The real Asia: Noida, India

Those who have travelled to its neighbors often mock Singapore with the name "Asia Light." Having recently traveled to Delhi, Beijing, and Shanghai - within a week's time - I now understand why. And I now often scratch my head at those backpackers you sometimes see here, as if they were roughing it. There is no "roughing it" in Singapore.

To be fair, Singapore should pride itself on its efficiency and cleanliness - it often makes Germany feel like a Haitian squatter colony - but it is this immaculateness that makes the city so "un-Asian." As I am slowly learning, there is a real Asia still to be discovered. My first true encounter with Asia was Delhi.

India's capital

While peering out the window before landing in Delhi, I saw an expanse of varying shades of brown, a vision of what the dust bowl must have been decades ago in America's breadbasket. I stepped out of the cool Air India Boeing and into to a kiln. At this time of year, temperatures in Delhi range between the searing 44°C (111°F) in the day and a "balmy" 38°C (100°F) in the evening. Passengers then squeezed into a bus that took us to immigration. Because hygiene didn't seem to be a high priority among the guests, I'll just say that the short ride was an olfactory adventure.

Greeting us at the gate stood brown men in brown uniforms, brown berets, surgical masks, and with AK-47s. The Indian government wasn't messing around when it came to swine flu. As I stepped off, hoping for a bit of relief, they herded us into a group more cramped than on the bus. They examined us from a short but safe distance, looking out for any telltale sniffles and coughs, hoping to weed out those who had not come forward to the appeals the stewardesses had made in flight: "If you are not feeling well, or have flu like symptoms, please notify one of our cabin crew immediately."

Cleared of any illness, the travelers were allowed to pass and exploded into a an arena of health-check stations. Once cleared there, it was on to immigration, where disgruntled bureaucrats stamped visas without acknowledging the humans to whom they belonged. Passport marked, baggage collected (under suspicious looks from the security guard), I walked briskly past customs and into the chaos that is Indira Gandhi airport.

Saving me from the torrents of saris and kurtas was a small man, named Dabby, I think. Dabby wore the whitest suite I had ever seen. He donned newly bleached trousers, shirt, jacket, gloves, socks, and even white shoes. Looking excitedly into the eyes of each white person who approached (and saddened as they walked past), he held a printed sign with the text "MR. PERRY." "Close enough," I thought, and introduced myself. His perfectly white attire did not flatter his smile, which he cut upon shaking my hand.

Dabby drove me 30 minutes to a Radisson in the Delhi suburb of Noida. A Chinese manager met me at the doorway and took me up to my room, insisting that I leave my baggage below. With my MacBook and XH-A1 in the bags, that made me a little nervous. But no sooner had I entered the room, a bellhop slipped each bag through the door. I threw open the heavy curtains to see a group of youngsters in an intense game of cricket, as the sun set into the smoggy, dusty horizon.



On business

The whole purpose of this visit was to meet with one of our customers, a particularly special one. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to go into detail just yet, but an article on their business will be published soon. If you end up reading the piece, you'll see that the route from the hotel to the customer was nearly as interesting as the discussion with the CEO.

For the whole day, I had a very gracious colleague (see below) looking out for me, showing me the good Indian cuisine, driving me to the customer, giving me a tour of the office, and bringing me back to the hotel. He had more important work to do, I am sure, as he is responsible for several accounts in the area. Yet he treated me as if I were a customer. I was impressed not only with his hospitality, but also with his ability to dodge stray cattle on the highway and outmaneuver traffic cops attempting to pull him over for talking on his blackberry while driving. Thanks for the experience, Tarun!



Because this journey was for work, I had limited time to see anything beyond the route airport-hotel-customer. No Red Fort, no Jama Masjid, no trinket shopping. But after a short walk through the draught stricken suburb of Noida, chatting with security guards, watching another pick-up cricket match, fending off a small beggar child who clung to my leg until I coughed up 10 rupees, I did feel like I had properly been to India. Albeit not long enough.