Mumbai Delight in 24 Hours

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It is already after midnight when I walk through Mumbai International Airport. In the jetty bridge was no air-condition and during the first seconds in India I feel the hot and humid air that would be around me during my 24 hour stay in this country. Arriving passengers on their way to Passport Control do mix with other passengers boarding flights. In some parts of the hall the air-condition does work; in others a cooling breeze is missed and the air is filled up with lots of curry and sweat.

My way through the airport is easy and as I do not have to wait for any luggage, I am about to leave the airport building just minutes after touch down. The Arrivals, Meet & Great Area of the airport can be found outside, in front of the building. Hundreds of Indian guys are standing there with names of guests and hotels on papers in their hand. I should be picked up, but do not find my name on any of those papers.

“Can I help you, Sir?” I turn around, but do not see anybody talking to me. After looking down I see that Indian man standing in front of me, wearing a semi-military uniform. He smiles at me and moves his head. “Who are you?”, I ask him. “I am the official airport supervisor for guest transport management. Which hotel you are booked, Sir?” I look at Mr Official-Airport-Supervisor-for-Guest-Transport-Management and wonder why he doesn’t wear half a dozen medals on his uniform jacket. “Orchid hotel, please.”, I just answer. He disappears in the paper jungle, getting his mobile phone out of his jacket and starts talking to somebody.

I don’t know what I am waiting for, but decide just to wait for a moment. I have a look around and see a display

WELCOME TO MUMBAI. 00:45 31.5°C

On the road that passes by the Arrivals Terminal, I see black and yellow painted tuf-tufs - this kind of motorcycle with an open car for 5 Indians or one European and taxis which must be at least 35 years old and which are almost the same size as the tuf-tufs, but closed. The taxi drivers do sit on the roof of their cars, having a chat. Children and dogs are running around, the road can hardly be called paved. Everybody looks relaxed; there is no rush in the scenery.

I still wear my suit including a vest and start to understand, why everybody wears a shirt and trousers only. Waterfalls of sweat start to run down my body. So far I was used to this feeling on my backside and forehead only. Now I feel water drops running down not only on my back, but under my arms, onmy neck and chest as well. Some more minutes later I cannot believe what I feel: The waterfalls are not stopped by my underwear, but run down my legs. Mr Supervisor comes back and saves me from thinking more about waterfalls and ways of water. He is not alone.

“This is the Mister from Orchid Hotel.”, he tells me and disappears again in the next second. Mr Orchid smiles at me and moves his head. “Good evening, Mister, I am sorry for let you waiting. Haven’t you seen me?” No, I didn’t! Most probably you were standing right in the middle of this crowed which made it impossible to me to see anything on your paper. In the next second I try to put my thought into words, open my mouth and say: “I am very sorry, but I am quite tired and just missed you and your paper. Sorry.” He smiles at me and moves his head. Then he shows me the way to the limousine, including the use of an elevator that was breathtaking as it stops on every floor without opening the doors and it doesn't have any air circulation.

The drive to the hotel takes 10 minutes. Ten minutes of Mumbai reality - at night. Shabby houses, street shops where you can buy everything and which are made out of a wooden tray and some plastic cover only, standing in dust of unpaved pavements. Next to a small shop with fruits and vegetable I can see a mountain of garbage, where dogs look for food and children play on. More people and dogs run around, cross the roads everywhere and mess up the chaotic traffic that seems to run through the streets without any rules. Traffic lights generally are ignored, on three lanes, fives cars find enough space next to each other.

Waiting at a traffic light to turn right which means crossing the other side’s lanes (ok, this kind of traffic lights seems to be accepted…) I can watch some really big billboard advertisements with Bollywood stars. Amithab Bachchan, the elder mega-star of Bollywood, offers me some Cadbury chocolate, while his colleague Shah Rukh Khan seems to be really happy in his economy Mazda car. Both do smile, but somehow they do not move their heads. Under the Mazda advertisement, 50 tuf-tufs are waiting in front of a hotel for customers. Their drivers do sit on the ground and chat. One of them turns a looks at me. When he sees me watching him as well, he smiles and moves his head.

The traffic light turns green - which doesn’t mean that the cars on the other side’s lane have stopped driving. Cars and tuf-tufs in three parallel lanes try to cross, me in the hotel’s limousine right in the middle of all. We make it and minutes later, after a short drive through total darkness (I wonder where I will end up), the driver enters a garden and stops in front of the hotel entrance. After a quick Check In, I check the room service menu, but I don’t fancy Chicken Curry, Chicken Masalla or Tandoori Chicken tonight. The only western style alternative would be a chicken sandwich, so I skip late dinner. I fall into my bed and try to sleep as there are only five hours left until I have to wake up for the conference.

It feels like five minutes later when I wake up the next morning. I do risk to looking out of the window of my hotel room. The sun already is up, but covered by a kind of yellow dust which in the first second makes me believe that all that curry and sweat smell hangs visibly over the city.

I skip the breakfast - my stomach hasn’t arrived yet - and again am on my way to catch a taxi to the Conference Centre. In the second when I open my hotel room’s door, one of the duty managers do stand in the hall as if he has waited for me leaving the room. “Good morning Sir, how was your night?”, he smiles at me and moves his head. “Lovely, thank you.”, my answer is. I close my room’s door, but even before I am able to hear it closing, he asks me again: “Can I help you, Sir?” - “Thank you, but I think, I can manage to close the door myself.”, my not very glorious answer is. He is still smiling and moving his head when I enter the elevator to make my way down to the lobby.

