The thick fog blanketing the skyline of India’s vibrant capital city had us touching down almost thirteen hours later than scheduled, including a brief, unplanned diversion to Jaipur for refuelling.

We arrived to find that our thoughtfully prearranged pickup had long since got bored and b*****ed off and all two of the ATM’s in the airport were out of order. Well, more accurately, one was out of order and the other simply didn’t like our card, or us, or maybe both.

Anyway, the end result was that we, for all intents and purposes, were stuck. We had no money and no way of getting any. As a direct result, we had no way of either calling the hotel or paying for a taxi. s***. What do you do?

After trying numerous methods to coax the ATM into life, including silent prayer as well as simply kicking it, I stand in the centre of the sterile, whitewashed arrivals hall looking confused. Where was the information desk? The only one I could see was situated back in the baggage collection area, through a doorway, beyond the two khaki clad, barrel chested guards we had just passed on the way out. The AK47’s they were wearing, along with the serious expressions, hinted that they may not be in favour of letting me back through.

Walking slowly towards them I found myself wondering if this was a good idea. Were the guns actually loaded and what would it take for them to open fire? After a brief internal debate I concluded that no, they wouldn’t shoot me. Not in broad daylight. There were too many witnesses.

Surprisingly, especially considering the combination of comical hand gestures and baby English I used in an attempt to explain our predicament, I’m waved through.

Approaching the circular information kiosk, the petite Indian woman behind it looks up at me momentarily. She has long black hair, tied back, a red Bindi spot between her eyes and stands in a dark, tight fitting tunic style uniform with matching sari. There is no-one else at the kiosk but she makes a show of moving piles of paper from one side of the desk to the other for a few minutes before looking up again, the boredom obvious in her eyes.

“Are there any other ATM’s in the airport besides the two in the arrivals hall?”.

“No”. Was the flat reply.

“OK, I have a problem because neither of them work and I have no money for a -”, before I could finish she cut me off.

“Yes, the ATM is this way”, she stated, whilst pointing passed the two barrel chested guards and into the arrivals hall.

“Yes, I know, I’ve just tried them both and they don’t work”.

“You have tried them?” she snorted sarcastically.

I stared back at her blankly. This woman was beginning to annoy me.

“That is impossible, you would not be allowed back through”, she concluded with a stupid smile splashed across her face. A smile that was as good as calling me a liar.

“Well I have. And I was”, I stated without flinching. Snotty cow.

She paused, probably waiting to see if I would go away. After realising I wasn’t about to leave she continued, “I have tried the ATM thirty minutes ago. It is working”.

“And I have tried it in the last two minutes, around ten times, and it is definitely NOT working”.

By this point two burly Indian men had appeared either side of me after hearing slightly raised voices.

“OK, could you please call my hotel so I can arrange a pickup with them? Like I said, I have no money to make a phone call so I am stuck here”.

I glanced at the two sets of eyes either side of me. They were not the welcoming expressions I was hoping for from India.

“That is not possible. This phone is internal only”.

That was it. No attempt to help. Nothing. Just a blank stare and a pause waiting for me to move along. Ten eyes all staring at me from all sides and waiting for me to just go away. Stupid Gora (foreigner).

“Right. OK. So could you ask someone who DOES have access to a phone to make a call?”.

Slight pause. “No. That will not be possible”. The pause said more than the hollow words. The snotty cow was lying. They obviously could make that call, she just didn’t want to. Could this possibly be the rudest woman in India? I’m sure I’ve seen her before in those ‘what not to do’ customer service video’s.

“So there is no way anyone at this airport can make one quick phone call for me?”

Shake of the head and five miserable frown filled faces, all staring at me like a bird had just flown over and shat on my head.

“OK, thank you for your, erm, help”, I spat at her in the most sarcastic tone I could muster whilst looking her four chaperones up and down. I wonder if I could claw my way over the desk and punch this woman before they get to me. Perhaps her knickers are too tight and that’s why she’s such a b****.

In the end a friendly, smartly dressed man back in the arrivals hall calls the hotel for me and within half an hour we’re belted up in the back of a white Hyundai and hurtling towards the city.

