Mumbai

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Mumbye Africa, hello Mumbai!

I arrived in Mumbai on the morning of the 11th of May, pretty weary from my overnight flight, but curious to get out there. It was an early morning arrival, so I took my time, got some local currency and booked one of the more reliable "voucher cabs" into the city. The heat was amazing, as soon as I stepped out of the air conditioned airport. You just constantly sweat, regardless of the level of activity. I headed for Colaba, having heard that this was the most likely place to find fellow backpackers and budget accomodation. This was kind of true, but it depends very much on your definition of budget. Mumbai is extraordinary, even within extraordinary India. For one thing, it is the most expensive place to stay in the country - partly due to property prices being higher than Manhattan Island. Marine Drive, the city's famous coastal road, is one of the most expensive areas to buy property in the world.

The ride to Colaba was the realisation of several anticipated experiences: one could see the filth and squalor alongside the clean, prestine new buildings; the rubbish in the streets; you could smell delicious food and human excrement in the same sniff; could see the beggars, armed forces, street sellers, tuk-tuk taxis and unsupervised children that make up a typical Mumbai street scene. Further, the major factor you anticipate is thrown right at you: people. In a city of 22 million people, there is virtually no such thing as a little bit of space. Another typical Indian experience: terrifying taxi rides. The system in India seems to work like this: 1) if there is space on the road closer to where I am going, regardless of any necessary lane changes, I'm going there; 2) If something else is already there/going to be there/heading there, it matters not; 3) Constant beeping of the horn means I have sufficiently warned everyone that I am about to do something, regardless of how idiotic or insane it may be. Despite this, I made it to Colaba.

Colaba is a mixed wealth area with 3 major streets, interconnected by a plethora of smaller streets, side streets, alleys and old fashioned dirty rat-filled gutters. I chose to stay in the YWCA; yes, they take men there as well. Perhaps best I didn't tell them I'm not christian either. They wanted 2200 Rupees for a single room - about 33 Euro. Now, this included breakfast and dinner, but still, for India this is exorbitant. Instead, I asked them to give me one bed in a larger room, more reasonably priced at 1300 Rupees (about 20 Euro). I was tired and sweaty, and one night couldn't hurt. They also had security and large rooms. I went out to research places to move to the next day, and to get my bearings. Among the first things I spotted, aside from begging children and hawkers, were some truly elegant buildings, falling completely into disrepair. India's Victorian occupation era architecture is visible in many places in Mumbai; almost without exception, it is crumbling, as bureaucracy and corruption siphon necessary maintenence funding. Amazing how a caste system lets you walk past the starving and sick while sitting in a luxury jeep paid for by tax money - guilt free! Hooray. I visited Victoria Terminus, the main train staion of Mumbai. Its beautiful facade is in fairly good shape, though inside it is in tatters. 2 million people pass through here every day, so perhaps it is understandable. The building is a huge, intricate, dominating design, hewn of stone and plaster. The clock tower is particularly impressive. VT is something that India today could not produce - but it is also something out of India, something that does not belong, so perhaps that is no bad thing.

Everywhere was action: traffic, dominated by large Tata lorries and the ubiquitous black and yellow cabs; sellers, yelling in Hindi about their wares; children running, playing and shouting; music playing loudly from every available speaker. The culture shock people speak of when referring to India is easy to appreciate. Somehow, I felt comfortable enough though, even in the 40+ degree heat (96% humidity on the first day). I located a few alternative hotels, and although the buildings were decrepit, the rooms were ok, costing around 800 Rupees (12 Euro). After the hotel research, I headed to the Gateway to India. This huge monument was erected after the visit of Queen Victoria, and anyone entering the city by boat passes through it. It is also the launching point for trips to the islands around Mumbai, many of which contain small temples or interesting Hindu art. Security is tight; ever since the Mumbai terrorist attacks, the police and military presence has significantly increased in the streets. They are not threatening, however, and can be relied upon for help - in other parts of India, this is less true. I returned to my room, and took a nice, cold shower - warm water is a curse in India, not a blessing. After, just as I was hanging up my mosquito net (quite unnecessarily), there came a knock at the door. Robert, a German, was also looking for a cheap bed. He also had a very handy guide book, which led us to staying at the clean and cheap Sea Shore hotel - recommend it to anyone going to Mumbai. As it turned out, Robert and I would later travel on together from Mumbai. We revisited the Gateway of India by night for Robert to take photos - he is a semi-pro photographer. We headed out the next day to explore a fishermans slum that I had accidentally wandered into before - not that it was dangerous, just difficult to navigate at night. The people of the slums are a close knit community, very welcoming and friendly, and with a tremendous amount of dignity. Not once in the slum did someone put their hand out to us, unlike in the city streets. Beautifully dressed pretty girls and clean cut boys are paraded for you to meet as you pass. Many of the housing units there were clean and nicely decorated, though facilities were severely lacking - water and power are very sporadic. Also, the families have very litle space. Mostly, it was drab and grey, until we stumbled upon a beautiful red sheet with multi-coloured floral patterns being hung over a bamboo scaffold. There was going to be a wedding the next day, and this marked the dance and cermony area. To see this fantastic example of people just getting on with shit despite circumstances was quite uplifting. We wandered around some more, and took some panoramic shots of nearby Marine Drive in the evening.

