of India, so they’ll find a way to mess you around anyway!

The best thing about today was my driver to the airport, who sang the whole way. He had a terrible voice and I was wishing he’d spend more time looking at the road and less with his eyes closed, his hands in the air and his head wobbling around like it was on a spring, but it amused me anyway. When he asked for a tip at the end, I told him to sign up for India’s Got Talent. If I gave him money, he’d only waste it on curry anyway.

That’s the thing about Indian fellas, they’re simple blokes who only need a few things in their life, and they’re as happy as a pigs in shit. Give them cricket, curry, nice long-sleaved shirts, wacky music to dance to and the ability to waggle their heads from side to side and they’re good to go. Maybe throw in a few Westerners for them to rob, too.

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“Hey, I can see my house from here! Oh wait, that’s a toilet.”

I wish I was home for my birthday today. I’ve been away for it before, but never in a place as dreary as this, or after having spent a day as rubbish as the one I’ve had. It doesn’t feel like I’ve had a birthday at all, to be honest, although I suppose turning 32 isn’t an especially big occasion. Still, would a few strippers and a birthday cake made out of meat pies be too much for the Indians to organise? I got to talk to my Mum for about 20 seconds before the internet went out, and also to my nephew, who claims he’ll soon be competing in his school’s cross toilet race, which apparently involves urinating in every toilet the quickest. They didn’t have that when I went there, we just had Percy Playford, everyone’s favourite sex predator.

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It looks good from the outside, like an Easter egg with a turd inside it

I’m spending the night in a ridgy-didge authentic palace here in Jaipur, which makes me feel like a real life princess. You know, like Diana before she got killed, or Fergie before she got fat and red-headed. Well, I’d feel like more of a princess if the joint wasn’t run down, and if there weren’t Indian men urinating outside my window. And if there weren’t power surges and blackouts, and the sink wasn’t dripping constantly, and… Alright, so I’m in a bit of a shithole. I think I’m the only person staying in this 200 room hotel, and it doesn’t look like anyone else has been here for a while. I just went to the front desk to see if anyone could tell me what’s going on with the blackouts, and there was no-one there except for the retarded guy who works here and was sleeping on the floor like a dog.

Still, I’ve had worse birthdays. When i was 19 I went to Club Troppo with a girl for my birthday, and she had this gay friend with her. He might’ve been a midget, too, or at least really small. He kept on cracking onto me all night, asking if I went to the gym, offering me drinks, obviously trying to turn me into one of the gays. Anyway, I went off to chat with some of my friends, and when I came back the gay midget was fingering the girl I was seeing! I didn’t know whether to be more offended that she cheated on me, or that, or that my little gay mate found me so easy to replace.

Computer’s about to die and I don’t know when I’ll get power to it again. Bye bye!

Fuck the Taj Mahal, I’m gunna sit in my undies and watch cricket

When in Delhi, do as the Daleks do. And the blokes around here like cricket more than Indians likes curry (wait…), so I thought the day would be best spent watching Australia play in the final of the Cricket World Cup.

I had thought of taking a day trip over to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, but the city is meant to be a cesspit full of thieves and the building itself isn’t really that fancy (everything I read about it praises its symmetry. My car is symmetrical and so is my television, and my bed, and my fucking toaster, and people don’t come from around the world to see them) so I decided against it. To be honest, I’m hungover from my experiences yesterday. No, I didn’t manage to locate some booze, but the sensory overload has left me feeling really knocked around, and a day out of the noise and smog was exactly what I needed.

But if you really, really want to see a photo of the Taj, here’s some people I don’t know in front of it. Wow, that symmetry is so amazing!