Sealed highways meet dirt goat tracks littered with pot holes. Both are filled to capacity and beyond with everything from sparkling new four wheel drives, thousands of black and yellow rickshaws with clouds of diesel fumes pouring out in their wake, man powered carts loaded with fruit being pulled along by wiry, barefooted men in colourful turbans as well as cows, pigs, dogs and the occasional goat.

It is a full on collision of era’s. Past meets present. Old and New Delhi side by side, each a world of its own but held together by the millions of people that create the well rehearsed chaos here each and every day. Men in white flowing robes and colourful turbans race in every direction between the sprawling mass of dilapidated buildings, while the women, in even brighter coloured Sari’s, float between it all, catching the eye like fireflies in the night. Both however, pause momentarily to stare intently at the latest gora to arrive. You can almost feel the sea of eyes boring into you. I imagine this is what it feels like to be famous. I’m not sure I like it.

The Namascar Hotel is set amongst the exhaustingly persistent hawkers and wall to wall budget accommodation of the Paharganj area, a short walk from the New Delhi train station. Somewhere along the main dirt road, in the middle of the bazaar, our white Hyundai pulls over and we’re ordered out. We’re here apparently. To the right of a wheeled cart selling pakoras we enter a narrow alleyway. Just inside the alley, to the left and set immediately behind the pakora stand is the little boys room. A white tiled urinal in the middle of the street. Open air. It stinks. We carry on, staggering over the occasional rock on the road or negotiating the latest tonne of beef blocking our path before, at the very end, we enter the door of the hotel.

We’re given room number two, directly behind reception and set against the alleyway outside. Its basic and cold and the toilet leaks, leaving a permanent puddle in the bathroom. The incessant noise from the alley means we almost have to shout to hear each other and it doesn’t stop until gone midnight. I make a mental note not to stay in this room if we ever come back here. For three hundred rupees(four quid) though, I suppose we shouldn’t really complain.

Wandering around the immediate area is like entering the eye of a storm. The air is filled with blaring car, scooter and rickshaw horns, all vying for right of way on a lawless road without anything resembling a footpath. Its like Vietnam. But worse. And that is some statement. You find yourself constantly surrounded by danger, assessing the risk involved with every forward step. As well as the rickshaws flying past and the herd of cows, your also under siege from the shop owners all along the road.

“Hello, where is your country?” is the most popular one. They don’t give a damn where your from, they just want you to stop and buy something. We don’t stop. We walk for about fifteen minutes before returning to the hotel and booking a car and driver for two weeks to take us around Rajasthan. The Namaskar Hotel is highly recommended for car hire and the price seems reasonable, if a little over our budget. The helpful, yet slightly smarmy owner, also throws in a day tour of Delhi for tomorrow and a free ride to the airport when we leave India in a little over a months time.

At 09:00 the next morning we meet our driver. We’re told, proudly, that we have been given their ’best driver’. “We get nothing but good reports with Baldev“, we’re told through wide smiles. I wonder if anyone ever gets told they have been given their worst driver.

Baldev is seated when we emerge from our room. He stands to greet us, offering a handshake. Its probably the worst handshake I’ve ever encountered, like shaking a wet lettuce leaf. He is smartly dressed in polished black shoes, pressed trousers, a sky blue shirt and pastel yellow, woollen tank top over the top. He must be in his early fifties, stands about six feet tall, has thinning combed back black hair and a large gut overhanging his trousers. He says things like “Yar-yar” a lot, cutting you off mid-sentence. We ask him his name. “Baldev Singh…”, we’re told with a nod of the head, “…but you can call me Baldev, its easier“. He doesn’t ask ours. He seems friendly enough though.

Our first stop of the day is the imposing, once magnificent Lal Qila (Red Fort). Built by Emperor Shah Jahan in 1638, it took a full decade to complete, at one time including a 10m deep moat, which today is completely dry. Looking up at the giant red sandstone walls as we enter, some 33m in height, I wonder what it must have been like for an invading army trying to gain access. Thousands of armoured men wielding medieval weapons. Some riding elephants or camels but all of them faced with a seemingly impossible task. Arrows and cannon balls raining down on them from above, along with boiling water and oil. You wouldn’t stand much of a chance. I’m glad I wasn’t around in those times. The complex is huge and you could easily lose the majority of a day exploring the different sections.