The next day, we decided to visit some of the sights near Malabar Hill, one of the richest areas of Mumbai. From our arrival, the contrast was stark: clean streets, less people, shrubbery and nice cars. There were still the ancient apartment blocks and street stalls, but much more demure. In this area, we tried to visit the Tower of Silence, but were turned away - it is for the Parsi community only. At the tower (more like an open mine than a tower, really), dead bodies are left in the open, where vultures feed on their flesh. It may seem strange or even barbaric to us, but it is an ancient and venerated way of returning the bodies of the dead to nature. Further, in a country of 1.2 billion people, it is much more practical than burial or even cremation. We went next door to the hanging gardens, a fairly well maintained and attractive open space with lovely blossoming trees and bushes. The heat was stifling, so we sat in the shade and had some cool drinks. Many, many people stopped to chat and take photos with us here. In India, there is a certain fascination with western people. People will want to shake your hand, introduce themselves and get a photo with you. They also will usually ask what company you work for, as company jobs are prestigious; their reaction when I tell them I quit work to travel is quite funny. Western women travelling alone also garner attention, though it can be more lascivious. It is not really dangerous, just unpleasant - groping is not unheard of, but make a scene and the whole street will defend your honour. Apparently, brandishing your left shoe in a mans face also does the trick.

After the hanging gardens, we visited a Jain temple. The Jain religion is ancient; the modern form is a mere 3,000 years old, but the its roots have been suggested to be as old as the Indus Valley civilisation (about 6,000 years). The central idea in Jainism is complete pacifism and non-violence to all creatures; all other values stem from this. Quite an advanced idea for such an old religion. Their temples are highly decorative and artistic. Slogans in all languages adorn the walls, simple ones like "Live and Let Live", or "Money is the root of all evil". There are a few rules, such as not turning your back on the idols and not wearing your shoes in (and not visiting if you are a menstruating female...), but they are welcoming and warm when you enter. The women sit and chant, beating drums and tambourine-like instruments, while men whisper prayers constantly. People come in, kneel, pray and above all, donate. Each deity has its own seperate donation box, and they are large. Incense burns everywhere, and small sacrifices of fruit and rice are left. The whole atmosphere is colourful and pleasant, and lively. Light years from a Christian service.

In the afternoon, we discovered a large pool of water surrounded with steps on all sides. This turned out to be a holy area, where people came to bathe. I can't say it appealed to me, but standards are different here I guess - even if the holy water is dirty, it's still holy. After a side trip to see the Sasoon Dock (famous local fish market and candidate for smelliest place in India - up against some tough competition there), we returned to our hotel with a few beers. Before we got to the first bottle, some noise outside attracted our attention. A wedding was going on. The colour, the music, the dancing, the glamour, the fireworks - it was extraordinary. We went down to the street, hoping for some photos. We were only able to get a few before we were approached...and asked to dance. We were pulled right into the core of the dancers, throwing our hands in the air and trying not to feel like idiots. They were genuinely delighted to have foreign people as their guests; the photographer had a field day. I felt dramatically underdressed. We were even invited into the party marquee, though we politely declined. It would have been imposing; besides, we had beer and they didn't. Ending the evening on a high, we drank beers and played and sang songs with some German girls and their ukelele in the lobby of the hotel.

In the morning, and a little groggy, we emerged late and took a taxi to see the open air laundry. Featured in the movie Slumdog Millionaire, the open air laundry is host to hundreds of sweating young Indian men, each performing some vital activity in the process; scrubbing; beating; hanging; sorting. Thousands of pieces of laundry hang on high lines overhead, whites and colours seperated of course. It is tough work, and the shift lasts from 4am until 10pm. The reward? 200 Rupees per day (about 3.30 Euro). We were unable to access the area, but it is pretty waterlogged anyway. From here, we walked along the road to see an Islamic temple by the shore. The Haj Ali Dargah (tomb) and Temple is mentioned in the book Shantaram, which everyone here seems to have read. I've not had the chance, and I'm sure it's great, but hearing "wow, just like Shantaram" or "that guy from Shantaram was here" a hundred times a day is grating. Further, anything mentioned in the book has automatically raised their prices by about 400% - not joking. A beer in the Café Leopold, which the author frequented, costs 500 Rupees, or 7.50 Euro. Ridiculous. Anyway. The temple was in a slightly poor state, though thousands of devotees visit every day, including pilgrims who have walked a very long way to get smacked on the head with a small straw broom. Odd things, religions. As many as 40,000 visit on a Friday or Saturday, though access is dependant upon the tide; the 1km pier out to it is submerged at high tide. All the way down the pier were hawkers and beggars; some of the beggars were old ladies, renowned for throwing stones at passers by to get their attention. We took a few hits, but didn't drop a Rupee. For all sorts of reasons, one should NOT give money to beggars in India. Around the back of the temple, stone steps lead down to a filthy, rocky shore. Hindus and Muslims alike consider this place holy, and together they dip into the sticky green water. Perhaps it blesses them with good immune systems?