This is Dunston. After 38 years of steadfast virginity, he travelled to India to find either a wife or a cheap prostitute. He attracts pickpockets like flowers attract bees, but so far all they’ve gotten from him are empty chocolate bar wrappers.
This is Dunston. After 38 years of steadfast virginity, he travelled to India to find either a wife or a cheap prostitute. He attracts pickpockets like flowers attract bees, but so far all they’ve gotten from him are empty chocolate bar wrappers.
Greg has a sefie stick, a GoPro and a moustache. He also has fingers that don't smell like vagina
Greg has a sefie stick, a GoPro and a moustache. He also has fingers that don’t smell like vagina

I just don’t really need to see some stupid building, just because it’s famous. At this point, I’d rather have my photo taken out the front of the Settlers, beer in hand. Oh, and being within close proximity of a toilet at all times has been a good idea, too. I’m surprised the can in my room hasn’t handed in its resignation letter.

It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’ll be spending it catching some shit plane to Jaipur. I saw Jaipur in some movie, but I don’t really care about going there, so I will have my birthday by the beach in Goa a few days, preferably with some European woman entertaining my penis. This is the first time I’ve ever been overseas for my birthday. I’m sad about being away from my family and friends, but it could be worse – last year I worked for The Picture and got kept back late by some clown who was pushing his bum chums out to the pub at the same time. Missed the football game I was meant to go with my mates, just so I could write some sexist shit that not even a toad would find funny.

It sucks to know that I spent that long writing for shit that never mattered, for a company that supports Nazis, for a boss who physically threatened me because he knew his desk and his position protected him. A man who has had his magazine cut time and time again while still hiring his friends for jobs they aren’t qualified for. I have hated myself every second of every day since I backed down from that prick.

Self indulgent? Totally. But it’s publishing, idiots will be self indulgent till they die. But, fuck it, they’re paying for every beer I buy, so fuck ’em.

Into the mouth of madness

A holiday in Delhi is about as relaxing as a picnic with Ivan Milat – with only slightly less chance of ending up dead. This place truly is a roundhouse kick to the senses; it’s frighteningly loud, blindingly bright, and somewhere that should be experienced for the shock factor alone.

A quiet side street in Delhi
A quiet side street in Delhi

When I stepped out of my hotel this morning, groggy and half asleep from my epic 30-hour journey from Bagan, I didn’t know what I was in for. The crush of people started as soon as I stepped out the front door, and didn’t let up as I wandered blindly through the streets. Horns blared constantly, drums thumped, people yelled. The smell of curry hung over the streets like a thick fog, and the blazing sun beat down on me. It’s everything I’ve been told it is, but nothing could prepare me for actually experiencing it.

So that's what Sachin Tendulkar has been up to since he retired
So that’s what Sachin Tendulkar has been up to since he retired

Yep, this place is busier than Candy Falzon’s ring piece at an end-of-season piss up. Beijing, Hong Kong and the other mega cities I’ve been to did nothing to prepare me for the overpowering tide of people here. Just walking around is the best form of sightseeing, but I did still go to the Lahore Gate (I’ve seen plenty of Lahore’s gates in the past, but this was the biggest. Alright, second biggest – the one on that chick from Canberra was so big I needed to lay a trail of bread crumbs just to find my way back out). Along with the Red Fort, it was nothing amazing, but a nice chance to (somewhat) escape the hordes and check out some old buildings.

Me with all my mates
Me with all my mates

As I was walking back, I got caught up in a street parade. I don’t know if today is a special day, or this sorta shit just happens all the time (they’re an excitable bunch, the Indians. They probably set off fireworks and dance down the street every time they crack a boner). They bloody loved me, though, and happy little chaps dressed in orange kept racing over to wiggle their arses for me.

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Imagine how happy he’d bee if India had actually won the cricket

The parade was big and loud enough to put the Gay Mardi Gras to shame, and there were very few blokes kissing each other, which is another tick. There were heaps of trannies on floats, though, so maybe it was just their version of the same thing. The trannies weren’t a patch on Rara and the Bali blokes-with-boobs, either – they were mainly fat blokes with too much makeup on.

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Oh sweet Jesus, she has a penis!

Everywhere I went, tuk-tuks were almost running into me, or people were bumping into me, or yelling at me, or trying to rob me. That’s a big problem here and something potential visitors need to be aware of – if you’re out and about, people will be watching you and working out how to nick your stuff. I constantly had seedy pieces of shit eyeing me off, and if I’d let my guard down for a moment, I would’ve found myself in trouble. It can be a dangerous city, but keep your wits about you and you’ll be fine.