After a couple of hours, we head back out and warily snake through the constant flow of traffic on the road towards the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. We’re joined, as we take a right up a wide road lined either side with piles of rubbish and sleeping stray dogs, by an Indian man in jeans and a black leather jacket. He has short black hair, a round face and small eyes. He asks a few questions and we politely answer. We know he’s after something but he seems friendly so we start talking and he follows us to the mosque.

The area outside the mosque is alive with activity. The Meena Bazaar stands at the foot of the steps leading up to the towering sandstone and marble Islamic tribute. Fighting our way through the throbbing crowds we make our way to the entrance and find ourselves faced with a young, bearded man with the kind of facial expression that you might find on somebody who had just accidentally followed through. He’s a first rate a*******. He takes one look at my shorts - which hang well below my knees - and begins thrashing his arms around, pirouetting, rolling his eyes and shouting something that seems to imply that we cannot go in. Aimee consults the guidebook before glaring, wagging a finger at the a******* and informing him that actually, we can and will. After some more wailing and stomping around like a small child, he relents and provides me with an elasticated, floral skirt to wear over my shorts. Why couldn’t he just give me this earlier? Why all the hysterics? a*******. Check out my skirt though. I do look pretty cool.

As the only two Gora I can see inside, we receive a few glares walking around the perimeter of the large square courtyard. I take a few pictures while Aimee discusses favourite actors with our new friend with the small eyes and leather jacket.

“Denzel Washington is my favourite”, I chime in.

“He’s black…”, says small eyes, through a confused frown.

“I know”, says me.

“…I don’t like black man”, he says, shaking his head. There is a finality in his tone.

On the way back to the car small eyes reveals his hand. He is a masseur and he wants us to visit his ‘clinic’. Baldev see’s us as we approach the car and walks over. Small eyes flees into the crowd and we never see him again.

The warm afternoon is spent exploring the peaceful Raj Ghat, the sight of Mahatma Ghandi’s cremation following his assassination in 1948, as well as Ghandi Smriti, the impressive memorial to the father of the Indian nation. One of the famous Ghandi phrases displayed here catches my attention:

“I believe in respect and equality for all…except reporters…”. Now this really was a great man. Even Ghandi knew that reporters were not to be trusted.

This is followed by the giant ‘India Gate’, similar in design to the Arc De Triumph in Paris, it also has inscribed, beneath its arch, the names of the 90,000 or so Indian soldiers whose lives were lost during the various conflicts of the twentieth century. Finally, our day ends at the Indira Ghandi Memorial Museum. Originally her residence, it now traces her final steps before assassination by her Sikh bodyguards in 1984, following the disastrous siege, ordered by herself, on the holiest of Sikh shrines, the Golden Temple in Amritsar. The museum includes the bloodstained sari she was wearing on that fateful day. In line with the pushy group of Indians in there at the time, we stand and stare, with jaws agape. There’s something morbidly fascinating about it. Out of nowhere, I suddenly wonder if Sikhs in the armed forces wear helmets.

Before dropping us off, Baldev lets us know that we are leaving at 09:00 the next morning. We’re heading west from here, towards the Pakistan border, to Bikaner for one night, and then on to Jaisalmer. Its an eleven hour drive but it should be worth it to catch the camel festival that finishes in Jaisalmer in a couple of days. Camel racing and turban tying contests? Should be different.

“Danyavaad” (thank you), we mutter to Baldev as we step out of the car. He nods and says nothing. Perhaps we said it wrong. We’re back in our room at the hotel a little after 19:00 and Its freezing cold and the bed’s hard and the noise is still flooding in from outside. Dogs are barking, horns are blaring and there’s a man screaming into his phone on the other side of our single pane window. I wish I knew the Hindi for “Shut the f**k up”. We fall asleep huddled together for warmth still wearing our coats.