The guide had asked where I was from, and when I said Canada he kissed his fingertips like an Italian waiter recommending the fish and said 'ah! Excellent country!' People I talk to always want to know where I'm from, and always compliment me on my country. There may be real, widespread enthusiasm for Canada in India. It's much likelier that I could say 'Narnia' and get the same response. Twice in Jodhpur, people asked where I was from and then wanted me to exchange a Euro for them, under the impression that Canada was part of the Euro area. The teachers from Reunion had never heard of Toronto, and I had to explain that it was in roughly the same part of the continent as New York and Chicago. I forgot to tell them about it being a World Class City.
I went from Jaipur back to Delhi by bus, as recommended by the teachers from Reunion. They were right; I travelled 'Volvo' class (the highest class of bus travel in Rajasthan, above 'super deluxe', 'deluxe', 'luxury', and three or four others), and it was fine. The lower parts of the seats were covered in tattered plastic because their installers hadn't bothered to unwrap them, and there was no washroom, but it was comfortable. And empty, apart from a couple of small families with babies. You can always count on there being babies or toddlers near you when you're travelling in India. Whatever development economists try to tell you, this is the real problem with India's mushrooming population and bottom-heavy population pyramid.
At the bus station, wandering water vendors were taking the hard sell to strange new places. When I didn't want any water, one of them just put a bottle on top of my bag and demanded payment. I refused to touch it. He insisted I pay for the water I'd clearly bought. Our struggle went on for maybe a minute; then he got bored and went away, and I chalked up a tiny, insignificant victory for the tourists' side.
The drive to Delhi went well, though I was glad I couldn't see what the driver saw. Getting out of Jaipur seemed like an especially delicate business, the giant bus avoiding all the scooters and tuktuks like an elephant trying to cross a garden without crushing any flowers. The highway between Jaipur and Delhi was under construction for most of its length. Where there was construction, there were shelters for the workers: Sheds of corrugated steel, or tents of canvas and handmade wooden poles. The works were behind yellow barriers that said 'Work in progress for better tomorrow' and apologized for by small red signs reading 'Work in progress inconvenience is regretted'. At the side of the road, we saw decorated Tata trucks, buffalo, fields, camel carts, shacks selling refreshments, gas stations, and lots and lots of public urination.
The trip into Delhi went through wealthy parts of the city: Shiny corporate campuses, shopping malls, new high-rises, and green gardens planted for the Commonwealth Games. I had gotten a hotel for the night back in Paharganj. Staying in Delhi overnight was probably unnecessary, and staying in Paharganj was definitely so, but I'm at the end of the parts of the trip I planned before I left, and don't really have the time or patience now to work out itineraries that make any sense. Paharganj was less scary than I remembered it. And the hotel was a fairly good one, though the street outside it was some kind of social hub for the local stray dogs, who barked through the night.
I flew from Delhi to Varanasi. I'd planned to take the train. But I thought of being in a 4-berth cabin with 3 sales managers for international conglomerates who snored and chewed out subordinates over the phone for 17 hours; and, in line with my policy of buying my way out of any potentially difficult, interesting, or character-building experiences, I decided to fly. In the event, India ambushed me with a surprisingly character-building flight on a battered Kingfisher turboprop. India seems very concerned about my character sometimes.
I flew out of one of Delhi's new airport terminals. Going to Jodhpur, I'd used the old one, which was worn and faded, and the security guard had looked at my iPod wistfully and asked how much it cost and how many songs it held. The new terminal was full of prosperous families with chubby kids and businessmen who absently handed over thousand-rupee bills to pay for copies of The Economist. The old terminal had had a shop where you could buy cheap paperbacks and magazines. The new one has boutiques selling watches, jewellery, and silver ('7.5% off all Ganeshas for Diwali').
