The plane landed in Delhi about noon, and rushed across the 100-degree tarmac to the terminal and out to a cab. The driver spoke no English but nodded at the address and began pulling out in his ancient Ambassador taxi. A scooter blocked his way for a few moments, and he began yelling at the driver, who promptly dismounted and approached the cab, anger in his eyes. They began yelling more, gesticulating. I had no idea what they were saying to each other, but it sounded pretty bad. I wish I could use all of those fun Hindi words myself. I hit the seat and pointed forward. Let’s go! I was a bit alarmed. He glanced at me, then began yelling again. No, really. Let’s go! They looked like they were about to fight, but my cabbie decided to sacrifice his manhood to my mission, and he began pulling away, leaning out of the window as he flung a few last, choice insults to his friend. Life is not easy among the thronging millions of Delhi. Close and constant proximity do not make the heart grow fonder.

Delhi is a large city, and it took us a while to get to Lodi Gardens, the area near WWF’s office. I kept the window down, feeling the super-warm air hit me as I tried to remember the coolness as I looked into the snowmountains of Tibet that morning. He was uncertain about the exact address, so he turned down a big street and looked back me -- anything look familiar? I smiled at the elephant carrying a load on the side of the busy street, and pointed ahead to the corner. You can let me off there.

I walked to the office and started some intense but very productive conversations with my colleagues. We did good business, and at the end of the day, I was alone in the large building with one fine colleague and the night caretakers. My friend, I asked, can I take a shower here? My flight is at midnight and lasts 15 hours, and it would be nice to get cleaned up a bit after all of this dusty heat today. He smiled and called a support person, who showed me to an apartment within the building. He arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 9:30. Full of boxes of papers and books and broken coffee machines, as well as two beds, a TV, and a (fully functional) coffee table, I put down my luggage and headed to the large tiled bathroom. The building had no air conditioning, so although it was dark outside, the air felt close and oppressive. I took a quick Indian-style shower (scooping water from a big bucket to wet and rinse myself), then dressed with the remainder of my clean clothes: khakis, decent dress shoes (a bit cuffed now and in need of a polish), a dark brown linen shirt untucked, and a dark gray patterned sportscoat that doesn’t pack well. The shirt was left loosely buttoned, and I was wearing a polynesian fishing hook necklace: long, white, curved, and sharp. I hadn’t shaved for a day or two and felt a little stubbly. But I was clean, braced for the long flight ahead.

I thought about reading or watching TV, or walking to a restaurant and eating. No, I’d rather just get to the airport. I can check in there, eat inside, and avoid some of the chaos of the Delhi terminal. I packed up and walked downstairs. It was quite dark now, about 7 pm, and I vaguely communicated with the doorman that I wanted a cab. He nodded and made a call and asked me to wait. A few minutes later, my colleague -- the last one to leave the office -- came down and looked at me with surprise. Was the room OK? Yes, quite fine. I just decided to go to the airport early. Oh. Would you like a ride? My wife and I live near there? That would be great and save me some trouble. I remembered my last trip to the Delhi airport at night, when the cabbie pulled over on the side of a deserted busy road and demanded more money to continue on, citing “additional fees.” A friend had yelled at him to stop being an ass and just drive on; no more ruppees!

Sure -- lead the way. He smiled and said, we need to pick up my wife, and we might need to make a little detour for a few minutes. I can have you at the airport by 9, though. Would that be OK? Perfect.

I noticed that he seemed well dressed -- a full suit. His wife works for the UN, so we stopped by her office and she got in the cab elegantly dressed in a lovely sari. We shook hands, and our driver pressed on. We just need to stop at an event for a few moments, put in a brief show, and then we can head off home. OK? Sure, I said. A few minutes later we pulled up in front of an enormous hotel. We stopped under an awning and were swarmed by porters who simultaneously opened all of the doors; curiously, they were dressed like beefeaters with immense hats. They were also the tallest Indians I had ever seen. Were they wearing lifts?

What kind of an event is this? Oh, a sort of a gala for businesspeople interested in environmental issues. I glanced down at myself, wondering if perhaps I might be inappropriately attired. I felt my two days of growth on my chin. Hmmm.

Doors were thrown open to the hotel. Good evening, sirs! madam! This way!

We were rushed into an anteroom with a large fake tree in the middle with what looked like Christmas decorations on it. Leaves? Why oak leaves in India? A group of some of the most beautiful (and tall) Indian women were standing around the edges of the room, dressed in some kind of hot vaguely pro-environment (but mostly pro-skin) uniform. They smiled at my companions. They frowned at me. Who’s the white guy? They seemed to say. Dressed a bit oddly. Should we know him? Please sir, here, write a wish you have for the environment on this leaf? A cluster of the young lovelys handed me a leaf and a pen. What am I supposed to write? Your hopes for the future of the environment. “Best wishes and thanks for the all the fish.” One of them hung the leaf on the tree. My friends were standing at the door; they had escaped the tree police.