At the reception desk I ask for a taxi. “One second, Sir.”, the guy answers me, smiling and moving his head. Then he calls the door man who stands next to the entrance, inside the hall, just 10 meters away. After he has finished his call he shows me to go ahead to the entrance door where the door man already awaits me. He nods at me, smiles and moves his head and before I am able to ask him for a taxi, he phones the door man outside, just 5 meters away to order a taxi. The outside door man comes to open the door, let me go through and contacts than a guy who seems to be responsible for taxis. While I am waiting for a taxi, three luggage-boys stand around me smiling, moving their heads a ask me again and again, if they should carry my suitcase. Finally the taxi arrives, I enter - the door is opened by a taxi-door-opener-boy - and do leave this paradise of customer service. Nine contacts in 4 minutes and 100 metres are not too bad.

On my way to the Conference Centre, Amithab and Shah Rukh wish me a good morning from the billboards. They want to sing and dance for me some of their biggest Bollywood hits, but I have no time and leave them alone in the dirty morning dust. The streets are now in the morning even fuller then they were after midnight. The chaos on the roads I experienced last night is now a kind of permanent, but slowly moving traffic jam. Around me are hundreds of tuf-tufs, taxis of all ages, but new cars as well. Finally the taxi driver makes his way to the Conference Centre, just on time.

Another taxi-door-opener-boy opens my taxi door and another door-man the centre’s front door. On may way to the right conference room around five girls show me the way which wouldn’t be too difficult for anyone that is able to read the big signs they put just everywhere.

Innumerable hours, 15 presentations and one chicken curry lunch later I leave the venue to get a chance of a superficial look into Mumbai. After I have changed clothing back in my hotel, I catch another taxi (for the procedure, please compare description above) to bring me to a shopping centre at the edge of the city centre. To enter the city centre would be impossible as traffic is at this time of the day at it’s best.

The driver brings me to a shopping centre which is more a department store. He promises me to wait for me. Before entering the building, I walk into another direction and enter some small streets of Mumbai city centre. I am astonished when I realize that it looks the same as the shabby huts and open sales trays I saw last night next to the big airport road. Small shops, combined with awfully looking apartment houses that miss all the glance you expect from a former British colony. Even here the roads are not paved; or maybe they are, but dust and garbage do cover it. Men do stand around next to a barber’s shop, the whole scenery is man dominated and they look curious at me, smiling and moving their heads. Now I start to realize that in this road I am the only non-Indian, but there is no feeling of danger or fear. I take some pictures, turn around and try to cross a four lane road which is used as a six lane one. I manage and do enter to department store.

I walk around, there are only very few customers and again I am the only Western customer around here. After I have checked all floors, I come back to the ground floor where cloth and carpets are sold. I decide to have a look.

“Mister, please come in, welcome.” An Indian stands at the door of the carpet department, smiles at me and moves his head. “Just have a look, looking is for free, you don’t have to buy.” I smile back, nod and enter. The carpets are really lovely, great colours, adorable patterns and excellent quality. “This is one hundred percent Indian quality, just the best for you, Mister.”, he starts his psycho-conversation like a snake that moves slowly around the mouse. “This are all lovely hand made carpets from my home village in the mountains.” Of course. And your sisters knitted it all night long just right to be ready when I come here to visit your shop in Mumbai. “One hundred percent Indian quality, tell me, what is you favourite colour?” - “Blue.”, I answer, as I would like to see some more carpets. “This is a lovely colour, Mister, really you have an excellent taste. Are you British?”

I look at him and I am sure he sees the questions marks in my eyes. First of all I know that I absolutely do not sound like Tony Blair or Price Charles at all and secondly I wonder how he can ask me if I am British when he told me a second before that I have a good taste. I don’t find any answers to my questions and before I am able to answer him, he is away to show me more blue carpets. “Mister, look this lovely quality, and touch it, touch it. Please let me invite you for some tea. A very special tea from my village, you will like it.” Ok guys, this is the right moment to leave, so I thank him and make my way to the exit. “But Mister, Mister, I will make you special price, really, some good price for you British Mister.” - “Thank you very much for showing me all your carpets, but I just looked, and I don’t want to buy. Thanks at all!” When I turn around to leave the department, I expect to get some bad Hindi words on my way, but he just stands there, smiles and moves his head.

Next (and last department) on my ways out is the cloth department. The salesperson already stands at the entrance, sees me, smiles and moves his head and starts talking to me. “Good evening Mister! Look here, lovely things, lovely cloth, silk, linen and one hundred percent cotton, all from our manufactory in Delhi… Come in, you must visit my shop, I make you special price!”

I don’t enter. I don’t want to see one-hundred-and-twenty-percent-cotton-lovely-quality and his shop in Delhi. So I pass by that guy who doesn’t stop talking about one hundred and fifty percent cotton quality. Outside, again hot, humid and curry-dust-dirty, I start sweating again immediately after I have stayed in air condition before. I catch my taxi (he was really waiting for me) and go back to the hotel.

On the way from the hotel entrance to my room I have only contact with five persons who makes me sure that something must have happened. I pack my stuff and leave for dinner. The hotel has a nice Indian style buffet with Italian starters, so me and my newspaper have a lovely evening in the restaurant with Italian chicken pâté, Indian curry chicken soup, chicken tandoori western style, medium and spicy and variations of Mongolian sweets which you wouldn’t get off your teeth after brushing them ten times. On the table next to me do sit some American chicks (kind of Paris Hilton), gossiping about whoever.

Chicken everywhere. Mumbai Delight in 24 hours.

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