Getting to India
During the few days ahead of the trip, my mother had pushed her anxiety about travelling into full gear and repeated this to me a thousand times; “It takes at least two hours to get your baggage and go through security over there!”, which I had each time cast aside with a snort and eye-roll.
It was 2016 and after years of excruciating attempts to convince and a hefty bribe, she had finally talked me into going to India with her. She’d talked my ear off about the truly wonderful land and all the unimaginables that you would encounter there. Every year she’d come back with an even heavier treasure bag, filled with spices and gold. Okay, not gold but a lot of silver… Mum would parade her jewels around town and collect compliments while I would scrape the leftovers behind her back. Eight years later I finally caved and agreed to the trip mainly just to get her off my back.
The first wave
After stepping off the aeroplane in the maze that was the Indira Gandhi Airport in New Delhi, it was an hour before we had all our cases and finished the first round of security. Going through the sliding doors, the Incredible India showed its first sightings with a full brush of fresh air… Actually, scratch the fresh…and the air. It was rather something that barely resembled oxygen. I still chose to enjoy that more than suffering through an 8-hour case of aeroplane ear. And then it hit me – I’m gonna like this. I am gonna really really like this.
Is that a bus?
Time to get to the other terminal so we get our shuttle tickets and wait… A few confused minutes pass… And there it comes. A shrieking pile of scrap metal heading our way with the right front wheel barely holding in place. The bus was undoubtedly the oldest public transport vehicle I had ever laid my eyes on. The ride was more like an obstacle course with the doors flying open at the smallest bump and passengers jumping off in the middle of the motorway. Lose a leg, no biggie. Holding on to dear life, looking down at the slums I had the time of my life! Upon glancing up you could see huge signs that read ARRIVALS and DEPARTURES. The words were written in permanent red marker…
Pulling up to the terminal the driver failed to notice the curb as we went crashing into a metal pillar, taking down a pathway gate while the bus’ wheelchair ramp twisted and went flying off. The bus attendant started yelling “GO, GO, GOOO!!“ after which I quickly tried to haul my 25 kilos over the contorted metal gate that was now blocking the exit.
Since our final flight to Goa had been delayed, we arrived at the terminal with five long hours to spare. Check the baggage in and head to security gates. We queued for the snake-shaped line; stepping on your tippy toes you could see about twelve rows – each one consisting of around 100 people. It took us 1.5 hours to reach the security where I was welcomed with a separate gate marked FEMALES. Stripping to bare minimum and dropping all belongings to the crates I headed towards the female gate, hoping and praying that I won’t set it off…