Leaving Singapore was filled with emotions, but we had things to do, and places to go; for as much as we loved living in Singapore, the wonderful summer had to end. Singapore was such a grand place to live and we’d had such fun.
Awakening around midnight, we met our driver and his friend, who ferried our family to the airport. I preferred a taxi, but our summer driver insisted that he and his friend deliver us in his auto. Johnny was a loyal employee; and although he was the age of our boys, he looked after us while living in Singapore for the summer.
As we flew into Hong Kong, it was almost as if we were flying down Main Street. Flying low and slow on the approach, we observed residents of the high-rise apartments dining and going about their daily routines. A brief (less than 24 hours) layover in Hong Kong gave us time to check into a hotel and take in a few city sights. As it turned out, the approach down Main Street was the most memorable sight we saw.
With a few hours rest, we were again at the airport, on our way to New Delhi, India. Our midnight flight was met by our Indian agent’s driver, who took us to the Taj Palace Hotel, not the Intercontinental where our reservations were made. Without any permission or notification, our agent had changed hotels and made reservations for one person — not five as planned. After lengthy negotiations, and raising my voice three levels (Americans do that when faced with a language barrier), we were whisked to our accommodations in the “Grand Suite,” a suite with a large living room, dining room, a food preparation area with a dumbwaiter, directly connected with the hotel kitchen, and two bedrooms. Finally at 3:00 a.m., we were able to retire.
It turned out, the hotel was almost new, and the floors throughout were laid with white marble, very impressive to this old farm boy. Each morning, the room attendants placed vases of baby roses in all the rooms. As I worked with our Indian agent, the family toured Old Delhi. Unfortunately, the tour was booked on a dilapidated bus with no air conditioning. The weather was hot and muggy, much like Houston in summer, and the tour was delayed by herds of sacred cows meandering about streets and through shops. Needless to say, thoughts of tomorrow’s tour to Agra and the Taj Mahal left them halfhearted about it, to say the least.
When booking the tour, Pat had insisted that the tour be on an air-conditioned coach. That evening, she was summoned to the front desk, where the manager and coach driver insisted she inspect the coach to be sure it met her expectations.
The trip to Agra was filled with anticipation. Our driver wore a turban, with strings of lotus blossoms wrapped around his neck. He sported a long, black beard and wore no shoes. I learned why he was shoeless when he began driving with his feet. Dolly had taken the front seat so that she might enjoy the countryside view. When we met another coach passing in a no passing zone, and coming at us on our side, she readily requested that I exchange seats with her.
As we approached the Taj Mahal, from a distance it was breathtaking. It was like a white mountain rising from the center of a brown garbage-littered prairie. The grounds surrounding the Taj Mahal are in complete contrast with the beauty inside the walls. As you enter the main gate, the view of the reflecting pool is magnificent. Of course, the minute we exited our coach, we were inundated with flies and throngs of begging children. Our tour of Agra ended with lunch in the Hilton Hotel, with food as fresh and delicious as any Hilton Hotel in the world — quite a contrast to the walls beyond.
Of course, any trip to India for the “Oilpatch Salesman” requires an obligatory trip to Dehradun (sometimes spelled Dehra Doon), a five- to six-hour drive from Delhi by private auto. The first half of the trip is nerve-wracking; but the last half entering into the foothills of the Himalayas is very pleasant with beautiful scenery all along the way. Once there, I called on the Indian Oil Company to take the drilling and purchasing executives to lunch.
Upon my return to Delhi that evening, Dolly, Pat and the boys were dining in the hotel Taj Palace restaurant. Early next morning Pat, Tony and Dolly were headed to Berlin; I was off to Dubai, and Derek was taking a later flight to Israel. It was then we learned our dining in the hotel restaurant was a mistake. Dolly, Pat and Tony were ill in Berlin. I was ill for the day in the Karachi airport lounge, and Derek was ill for the net two days in Israel. Thank goodness it was only a 24-hour virus.
One week later, we gathered in our former residence in Chalfont St. Giles, England; and thanks to the courtesy of our friend and former landlord, we spent a few days renewing acquaintances before returning to the United States. I will fill you in on our side trips in a later column.
Doyle Driver is a native Texan reared in Hardeman County and a 40-year resident of Conroe. He can be reached at doyledriver@ yahoo.com.
Singapore, Hong Kong, India, Berlin, Pakistan and England
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