Delhi's sensual overload tests tourists, athletes

Many Kiwis, be they sportspeople, officials or media, will have experienced a travelling epiphany this week heading into the Commonwealth Games. Their senses will be overloaded by the manic world of Delhi - a cacophony of vaguely organised chaos.

Yet the ever-present heat, the choking bureaucracy, the inefficient services and the ineffective security are mounting to a crescendo which is testing visitors' patience.

Indians are renowned for treating their guests "on a par with God", or at least that is the intention. Certainly this guest has received such hospitality from his host for the first couple of days, cricket journalist Vijay Lokapally.

He can't do enough to help. Vijay sorts me out with a sim card for my phone at a local shop, makes sure the shower is ready after a long flight and offers me a selection of daily papers. Later in the day, his workmate Kamesh takes me four stops past his own on the metro so Vijay can give me a lift home in the heart of the city.

It's a shame this generosity of human spirit is confounded by bureaucratic sluggishness at Games level. In some cases, to tinker with the time-honoured phrase, there are too many Indians and too many chiefs. The drive from the airport was a case in point - one gentleman puts our ticket into the exit parking machine while policemen stand with hands deep in pockets along the route.

This sense of going through the motions, or ennui, is best summed up by the initial visit to the main press centre. There was no food, no entry at one stage, no wireless internet and no hope, it would seem, of getting things right before the Games began. It's perhaps unfair to compare this situation with the Olympics in Beijing. You are talking the world's largest dictatorship versus the world's largest democracy for starters, but why couldn't more of the Chinese systems have been duplicated?

Frustrations begin to peak when you stand in 30-degree-plus heat to have your bag checked and be frisked, only to walk a cricket pitch away and endure the same process at the entry point to the athletes village. It doesn't help when the search has a token feel about it. Getting on the local metro train was like getting a pat on the back. Lip service would be better replaced by real service.

For Kiwis coming out of winter it's a stir-crazy heat and one of the first observations, even arriving early in the morning, is that you are going to get a roasting. Delhi might be heading into its own winter but for New Zealanders, it's an oven.

Despite the all-pervasive heat, Indians, by and large, are immaculately turned out. The ladies' saris burst with colour and the men look pristine in their shirts, especially striding in the vicinity of the lush Shanti Path (Peace Road) in the government district with its meticulous hedges and shrubs.

As always, India is a land of contrasts. The spick-and-span attire and municipal beautification is juxtaposed with inner-city dustbowl roads. Wild dogs roam and gypsy families are tented within a Beatrice Faumuina discus throw of the main press centre. The blood-red stains of paan - the chewed betel leaf with spices - randomly spatter the pavement. Men casually urinate on trees in the broad daylight in busy streets.

Jumping into an auto-rickshaw to travel the city's streets is another highlight. Driving prerequisites include a heavy hand for the horn and concrete foot for the accelerator - it is unadulterated mayhem which has you by turns pleading for your sanity and feeling completely exhilarated.

The road system seems to operate on three rules: 1, those who are bigger have right of way; 2, those who are faster have right of way unless 1 applies; 3, rickshaw drivers have no right of way. It's a demolition derby without the hits. Interestingly for motorcyclists, men must wear a helmet but women are exempt.

Transport is just as much an adventure for pedestrians. You may as well roll the dice trying to cross the road - unless you are endowed with Moses-type qualities. Dozens of street dwellers sleep blissfully as traffic horns blast away and vehicles drive less than a metre from their heads.

However, it's sobering to wander the city and realise your head is level with the dozens of machine-gun emplacements behind sandbags, particularly just outside several hotels. Cars also get searched for bombs on arrival.

The New Zealand athletes must now deal with this kaleidoscope of colour and contrast. It will be a test of whether the country's modern athletes are as rugged and adaptable as reputation leads us to believe.