From My Notebooks In 1977: Losing My Composure In Delhi

The election is over. Indira Ghandi has gone. The Emergency and its regulations are over and profiteering is back in fashion. Meanwhile I’m in Delhi, waiting for news from London, waiting for parts (including a new sprocket without which I can’t hope to get home). Anyone who has travelled a longtime through dodgy parts of the world will know the demands made on patience. Usually I prided myself on being good with that, often turning delays into advantage, but this time lost my famous composure. Increasingly it seemed likely that the frontier with Pakistan might be closed, making it impossible to leave. As the temperature rose, I tried to keep my cool.

April 19th

Today got hold of a little theme – Survival of the Fittest – but for what. For selling to suckers at the highest price. Wills Flake Filter now up from 1.50 to 1.75, but no reason. Just that the change of Govt. gives license. Papers report that the trains are no longer running on time. “Chain pulling” is the reason given. Ticketless travelling on the increase, now that ‘Heavy Penalty’ no longer includes sterilisation.

Last night Ricardo and Sharafat played ragas. Tonight a TV recording session with Alikhan. In spite of this I wish I could get out of Delhi and on with it. Trouble in Pakistan is mounting. I’m eager to go.

[“So how do you like my India” – Agra]

[“Dear gentleman, this is India” – Sombalpur – Raipur]

Begin composing letters to my sponsors but decide to leave it. If I never heard from any of them again I’d have to look after myself anyway. Why make strife? So at Alikhan’s a called Lucas and there’s a cable about a package at Indian Airlines.

Recording (taping for the satellite) is pleasant but long-winded, and technically dull. Getting a feeling of the group now – Kari, Hariom, Kalidas, Sharafat. Saw Alikhan lose his composure for the first time, in our driving back, he was obviously in a hurry. Then the tabla player needed a lift to a taxi. We nearly went under a truck (well, I thought so) and later he went in opposite direction. I said I was going to a restaurant and regretted it when I was asked to eat at his house. Thoughtless of me. Silence is better.

Why didn’t Davies write a letter? Where’s PH’s letter? Why no word from Triumph? These things still mystify me.

April 20th

Pursuit of the package. There isn’t one. When it comes the airline will inform Lucas. The day passes in telling each other what we will do and what we have done. & the plot has grown to include a school friend cum customs agent. A letter to PH via B.Airways – cannot reach him before Saturday, meaning Tuesday. As I write this I plunge once again into the whirlpool of speculation, doubt, despair, defiance, anger, which wipes out all tranquility. I am full of ultimati, pronounciamenti, manifestos, and I always in my mind end up by marching off stiff-necked and bitter to my solitary destiny leaving all this useless human riff-raff behind.

Now this is a common problem with the ST, etc, but that alone doesn’t account for the number of times I find myself, in daytime contemplating the satisfaction of hitting someone hard. Usually the target is a motorist of some sort who I imagine is threatening my life with his folly. But I notice that when a lorry driver really does threaten me, I don’t waste much time concocting fantasies about him. The cathartic nature of the event seems to discharge the energy that fuels resentment.

Why am I so full of distrust and bitterness towards others? Because they won’t behave as I believe they should. Why is that? They don’t respect their obligations towards me. Why don’t they? Because they have lost interest in me, don’t care, think I’m foolish, lightweight, unimportant. If any one of them flatters me, pleads for my indulgence I offer it immediately and feel like a king. I’m less interested in positive results than in maintaining my self-esteem. The process brings constant anxiety. To protect myself I reduce my dependence on others to a minimum, which leads me into an unconventional life. This makes me more interesting to others and my ego receives a boost all round, but I can’t live as a hermit, and the fewer people I depend on the more intensely I depend. And eventually I’m undermined by that same fundamental hollowness. I have no sense of service to others though I have talked about it. (To Jo. eg). My mantra has been that what’s good for Ted is good for the world. Eventually others are forced to disagree.

A kite circles in the sky, a grand night, a great bird. But the kite is preoccupied by the pursuit of carrion and is harassed and irritated by small birds and parasites. If it could fold its wings and never fly again it would do so. If it could become a chicken.

At Delhi airport. Note the ancient Sikhs, like Father Christmas, driving taxis and scooters. They race along. Have been doing it since the motorcar was invented.

The airport/flying game is the biggest toy we’ve invented. It stretches us beyond our limits.

Some reflections suddenly about my journey, visualising the earth’s surface as I experienced it, without aid of maps or altitude figures. What does it matter if the Andes are at 12,000 feet. They are just very high. The way to travel is to go and ask along the way. The world unfolds from day to day, not as a preconceived journey to a tourist brochure. What have I gained from visiting the hallowed shrines of tourism? And when it comes to man-made marvels, better one Iguaçú than 100 temples. Even that unknown cascade near Eden overshadows the Taj. Certainly a great part of it all has been to set my mind at rest that there are no transcendental marvels that by their existence/presence change one.

