Day 6 - Saturday 5 November
Award myself a late lie-in. My slight feverishness and croaky dust-laden cough are beginning to ease with doses of paracetamol, and I go for a herbal cough mix which also helps . On the way back, a persistent shoe-shine "boy" eventually gets me to agree to use his services for 10 rupees. He then points out that the uppers and soles of both my shoes are beginning to part company, whips out a long steel needle and thread, and (with difficulty - he makes a point of showing me his calloused fingers) sews them back together. Needless to say, his fee is considerably inflated - by 3,000%, in fact - and I have some tough bargaining to do. I can't just walk away (the usual ploy) as he still has my shoes.
What a time I spend negotiating charges. Well-run hotels have priced laundry lists, but at the Surya Plaza it's a game of "think of a number". Initially this works to my benefit as it seems the dhobi (laundryman) makes a minimal flat-rate charge per item - shirts, pants, trousers, socks (counted as two). But today it breaks down. Ricky takes my daily socks, pants and shirt and says it comes to Rs. 250 - about £3.50. I pull them out of his grasp, drop them back on the floor and say "naheen" fairly forcefully. He picks them up again, smiles in his knowing way, and says Rs. 150. I pull them back, throw them on the floor again and say "No, too much. No do laundry," shaking my head puposefully. Which is silly, because a shake of the head means "yes" to an Indian, so he is genuinely confused. I resort to shooing him out of the room as it is the only way to bring this exchange to a clear conclusion. I hope it's not just meanness on my part; there is a small principle at stake.
My plan is to visit the Swaminarayan Akshardham, a huge theme-park of a temple and exhibition centre, which was recommended by some people Sara and I met at our B & B last year. Getting there involves crossing the Yamuna river (by metro flyover) and I can verify that, as the books state, the river waters are totally black. The Ganges is fresh as a Himalayan stream by comparison. I get out one station too soon (guidebook out of date) and end up taking a cycle rickshaw which has to be part-carried over a motorway by pedestrian walkway. The coach parks by the Centre are full and thousands of fellow tourists are swarming in as I approach. This is Disney meets Delhi for real. I am ushered to the first queue for the luggage office where I must leave my mobile and camera in a locked safe. Then I notice the length of queue no. 2 (for the ticket booths), and it makes me feel a bit wobbly at the knees. So I duck out. Pity I shall probably never see the replica holy footprints, pour Ganga water over a golden yogi, or take the "spectacular 14-minute boat ride through 10,000 years of Indian culture." A bit more succinct than my talks, then.
So I head back to the nearer metro line and take trains to Haus Khaz instead. Trouble is, I haven't brought either map or guide, and can't for the life of me remember what I'm supposed to see there. First up is a sizeable patch of tamed and pathed forest park. It's almost beautiful, full of trees (as you'd expect), colourful birds, mongooses and not-quite-snogging couples. I see two spotted deer but fail to catch sight of any of the 61 rabbits that are said to live there (though the sign may be out of date by now). There's a DIY fitness trail with helpful instructions, e.g. "Straddle Walk: walk strapping either side of legs jump hurdles jump of with both feet. Though fifty, nothing wrong looking twenty." Indeed not. Unofficially, a Mr Sagar has stuck adverts to the littler bins advertising massage for "nake pain". I wonder if he could undo the damage done by the previous two?
I take tea (English style - i.e. not pre-mixed - but with hot milk) in a posh restaurant with comfy sofa seats, then head on through Haus Khaz Village to the real attraction, a collection of huge part-ruined royal fourteenth century structures overlooking a lake with fountain. The sun (almost visible through the smog) is setting, and it's truly magical. The "village" is an enclave (Delhi word) of up-market boutiques and bistros and well-to-do Delhiwallas are much in evidence. I notice the Dental Arcade offering "best teeth renovation" (not worth bothering with the others) but the car park warns "No Parking: tyres will be deflated". One of the cafes is hosting a "Nineties Theme Night" tonight, but I head back instead. I obviously lack a sense of history.