I walked through into a massive room — best measured in acres or hectares. And packed to the gills with people. There was a bar on the right with row upon row of frilly over-sweet and very warm drinks. The room was dark, with a large stage on the far wall. On either side were TV camera crews. Round tables filled the floor with wealthy and well-dressed business people. I looked like some kind of c-list Bollywood porn star (soon appearing in, Is It That Cold in Here or Is It Just Me?). The only seats left were up at the front. My colleagues clearly were preparing themselves, but then they plunged forward into the audience. But I am tall by Indian standards, and as we moved forward (me with a hot ice-free mojito in hand) all of the cameras veered from the stage to track our appearance. We were clearly the last people to arrive, and it must have seemed obvious that we were important. And who can have too many tall white guys on TV, really?

We sat down in a sea of mostly older men, Sikhs with turbans, moslems, impeccably natty Hindus. Lots of beards. A member of the head of the Tata car empire family was speaking. This was an a-list crowd. A waiter was mixing ice and branch water with scotch on his carefully balanced tray. I began to salivate, but he ignored me. I went for another warm mojito from a more approachable waiter. The camera scanned me to watch me partake.

Awards for conservation and energy efficiency, and a great north-Indian drum group near us played between grand speeches and more awards. A group of not very fit but boldy spandex-clad dancers came out to perform some silent morality play that seemed to have something to do with tides or strong winds or being very wobbly. Occasionally the cameras scanned the audience for reactions; they always seemed to pause on me and my mojito. After three or four, they’re not too bad warm. You adjust.

A tap on my shoulder and quick turn revealed we were leaving. I nodded and we all stood during a speech and began walking back out. The cameras left the great industrial donor for a moment to capture our departure. I thought about waiving, and then decided against it. My fans know me to be modest, even demure, in front of the camera. It wasn’t that cold in there.

We charged past the skeletal tree and its dryads and wood-nymphs. I smiled, they smiled back, still uncertain. Off to another party, I wanted to say. And then the beefeaters charged our car again so we could speed away precipitously into the night.

We drove on a bit to the airport, near my companions’ home. Soon I saw the runway lights and they pulled in front of the international terminal. We said our goodbyes and seeyousoons and shook hands; they drove off; I turned to the thronging masses trying to enter the terminal. The familiar circus, I thought. A young man in a blue uniform ran up to me: which airline? American. Line four over there, sir. OK, thanks. I walked ten or fifteen paces when an older man in a blue uniform asked the same question. Which flight? The midnight flight to Chicago? Yes. You will never make it in time. Three hours is impossible? What do you suggest? I can get you in.

Ah, money, I thought. OK, what’s the plan? For a little pocket money, I can get you in the frequent flier line. Give me your boarding pass. Come here. He led me urgently through the crowd to a small, policed, and guarded line I hadn’t seen before; it was hidden behind a barrier. He led me near the front of the line, well ahead of 20 or 30 people. They glared at me. I need $20 for my friend inside. He will help you. I gave him a $20 bill. And I need something for myself, for my trouble. I handed another $20 to him. Forty, I thought. Well, I can get reimbursed by my employer for bribes, right? Seems a small risk. He pushed me ahead to the guard, who glanced at my boarding pass and waved me inside. Just getting in the terminal at Delhi is hard. I turned. My “guide” was gone, nowhere in sight. Forty bucks, gone, but I was inside. No big loss, I guess, just a steep entrance fee.

I walked over to the United ticketing line. It was huge. I got a visa form and began the normal traveler’s burden of waiting. Three or four minutes passed, the line grew much faster than it advanced. A young man in a uniform approached me. Sir, I need you to come with me. Shit. Someone found out. They’ll make me go outside again. Or kick me out of this line. Or hit me with some other kind of grease. Damn. Did I do something wrong? Is there a problem, sir? I need you to come with me, sir. Now.

I packed up my pieces of paper and sighed but got out of line, followed by many curious glances.

He took me forward, then more forward, then to the business class line. Sir, this is where you belong. He gave me a sly smile, fast and friendly. I understand. Thank you. I smiled and nodded. He smiled fully and walked away.

A woman called me to the counter and I handed her my boarding pass and passport. This was the business class line. Everything was different. Sir, I’m sorry, but we’ve overbooked coach class. Would you mind if we upgraded you to business class for your 15 hour flight?

No problem. That would be fine. Thanks.

Damn, that was the best $40 I ever spent, I thought. I rubbed my chin’s growth again. Bollywood rocks. Viva la corruption.

Oh, and here’s a pass to our elite lounge. You can wait there until the flight is called -- there’s an open bar and free food. They’ll call you when you flight is ready. Well... thanks.

Damn damn damn.

And off I sped. The flight was amazing — good food chosen from a menu, raining down wine and liquor on travelers, a huge seat with legroom ample for people much taller than myself; even a fully reclining seat. I even slept at least eight hours on the flight. And I slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the corrupt media elitist frauds.

Tags: travel, india