Our last stop in Mumbai was Dharavi Slum. This, too, featured in Slumdog Millionaire. It is where the principal characters are from. However, it is not quite as portrayed in the film. Lives here are improving: medical supplies are available, water and power are here, and the huge number of small cottage industries pull in hundreds of millions every year. The main industry is recycling plastic into pellets to be supplied to manufacturers of plastic goods. They also recycle electronics and aluminium. Dharavi is a hopeful place, though tragedy and hardship certainly still exist there. It is hard to photograph the area and not feel like a voyeur, or judgemental in some way, but the message of this place needs to be spread. If and when our corrupt, brainless economy actually collapses, we will have to learn a lot from these people. A note for anyone visiting the slum: take a reputable tour, like Reality Tours. 80% of their fee goes to people from Dharavi, and further they do not get commission for dragging you to shops, unlike the guy we went with. Robert wanted to save money and go with a cab driver who was waiting in the street, but he tried to extract money from us at every turn, whilst trying to rush us through the actual "tour" of the slum. When all you're saving is 6 euro, its worth taking the more expensive option.

After the hustle and bustle of Mumbai, Robert and I were ready for something a little more relaxing. We booked a train ticket for an overnight trip to Goa. Trains are always overbooked in India; you get put on a waitlist, and hope that enough people cancel for you to get on. The worst scenario is ending up with a seat instead of a bed. Trying to sleep upright in a compartment with a hundred other people and no A/C...bugger that. As it happened, our ticket did not get pushed up, and we bought a tourist quota ticket on a later train. Aboard the train, we were alongside several other westerners. A gay German couple (consisting of a massively stereotypical nightclub owner/"senior raver" and his cabana boy) and an English girl called Pip were our travel buddies. Pip was also going to Goa, so we teamed up with her the next day. The train was comfortable and well serviced. Tea, coffee and water were available, as were snacks, and breakfast items in the morning. Western toilets and toilet roll were located in each carriage. The train was clean, as were the sheets and bedding. And it was cheap, costing 15 Euro to go the 762km to Margao (official name Madgaon). Margao is the capital of Goa, a small, tropical paradise state in Southern India. Goa consists almost entirely of undeveloped countryside inland, whilst the coast is lined with resorts, beach huts, bars, restaurants and hawker stalls. We made for Palolem, about an hour south of Margao. The south is less touristy, and we wanted to relax.

Mumbai is a stunning place. As I said, I didn't quite experience the culture shock as strongly as some people; perhaps due to having been in Africa previously. This does not mean I was not astonished at every turn, however. There are amazing and beautiful experiences to be had, even in the heart of the slums. There is also incredibly poignant tragedy, from disabled and orphaned child beggars to the low caste people sleeping in almost every street, trying to scrape together the rupees for some bread. Right through the middle of this poverty rolls progress, in the form of new, shining businesses, upmarket shops and restaurants and brand new cars that many Europeans couldn't afford. India's economy is growing, but there are too many people. As one chap we met commented, even if the economy grows by 10 billion Rupees, that's 10 Rupees each. Mumbai is not as ugly as I anticipated, and there are more places to get a break from the ugliness than I thought at first. Is it a tourist destination? It is becoming one, but definitely not yet. Goa is another story...

A note on food in India:

Incredibly tasty dishes await you in India, but it is reported that 70% of people experience Delhi Belly. A.K.A. the shits. Many also experience full-on food poisoning. It is prudent to spend the first few days eating plain food bought from a super market or shop; also, try to eat anything with living cultures in it, like dahi yoghurt, to pick up local good bacteria. They're used to dealing with local troublesome bacteria. After a few days, you can be more adventurous, but LOOK AT THE KITCHENS. Even a place with a clean front can have a scum-hole kitchen, so take a peek. If you feel uncomfortable eating somewhere, don't. If you are particularly sensitive, stick to boiled, baked or fried foods, and eat only fruit that you peel yourself. Make sure to tell the server that you don't want ice or any local water (and remember that salads are probably washed in local water). Beyond those few precautions, there is no need to be paranoid. Any place that is busy is more than likely ok, besides which, the singularly impressive food here is not to be missed. My favourites are aloo paratha, Navrathan Kurma, palak paneer and Malai kofta...lip smacking good.

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