Why do I resist describing the evil people do to each other, that is the cruelty of callous indifference or intolerant zeal? (i.e. Emergency excesses, Brazil versus Indians, etc) because I take it as an inevitable matter of fact. Who since World War can doubt what people are capable of? But the good people do, that surprises me. That’s worth talking about. And conditions which favour or deter human goodness are of supreme interest.

And the evil? Springs not from the heart but the mind, disturbed by the family, or lack of one.

May 1st

Carol goes to Agra. I sleep. Wake up. Go to Roberto’s. Michele and Bernhard are there. M&I engage in a Franco/English breakfast chat about politics and the role of the left in the new situation. I am totally devoid of interest, ideas, energy. None of it makes any sense to me. Am I as exhausted as I feel, or is it only the subject matter? What do I know about Indian village life? After all these months, nothing. And I don’t think M does either.

Endless time in Dehi does not pass, but revolves, the same time again and again. The weather builds to a torrid climax and breaks into daily thunderstorms.

The first break in the deadlock with England comes on Friday 22nd, after I have written, telexed and phoned to all and sundry. A cable from PH: The tyres are on Air India for 24th. On 23rd we talk and I let it flood out. He promises to get it all together. Now I discover that Meriden has used Air Parcel Post. On Monday morning the Foreign Post Office – a fruitless search. On Tuesday, at Lucas, the Waybill Number. Then Carol’s cable that she flies in that night. At first I’m horrified. The complications now seem overwhelming. Where will she stay? A-114 is under siege by the landlord. I feel I’m only just able to hang on myself. I see that Carol’s arrival will cost money, time and energy that I don’t seem to have. I can’t see beyond it, then in the depth of depression I see that the only thing to do is to enjoy it. With Sekhar I go to the airport – but too late to do anything. One of his school chums makes absurd remarks about getting the customs in an hour. The other fellow, Jagaranan, to his credit, is more sober. I take S to his house – the one that didn’t exist on Sunday – because he told me 8 282 instead of 8-282. Back to Palam and C flies in on the first evening Airbus from Bombay. I do enjoy it.

Days and nights with C on the floor of A-114.

Much coming and going, shopping, visiting, Thunder breaks. Phone connection succeeds. Cool. All seems good. Parts coming airfreight. But again Waybill number fails. C leaves on Monday night. Stormy ride to airport. Tricky but finishes well. I’m almost emptied. Then Tuesday afternoon from Kalidas’ house I get Waybill No. To airport. No sign of package. But I dramatise. At last they [Air India] discover it – having cocked up. Like a last fling at some fateful attempt to frustrate me. Still. Customs are on holiday. Next morning, Wednesday, I get my package, in two hours, sweating through every stage.

Sharafat’s father has arrived. Now very fragmented at house.

26,300 miles. Oil changed at 26,000.

Next week: To the frontier.

After I’d broken my leg in Kenya in 2001, I had to find somewhere in Nairobi to recover from the operation and I was helped a lot by Christopher Handschu, a German biker, tall, blond and dyslexic, who had settled there. He gave me a bed and helped me with work I felt unable to do myself. Here he is, on the ground outside his place, but 24 years later I’ve forgotten what it was that needed fixing.

Christopher Handschu

Anyway, after I left he was able to start a hostel for travellers like me, called The Jungle Junction. I believe it had/has a good reputation. Last week, I got this letter from him.

Dear Simon,

Trust this find’s you well!

And thank you for always sending me your notes from your diaries. A grate way to encourage a dyslexic to read!

Today I would like to ask for your help!

After you leaving Nairobi, we started “Jungle Junction” and we are grateful that we have been able to offer travelers in Nairobi an oasis for 22 years.

Through a Public fund raiser we are hoping to finance the move to new premises, after our lease was terminated.

Would you agree to shear the Fundraiser link on your Mailing list?

Your consideration would be highly appreciated.

Thanks in advance Christopher Handschuh.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Jungle Junction
Langata – Karen/Hardy
Kongoni Road (JJ’s)
Kenya – Maps Google: http://goo.gl/maps/XyHxO
S: 1° 21.767″ E: 36° 44.438″
+254 (0) 722 752 865
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

So I wrote back saying I’d like to help, and he replied:

Thank you Ted, for your positive response.

I would not ask for assistance, if the situation would not be dire. It is hard for me to aske for Help – on the other hand i will not give up without a fight.

Sorry for the late response, was in bed with the Flu.

This is the link to the fundraiser. https://www.mchanga.africa/fundraiser/118438

Attached kindly find accompanying letter.

Your affords are appreciated, and if you have any suggestions on how to broaden the fundraiser, would love to hier them.

Kind Regards,

Chris Handschuh

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Jungle Junction
Langata – Karen/Hardy
Kongoni Road (JJ’s)
Kenya – Maps Google: http://goo.gl/maps/XyHxO
S: 1° 21.767″ E: 36° 44.438″
+254 (0) 722 752 865
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

And here is the letter:

Outside Handschu’s home in May 2001

Thanks. See you next week – through the haze.