We landed at about 8:30PM local time, leaving the plane to enter an antique terminal from the 1960s that smelled as though its tomb had just been opened for the first time. After slowly collecting our baggage we were herded into a taxi zone where sharks smelled blood. They sail past and make exorbitant offers hoping you are ignorant and easy for the taking.

After spending an hour negotiating we abandoned our initial plan of taking a car to a town called Fatapur Sikri which was about 200KM outside of Delhi and home to a hidden Muslim palace. Instead we accepted a ride to Delhi's train station, which had a route to the palace. However, mid trip our driver was kind enough to inform us that the train station was closed and that we should go to the Tourist Information Center where we can book tickets for tomorrow. We accepted this first stop, but in hindsight probably had little choice.

The guys working the information center were smoothies, with low buttoned shirts, big smiles and a warm welcome. They were happy to tell us that the trains were fully booked for the next 4 days, but they happen to have a driver ready to take us around their glorious state for the 'lowest price in India'. My wingman and I called their bluff and demanded our taxi to take us to the train station. Our drivers acquiesced but were clearly angry - their big commission had been lost.

Sure enough the train station was open, too open. At 1AM the station and the surrounding blocks buzzed as if it were a outside of the local bar strip on Saturday night in a wild college town. While that energy level prevailed the activities more closely mirrored that of an encamped army that was merely passing through a city on its way to engage the enemy. People where everywhere, doing everything. Some were cooking food on a makeshift campfire. Others were perched shoulder to shoulder atop piles of dirt letting time pass like crows on telephone wires.

When I took my pack out of the taxi my sleeping bag parted ways, landing in the gutter. I quickly remembered that gutters in Indian cities are less for rain water, then they are for 'human water'. That sleeping bag had seen its day over the past two decades and I quickly wrote it off as my first casualty of war.

After I paid the cab, two locals assumed the duty of escorting us with the hope of receiving a few paper tokens of our appreciation. We walked through the encampment in front of the station only to enter what seemed like a refugee asylum inside the terminal. More of the floor was covered with flacid bodies than not. Negotiating our way to the other side of the room was like walking through the quilt of picnic blankets at an outdoor concert, except for the fact that these patches of personal domain were far dirtier and their attendants much more interested in the odd westerners making passage. The next train left in 5 hours, leaving these toothless, mud rolled people to wait idly for their next move.

Our guides pointed us to a more well educated gentleman who proceeded to walk us out of the terminal, through the encamped army and into his friend's travel agency. While we knew the door in front of us presented a potentially bad financial deal, we had both independently concluded that any price would be a bargain compared to our alternative - being the opulent outsiders in a seemingly lawless mob at night.

We quickly struck a deal that more closely reflected the terms we had initially hoped for at the airport. In short order a car appeared, cash was exchanged and we were on our way to our first tourist attraction.

The fog settled making the drive through the decrepit city and rural outskirts rather erie. We passed nice gated homes, hollow buildings with three walls and the light of a camp fire emanating, one room lean-to's setup on sidewalks or roadside dirt filled with a family, a TV and nothing else, mud huts and numerous cots that were situated only under the shelter of the warm Indian sky.

Monkeys, parrots, bovine, pigs and stray dogs are a standard part of the backdrop both in and out of the city. Smells fluctuate between livestock excrement and a blend of exhaust mixed with burning gears. Most of the main roads are poorly paved, but smooth enough to get up to an 80KM per hour speed.

Lots of trucks, motorcycles, three wheel motorized rickshaws and other compact cars compete for the passing position on the 2 lanes headed in a given direction, using the same light flashing technique as the Americans accompanied by liberal use of their horns. Those who drive scooters appear to be acrobats on leave from the circus, balancing anything from numerous skinned deer carcases to 2 meter high and wide cubes of cotton. One scooter can carry a family of six, including at least one child who stands on the seat behind dad while he drives.

There are no garbage men, trash is considerately burned in small piles on the shoulder of the road. However, they produce little trash as they have few packaged goods.

For the most part, the city and the country-side look predictably run down, appearing as though the entire country was built in one day 50 years ago and left to waste ever since. However, there are some exceptions. Every mile or so, there is a building that looks as though it had been airlifted from an upscale metropolitan US suburb. 10 huts, a dirt patch with a camp fire, a two story brick structure with a collapsing wall, livestock and then a five story glass windowed office building or an immaculate glossy plastic 10 pump gas station.

Whether on stretches of highway or dirt roads passing through rural towns, we quickly learned that many of these people don't obey the instinct to sleep at night. Pedestrians lined the road side, women swept unlit brick driveways, animals were herded and the boys were loitering in front of any tiny hut that emanated the glow of a television screen. Of those who work at night it's unclear who work for the government. Toll booths are manned by hordes of plain clothed men. At first we feared that they were the local militia seeking to extract a fabricated tax, but later realized that uniforms are not provided with employment.

During two-thirds of the way into our trek, our mono-lingual driver Ishwar pulled into a shiny gas station and told us we must park there for an hour in order for the roads to be safe. He used the words 'guns' and 'danger' a lot. For us, the seriousness of his statement was validated by the gas station's security guard who lazily wielded a 30 year old shot gun. After waiting for an hour and introducing Ishwar to bug spray (which he later stole and sprayed in his mouth), we continued on our trek and figured out what he was talking about. It appears that travelers are less welcome on dirt village roads at night. After Ishwar told us 'hide very dangerous' and several villager demonstrated the local version of the stink eye, we slouched low in our seats, staying only high enough to sneak a peak during our travel back in time.

We arrived at our palace at about 6AM. As the sun rose the rest of the population emerged. We quickly learned that locals regard tourists as walking ATMs from which they can make a withdrawal by crying, demonstrating a handicap, repeatedly asking you to buy postcards or providing unrequested services.

Fatapur Sikri proved to be worth the trip, inspiring more awe than the Taj Mahal, which we saw later in the day. This was due to the diversity of the architecture and presence of an active community of religious Muslims on the grounds.

On the drive away from the palace we learned that the locals don't use toilets, or toilet paper for that matter. Once people woke up you couldn't go a mile without seeing a local urinating on something inanimate. The people of this region also have little choice but to defecate near highly trafficked roads, since in the densely populated areas people are bumping into each other. The locals share a unique ability to balance in a squatting position where their backside rests flush against their ankles. This appears to come in handy when no chairs are available or outdoor defecation is necessary. I am not sure how most people clean themselves, but I did see two kids splashing muddy river water on their rears while in the traditional squat.

Later in the day on of our guides was shaken down by a police officer. Faced with the choice between a payoff and jail time, he opted to finish the day out as our guide. After being harassed for 15 minutes the payout took less than 30 seconds. The walked together to a parking lot and then the officer abruptly did an about-face. They each marched 5 steps as though preparing for a wild west duel, during which our guide extracted some bills from his wallet. They then sharply turned and walked towards each other without making eye contact. Keeping their hands by their pant pocket, when their shoulders aligned, their hands met and the payoff was complete.

My first day seemed like a week. I saw more cultural nuances than I hoped to witness throughout the two-week trip. A culture shock of a million watts. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T