There are horse-cow things here, too. Horse-fuckin'-cows!
There are horse-cow things here, too. Horse-fuckin’-cows!

After seven or so hours of walking through the insanity that is Delhi, it all become too much and I scurried back to my hotel room. It’s important to have a nice, quiet, clean place to stay in this city. The streets are such an epic mindfuck, on a level most people have never experienced before, that you need somewhere to hide away and relax. I truly can’t believe that people live this way, it’s just mental.

I'm so getting my sputum examined tomorrow. Hopefully by a spunky sheila!
I’m so getting my sputum examined tomorrow. Hopefully by a spunky sheila!

Tragically, it’s almost impossible to find beer in Delhi, which is probably for the best because dealing with this city after 10 cans would probably make a fella’s eyeballs explode. Oh well, I’ll see if I can find a curry hot enough to make my vision blur and allow me to convince myself that I’m better looking than I really am.

Someone get me a bloody beer!
Someone get me a bloody beer!

A monk gets dunked

I took a selfie with some Muslims (or they might've been African ghosts, it's hard to tell)
I took a selfie with some Muslims (or they might’ve been African ghosts, it’s hard to tell)

After the nine-hour trip from Yangon to Bagan, I never wanted to ride on another bus again. But there I was, two days later, climbing on the Bagan Minn Thar Express once again to make the return journey, this time overnight. And it wasn’t too bad, actually – for me, at least. There was a monk who didn’t have such a great time.

For the return trip I shelled out an extra four bucks to take the VIP (very infected penis) service, and was stoked to discover that not only did I not have to sit next to anyone, due to the coach having only three seats across instead of four, but also that there was no Myanmarese music to piss me off the whole way. Score!

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I ate a burger-like product from this shit roadside cafe that gave me the squirts. It was bad for me, it was worse for the monk

Sadly, the air conditioning was turned up so far that it was like Canberra in winter as we rolled along. I dunno, maybe we had some penguins on board or something.

After a few hours, we stopped and picked up a monk by the side of the road. Don’t ask me what he was doing in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a robe, but the plucky little chap climbed aboard, all smiles. And then the driver PUT THE MONK IN THE TOILET.

Sure, there were no spare seats, but it seemed weird for the monk to be made to sit in the toilet, rather than on the floor. I forgot about it and watched some shows on my laptop, until I was interrupted by the bus lurching violently from side to side. I don’t know if we hit something or blew a tyre, but we were rocking and rolling like Meatloaf on a bouncy castle. And then the toilet door banged open.

The monk staggered out, covered in shit, with only his big, smily teeth visible through the crud. I don’t know if he’d fallen into the brasco, or if all the turds had sorta exploded upwards when the bus went wonky, but he looked like a frozen banana dipped in chocolate. And he wouldn’t stop grinning, as if getting splashed with the arse juice of a thousand passengers was a blessing or something.

And then he just walked off the bus and into the night.

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That’s the only way he’s getting clean

As for the rest of today, it’s been garbage. I got into Yangon at 5am and have been at the airport ever since. And Yangon Airport ain’t a fun place to be stuck. There are no restaurants, no beer, and definitely no strippers. It’s now almost four in the arvo and my plane’s been delayed by three hours, so I’ve been sitting around watching endless loops of wacky Burmese TV ads. Seriously, every bloody ad they make is basically a high tempo pop song, whether it’s about noodles or hair care products.

Now I really wanna wash my hair with Galanz
Now I really wanna wash my hair with Galanz

Ahead of me I still have two flights, one to Kolkata and a connecting flight to New Delhi. I’m already half-mad with exhaustion, so by the time I get there I’ll probably be so tired I’ll pass out in the Ganges and wake up looking as filthy as my monk friend.

I’ve just gotta keep telling myself, “This is meant to be fun, this is meant to be fun, this is meant to be zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.