Out of Dingy Delhi and Into an Islamic World

Being a lone foreigner in Delhi fucking sucks, excuse my Hindi. I could deal with Bangalore, but the traffic here, especially surrounding those round about vortexes -- where these auto-rickshsaws whip and rumble around and nearly collide with everyone in their path -- spin me in the wrong direction. I often sit in congested traffic to the point where I literally get a sour taste in my mouth, as smog checks are probably unheard of around here. Wicked witch of the west deisel clouds and sputtering gray plumes of exhaust swirl into my nostrils and lungs, and I find my brain shutting down from holding my breathe. Ponies trot through all of this with their heads held low, cursing to themselves, gnawing in frustration at their mouth pieces, lamenting their fate. Helpless kids beg for money for food at my window, holding little ones in their hands, whining for food with expressions of desperation. I have seen men on skateboards with one leg and lepper hands scoot themselves across the chaotic street, as people beep at them to hurry up.
So, you can imagine, when as I was being scammed by some guy who approached me on the street -- saying he just flew in from Goa and his money was stolen and he needed to call his dad but needed thirty rupees, AND MY ADDRESS, who was crying PLEASE! HELP ME PLEASE! -- my welcome relief when two young chaps close to my age intervened. They asked me what I was looking for. I told them the bookstore, and one of them led me to the nearest one. He asked me if he could buy me some tea afterward. He sensed my skepticism, but said: 'It's just tea!' I said 'Allright.' Call me naive, but I did need a friend, and a break.
These guys, John and Rafiz, turned out to be my best friends, and seemed to truly want only to help me out and show me a good time around Delhi. After tea, they took me to a bar called Regent Blues, a loud space where every song they played I knew the words to, treating me to any drink I wanted -- and the next day Rafiz (whos owns several textile shops in India and abroad -- his cell phone was ringing every five minutes) took me around the city showing me Old and New Delhi, showing me how to get to a certain travel agent so I could plan my next trip, and how to get to my next hotel. He coached me on surviving in Delhi, saying that you should basically never trust anyone, even him. Hanging out with these locals, I felt less vulnerable, though still a little cautious of course because you never know what people's intentions are.
I arrived at the travel agent, and planned a trip to Kashmir and Rajasthan, calmy accepting that I was, indeed, going to blow all my money on this trip.
I now write this from Kashmir, wearing a black headscarf and a most unflattering, long gray woolen tunic -- a style imported from the British. This is a controversial tourist destination, as Kashmir is a disputed land, India and Pakistan both claiming it as their own. The Islamic Kashmiris would like to belong to neither. They want to be independent. But, if they had to choose, it would be India because they can enjoy more rights than they would if they were Pakistani. Riots and demonstations sometimes erupt, often fueled by radicals, and they can be deadly. But at the moment, Kashmir is safe, and Caitlin and I -- the American girl who I met on the houseboat here at Dal Lake -- are always accompanied by at least one male, Herron, the son of the man who runs the business.
I will describe this land and the people more next time . . . but suffice it to say that I have trekked through a snow shrouded valley where sheperds reside now in the winter, and where I held a lamb in my arms among a flock of Kashmiri children, have visited the barren Mughal gardens where leafless trees stand stoically against the cold, and have smoked from a creaky wooden hookah in the company of two yellow toothed old men, where I proceeded to experience the most pleasurable buzz.