Delhi Airport

Above: Martin and George at Ringo's Guest House in New Delhi

Friday 2nd December 1983

The electronic whine of my alarm clock brought us back to the land of the living at 06:00 hrs. We were expecting the arrival by air of our friend Martin McCormack from England. Attempts to telephone the airport for flight information were met with the usual ill-organised confusion that results from trying to do anything in India. None-the-wiser we set off to the airport on the number 780 bus, which left from the Ashok Hotel.

We had occasion to enter this palatial hotel to ask where the bus stop was. We went up the red carpet and a uniformed menial held the door open so we could pass within the plush sterilised interior. The Indian on the desk had an American accent and knew nothing of the lowly bus system. “Have the doorman call you a taxi”, he advised, “It’s only 25 Indian Rupees”.

We opted for the bus which cost us only 40 paise each (100 paise = 1 Indian Rupee) and was quick and efficient. “It’s not a hotel, it’s a spaceship”, quipped George as we rolled along the smooth British-built roads through the “island” that was New Delhi.

Indeed, it is as far removed from the rest of India as you can get. Clean and well laid out with impressive buildings, wide tree-lined roads with roundabouts and a serene air due to the sparce population of the area.

We arrived at the airport and found it to be a monument to Indian stupidity. The International Flights Building was equipped only with a cafeteria and a tourist information booth. The Nation Flights Building had a few banks, deserted airline company offices and an unmanned Enquiries Booth.

Then ensued an hour of fruitless pissing about as we became an unwanted buck being passed from one moron to another. Information on International Flight Arrivals was not to be had for love nor money. The few lists in evidence were all conflicting and we gave up in despair. It seemed that the airport took potluck on which flights arrived on their runways.

The only ones who knew what they were about were the monkeys climbing down the airport communication cables like abseiling S.A.S. troopers. Our information was sparce; Martin had told us that he was flying via Karachi on 1st December 1983 and should arrive at 09:30 hrs. on 2nd December. Whether this was Greenwich Mean Time or Indian Time we were not informed. New Delhi is on Indian Standard Time which is ahead of Greenwich Mean Time by 5 hours 30 minutes.

When the Airport Manager told us that there were no such flights, we sat down in the International Arrivals Port to see if Martin would materialise at 09:30 hrs. local time. A fat sheik on the Arrivals Desk told George that he was expecting a British Airways flight from London at 17:00 hrs and a Pakistani flight from Karachi at 18:00 hrs.

However, the Enquiries Desk denied all knowledge of these “ghost planes”. We returned to the International Youth Hostel to have breakfast with the aim of going back to the airport this evening. Back at the hostel we gave our laundry to the dobi wallah and I had the rare luxury of a hot shower before joining George in the sun on the veranda.

We coined the phrase “in India it is foolhardy to make logical assumptions”. As usual we soon got bored of lazing about in the sunshine and decided to walk down to Gaylords Ice Cream Parlour by the luxury stadium swimming pool. We got there at about 14:00 hrs. and tucked into several “Choc Bars” and a coffee before heading back to the hostel at 15:00 hrs. It was now cool and the sun was watery.

We checked at the hostel reception to ascertain that Martin had not arrived, before boarding the 780 bus back to the airport. Delhi Airport (IATA: DEL, ICAO: VIDP), also known as Indira Gandhi International Airport, is the unique airport that serves the city of New Delhi. The airport is the busiest one in India in terms of passenger traffic and cargo.

I changed £40 sterling at the bank and came back to find George talking to fat Mr Jaggi. This smooth-talking bastard was greed personified and he hustled around us asking to change money and work wrangles with our arriving friend to get him duty free whisky.

The Pakistan International Airways flight landed at 17:20 hrs. and with mounting excitement we joined the crowd in the upstairs gallery that overlooked baggage retrieval and Customs. After a while Martin appeared looking like “Man at C&A” in a safari suit and we watched impatiently as he waited an age for his baggage to appear.

The high street clothes chain C&A closed all its UK stores, with the loss of 4,800 jobs in year 2000. “Man at C&A” presented an enduring image of a clean-cut, slacks-wearing Seventies type in an Argyll cardigan that they could never shake off. The phrase "Man at C&A" was used to typify someone who was unfashionable. In an episode of the sitcom “Only Fools and Horses” Delboy tells his brother Rodney that when they become millionaires, their clothes will "come from Man at C&A".

There was a joke doing the rounds in the playground in my childhood. Why is there a C&A label in women’s knickers? Because they contain C*nt and Arse”!

At last he breezed through Customs and we rushed to the balcony above the Arrivals Exit. Martin stopped at the bank booth to change money as we giggled excitedly above. When he appeared we hurled 5 paise coins down at him and shouted “Martin”!

His adrenaline must have been pumping nineteen to the dozen as he nervously looked around, but not up, and walked away. We ran down the stairs and joyfully confronted him, jabbering excitedly and we ploughed through the crowd to the bus stop.

The 780 left immediately and we chatted continuously, eager for new from home, all the way back to the Youth Hostel. Apparently, Martin had had a run in with Airport Security at Heathrow and nearly missed his flight.

Back at the Youth Hostel we had a good 7 Indian Rupee supper of curry, rice and custard, and Martin nearly gagged on the sweetness of the tea (sugar is always boiled up with the milk and the tea in the Indian brew). We then went to the dormitory where Martin played Father Christmas.

I had letters from home and a collection of Aramis toiletries from mum and dad for my birthday present. We roared with laughter as George discovered his rucksack was half filled with clothes and a present of new socks and underpants. George cursed roundly at this additional baggage. We read our mail (good to get a book and a letter from Jim Bascran, my friend and fellow punk rocker/New Romantic) for a while and hit the sack at 21:00 hrs.