Award myself a late lie-in. My slight feverishness and croaky dust-laden cough are beginning to ease with doses of paracetamol, and I go for a herbal cough mix which also helps . On the way back, a persistent shoe-shine "boy" eventually gets me to agree to use his services for 10 rupees. He then points out that the uppers and soles of both my shoes are beginning to part company, whips out a long steel needle and thread, and (with difficulty - he makes a point of showing me his calloused fingers) sews them back together. Needless to say, his fee is considerably inflated - by 3,000%, in fact - and I have some tough bargaining to do. I can't just walk away (the usual ploy) as he still has my shoes.
What a time I spend negotiating charges. Well-run hotels have priced laundry lists, but at the Surya Plaza it's a game of "think of a number". Initially this works to my benefit as it seems the dhobi (laundryman) makes a minimal flat-rate charge per item - shirts, pants, trousers, socks (counted as two). But today it breaks down. Ricky takes my daily socks, pants and shirt and says it comes to Rs. 250 - about £3.50. I pull them out of his grasp, drop them back on the floor and say "naheen" fairly forcefully. He picks them up again, smiles in his knowing way, and says Rs. 150. I pull them back, throw them on the floor again and say "No, too much. No do laundry," shaking my head puposefully. Which is silly, because a shake of the head means "yes" to an Indian, so he is genuinely confused. I resort to shooing him out of the room as it is the only way to bring this exchange to a clear conclusion. I hope it's not just meanness on my part; there is a small principle at stake.
My plan is to visit the Swaminarayan Akshardham, a huge theme-park of a temple and exhibition centre, which was recommended by some people Sara and I met at our B & B last year. Getting there involves crossing the Yamuna river (by metro flyover) and I can verify that, as the books state, the river waters are totally black. The Ganges is fresh as a Himalayan stream by comparison. I get out one station too soon (guidebook out of date) and end up taking a cycle rickshaw which has to be part-carried over a motorway by pedestrian walkway. The coach parks by the Centre are full and thousands of fellow tourists are swarming in as I approach. This is Disney meets Delhi for real. I am ushered to the first queue for the luggage office where I must leave my mobile and camera in a locked safe. Then I notice the length of queue no. 2 (for the ticket booths), and it makes me feel a bit wobbly at the knees. So I duck out. Pity I shall probably never see the replica holy footprints, pour Ganga water over a golden yogi, or take the "spectacular 14-minute boat ride through 10,000 years of Indian culture." A bit more succinct than my talks, then.
So I head back to the nearer metro line and take trains to Haus Khaz instead. Trouble is, I haven't brought either map or guide, and can't for the life of me remember what I'm supposed to see there. First up is a sizeable patch of tamed and pathed forest park. It's almost beautiful, full of trees (as you'd expect), colourful birds, mongooses and not-quite-snogging couples. I see two spotted deer but fail to catch sight of any of the 61 rabbits that are said to live there (though the sign may be out of date by now). There's a DIY fitness trail with helpful instructions, e.g. "Straddle Walk: walk strapping either side of legs jump hurdles jump of with both feet. Though fifty, nothing wrong looking twenty." Indeed not. Unofficially, a Mr Sagar has stuck adverts to the littler bins advertising massage for "nake pain". I wonder if he could undo the damage done by the previous two?
I take tea (English style - i.e. not pre-mixed - but with hot milk) in a posh restaurant with comfy sofa seats, then head on through Haus Khaz Village to the real attraction, a collection of huge part-ruined royal fourteenth century structures overlooking a lake with fountain. The sun (almost visible through the smog) is setting, and it's truly magical. The "village" is an enclave (Delhi word) of up-market boutiques and bistros and well-to-do Delhiwallas are much in evidence. I notice the Dental Arcade offering "best teeth renovation" (not worth bothering with the others) but the car park warns "No Parking: tyres will be deflated". One of the cafes is hosting a "Nineties Theme Night" tonight, but I head back instead. I obviously lack a sense of history.
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