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Published: June 12th 2009
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Taj Hotel
Open to customers only a couple weeks after the attacks, the hotel stands as a beacon to the recovery the city itself has made. It was the best of times...
It's no secret that India is a land of contrasts. Be it from accounts on these pages, or other, more reputable sources, evident it is that North is starkly different than South, East markedly changed from West. Language, food, culture, history, religion, geography all vary considerably as one shifts in and out of different states and cities- in a land of 1.15 billion people- a sixth of the world population- no less than seventeen official languages are spoken, and no less than 600 dialects.
And you'd be hard pressed to find two places as different from each other as Mumbai and Diu, my latest two stops on the subcontinent.
Mumbai, dubbed the Maximum City, lives up to its nickname. I arrived only a few weeks before the monsoon, and the swelling humidity only added to the intensity already pulsing within the city. The world's largest metropolis serves as India's capital of commerce and epicenter of poverty- where well dressed men walk over and around hundreds of homeless, sleeping bodies on their daily commute; where young woman chat over coffee in a cafe, while outside the doors a mother begs for change, a
naked child mindlessly using the sidewalk as his bathroom; where the India of new and old, rich and poor collide. 500 new residents arrive daily, forced from village life to make a living, residing in the overcrowded slums or streets, while simultaneously international businesses and local enterprises, too, pour into the country's cosmopolitan heart.
Braving the heat, I set out on my first day, via sardine-can-train, into the city center. There, I saw the Gateway of India, the country's own Ache de Triumphe, where British ships famously departed from on the eve of Indian independence in August, 1947. Adjacent to the monument is The Taj hotel, six months removed from last November's terrorist attacks. The historic spot represents the recovery Mumbai itself has made- some of the building remains closed off due to rebuilding, while on the whole, business as usual continues, albeit under the watchful eye of newly installed security measures.
Wanting to slip off the tourist track, I escaped popular Colaba Causeway and entered the Sasson docks. Intrigued by the sights and smells, I was drawn into a long wharf, where dozens of women were cleaning prawns, kids were splashing through putrid puddles, and fishermen were unloading their
Extra Extra!
My first shot at acting, Action! fresh loads of seafood, having recently returned from the briny. I spent an hour touring the docks, graciously accepting invites onto their boats, and politely declining invitations to taste the raw prawns.
It was only after leaving the docks, two hours later, when I snuck into a nearby internet stall, that I noticed the smell. The acrid, stinging fish smell that permeates clothes, hair, and pores. The smell that Cheer frowns at and Tide flows away from. All over me. Even in the train out of the city, packed in a hot, densely crowded car, wedged between armpits, elbows and the afternoon body odor of hundreds of men, the pungent aroma burned through it all, a look of disapproving scorn from my fellow mustached passengers. It took a full two days to wash it away, and I still think my sandals are done for.
After 5 days in the Maximum City (including my first experience as an extra in a Bollywood movie- keep an eye out for 'Jihad,' released in the coming months) I boarded a bus and embarked on a 22 hour overnight ride from Mumbai to Diu, a sleepy little island town at the southern tip of
How we Diu it
The view from bungalow 104 Gujarat State. A former Portuguese colony, Diu is reminiscent of an old Key West, vintage churches, a historic fort, quiet beaches and picturesque sunsets. The long ride was made more difficult by sharing the last stall with an inebriated local on the bumpy ride (Indian buses can also boast the claim to the world's most irritating honks. Not only are the drivers very comfortable laying on the horn for every passing pedestrian, bike, or vehicle, but each bus plays a bone-rattling melody, five seconds in length) The next seven days, though, would prove to be well worth the travel hassles.
Upon arrival, a mile or so out of town, I found a small line of old bungalows; basic in amenity, they had the rusted look of an abandoned cart one comes across in the woods. But it was quiet, I had my own bathroom (shared only with a 8-inch lizard that made its home on the ceiling), and a porch that overlooked a quiet, sandy beach, and further, the Arabian Sea. And for seven days, that view served as a backdrop for some peaceful solitude.
Serving as the ying to the yang of the previous seven busy weeks, my daily
Sea shack
Can't beat the porch! routine at the Sea Village became refreshingly simple. Wake up with the sun. Jump into the sea for a swim. Have a cup of coffee and breakfast on the porch. Read. Write. Read Write. Attempt a crossword. Hit the beach. Swim. Read. Drive moped into town for a dinner of fresh fish. Drive moped home. Sleep. Repeat.
I read five books, spent hours journaling, slowed the pace down to a crawl, and simply allowed myself the time to reflect and appreciate this journey, to India and beyond. Seldom is it that we are granted this time, what a gift it is.
Mumbai and Diu, two very fulfilling experiences. One last week to go on this tour. Hope all is well at home and looking forward to catch up with many of you in the coming weeks.
Kris
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