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Published: August 7th 2007
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Oh dear oh dear, where to begin? Let's just say the past week or so has thrown up some eventful moments. It all begins in Bombay...or Mumbai or whatever you want to call it.
We loved Mumbai, still do. After weeks of dust and strange little towns we welcomed the relative familiarity of 'cosmopolitan' Mumbai. Don't be mistaken, it's still very much India, but it's an India where you can buy a bottle of wine that tastes good and eat a wagon load of gourmet food without worrying about it all shooting out of both ends five minutes later. We indulged in both, doubling our budget overnight but not really caring.
But let's get to the nitty gritty. We've discovered that this is also a city of complete nut cases. It had always been our intention to get ourselves onto a Bollywood film whilst in town, and it couldn't be easier. All you have to do is walk round Colaba for all of 2 minutes looking white and you'll be offered the golden ticket, to be an extra on the shameless production line of Bollywood la la movies. Jonny Gaddaar was our flick, and our job was to stand
Jenny and Mumbai
Just one of Mumbai's nutty madcases in one of Mumbai's discos, dancing intermittently to the same music, sober, for the best part of 14 hours, for the princesly sum of 500Rs (about 6 quid). That's 14 hours, earning just under the UK minimum wage for 1 hour. But boy did we get stuck in! Never has sober dancing been executed with such vigour and passion as by us and the handful of chums we met that day. I think part of the joy was the way in which the director kept insisting that we all spread out across the front of the stage in front of 3 scantily clad young things in a sort of positive apartheid conga. All but one of our party 'had it large', that one anomaly shall be known simply as 'Borat'. Borat, it transpires, was a mysterious Russian with a massive chip on his shoulder, serious ambitions about making it in Bollywood and the social skills of a hammer. In between takes, and eventually during them, he would sit on the edge of the stage clutching a book, rising not to dance but to ask us what some of the words meant. If anyone ever sees the film, he'll be easy
Cricket in Mumbai
very near \'the scene\' to spot as we're very near the dishevelled book worm sitting on the stage while everyone else has a gay old time. Talking to him was hellish, but amusing, one conversation went like this:
Borat: Have you been to the mountains?
Ant: Yes.
Borat: I like the mountains more than the coast. I think the coast is full of sewage. I have seen them shitting in the sea. I think you would have to go many miles out before the sea is clean enough to swim in. How many miles out will it be before the sea is completely clean?
Ant: I think we should be danc...
Borat: I think 30 miles. I think you would need to go to a fishing village and speak to a fisherman and ask him if you can go in his boat when he goes fishing. But you would have to get there early and then make sure he fishes far enough away from the dirty water. Then when you swim you would have to make sure you don't go swimming on the same side of the boat as the net, otherwise you would get, erm, er...
Ant: Tangled?
Borat: Yes tangled. I
Ellora Caves
these were carved into the mountains, marvelous. think you have to be very careful not to get tangled in the fishing nets and so I think it might be safer to hire a boat yourself but I think it's expensive to hire a boat and it would cost a lot of fuel to go 30 miles out and 30 miles back.
etc etc etc
It was nothing if not an interesting day. But somewhat less interesting than another chap we encountered. For the sake of those involved, no names have been changed.
As we were walking towards our digs, we struck up a conversation with a sweet old man called Harish - a sort of a cross between Ghandi and Yoda. We had a brief chat and he invited us to the old cricket ground, where he was a member of the private social club, complete with posh afternoon teas and a swimming pool. He insisted that we bring along our swimming gear and make use of the facilities and we didn't need asking twice. So, on our final day we turned up, met Harish and went along for a nice cuppa. As we relaxed and absorbed the plush surroundings, Harish grew uptight and
Harish
artists impression of harish started looking at his watch. His conversation focused on nudity in western cinema and we failed to smell a rat. Increasingly agitated, he insisted we had a swim, and led us towards the changing rooms where he seemed to lighten up once Jenny was safely deployed in the ladies changing room.
Once in the changing rooms, Harish insisted that I showered before going in the pool. Fair enough, I thought. I also wondered what he was doing still in the changing room with me if he wasn't swimming. My answer came when I realised he was watching me take a shower...but it gets worse. As I came out and donned my (spectacularly trendy) swimming trunks, the dirty old bugger tried to pull them down! This is when I should have chinned him and legged it out of there, grabbing Jenny along the way and shouting 'rape rape!' as we hurtled semi-naked along the street. But no. I'm English. Instead, I declined his advances, hastily trotted to the pool and took refuge in the water, awaiting Jenny to impart her wisdom. We plotted over a breast stroke, then legged it out of the pool and past old Harish who could
Fake Taj Mahal
in Ajanta there\'s a mini Taj Mahal. It\'s really crap. hardly have had time to get a clear shot of me on his camera phone. As I got changed, Jenny gave him a massive bollocking which may well have resulted in whispers of repressed homosexuality spreading through his club quicker than you could say Matthew Kelly. I then thanked him for the tea and we scarpered. Honestly, I think we were both suffering the effects of a brain lobotomy. In our defence it was very hot, which I think had addled our tiny brains.
So we scarpered to the hills in fact. We had a couple of days back out in the sticks to take in some amazing caves at Ajanta and Ellora - carved from the rocks in spectacular fashion. To end a memorable day, on our return to Mumbai our train carriage was taken over by about 150 roudy political marchers, who Ant decided to take on when they took his bed. Yet again, it was Jenny's harsh words which won the day.
And that just about sums up India. Nothing was ever anywhere near predictable. We had lots of fun, and like any other visitor, couldn't help but be in awe of the landscape and the people just as often as the same things would be infuriating. We ran out of patience towards the end and as I write this from Singapore, it's safe to say that we are both looking forward to a few weeks of beaches and jungle. This also means it'll be our last blog for a bit as we'll be nowhere near computers.
And everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief...!
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Letty
non-member comment
I suspect it may not be your last gay-rape encounter, but have a lovely time in Singapore all the same!