Mumbai

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Traveling in India, you quickly realize that you must – under all circumstances – remain flexible and go with the flow as much as possible. The difficulty in doing this, though, is knowing when to become rigid so you don’t get eaten alive as well. It’s an intuitive feeling one begins to possess - India is a country of extremes that teeters it on a fine wedge: a beautiful palace stands next to slums; a woman is ornately dressed, but doesn’t have any teeth; a rich man builds himself a 40-storey tower of glass to live in, just for himself, while a beggar with no legs goes hungry; one of the oldest civilizations in the world, propagators of major religions, has citizens that defecate on the street, right next to the roaming cows, in plain view. And that’s the key – the dichotomies are all in plain view, not embarrassingly concealed, swept under the rug; and it’s enough to make you bonkers.



In any case, remaining flexible after three bus connections in order to traverse about 40 kilometers, we made it from Palolem to the Margao train station. We had a bit of a wait ahead of us since our train was late, so had a late lunch. We had to observe a few people to figure out how to order, then deduced at which counter to do so. I walked up and put in my order, paid, and received a little piece of paper with my order on it.



“Do I take this to over there?” I inquired, pointing at the open kitchen.



I received the weird Indian head bobble that I still haven’t quite figured out yet – “Is it ‘yes’? Is it ‘no’? ‘Maybe’? Why can’t you just nod, or shake, your head?” I stared at her confused, as she continued to take orders from other pushy customers – lines sort of exist in this country as everyone just steps right in front of you if you leave too much space or take too long to do something.



“Umm... hello?”



I received another esoteric head bobble, and stared at her some more, starving for not only food, but for some form of acknowledgement. Finally, staring back at me, she said in a long drawl, “Yeeessss…”



“Ok,” I responded, smiling and bobbling my head. She did not appreciate it.



Anyway, she lied because the guys at the kitchen were more confused than I when I walked over to them to hand them the little piece of paper. They started yelling something in Hindi, waving me off, and bobbling heads forward and backwards, and side-to-side.



“Ok, ok, but what do I do with this?”



More head-bobbling, more waving… I went back to my table, not having the least bit of idea what to do. Klaudia told me to call over the waiter, which I did with no immediate response, other than another head bobble. Ten minutes passed… Resigned, I hopelessly looked at Klaudia, who gave me a head bobble.



“Not you too.”



I was about ready to tear the little piece of paper into bits, when the waiter finally walked over and took the little piece of paper from me. We ate shortly thereafter.



After our meal, and an extra two-hour wait, we caught a sleeper train to Mumbai. Honestly, if there is anything at all amenable in India, it is the transportation system between major cities, but, of course, only at times, and only if you remain flexible. The ride to Mumbai was in a 3^rd class sleeper car, meaning, in a wagon with several compartments that each contain 6 “beds” that fold into seats as well. A 2^nd class sleeper holds four beds, and a 1^st class sleeper holds two beds, but we’ve not yet had the pleasure of 1^st class. There are also sleeper buses, which have compartments with mattresses in them situated above the usual seating that you would see on any bus. We’ve now ridden many of these buses and have found them to be a very convenient way to travel: instead of spending the night somewhere, only to have to travel the next morning or afternoon, one can take a sleeper bus at night, safely lock himself in his compartment, and awaken the next morning in a new city. It is important to note that the sleeper buses do not have bathrooms, but the bus does make routine bathroom stops at abstruse restaurants on the side of the road along the way. If you can get past the complete lack of hygiene at these places – and the strange stares you get from locals that may have never seen a white person - they can be good places to eat. In fact, I had the 2^nd best samosa (for the best samosas you’ll ever had, you can ask Marlena to make you some) I’d ever had at one of these places, and they were practically prepared on the floor, with just a tray between the samosas and the floor.



Now, back to our 3^rd class sleeper train: it was comfy, and we slept well, only awakening once we reached Mumbai.



I do not have much to say about Mumbai other than “it’s big”, in a populated sense. Most stats peg the population of Mumbai at about 17 million, but the locals tell me that this official number is incorrect and does not take into account the millions living in slums. In any case, I did read a couple things that claimed that the population of the city can inflate to as much as 30 million people during a business day – that’s an astounding 13 million people additionally in transit through Mumbai each day! And you can feel it... Then, if the vast crowds weren’t suffocating enough, the noise pollution caused by the incessant “beep-beep” of vehicles is at levels I’ve never heard before, not to even mention the haze caused by air pollution. And just like the rest of India, there’s garbage everywhere. It’s not a place I would ever want to live.



So how about just for a visit? There is definitely a certain charismatic allure to the streets of the city if you wish to visit, especially in the Colaba district. Indeed, it is the epicenter of Bollywood, with magnificent architecture (outside of the slums, of course) that surely would impress any Westerner: what looks like a museum may actually just be a simple office building; the main railway station is grand in its appearance; and – who knows? – you may get picked up by some Bollywood movie producer searching for foreigners to be in his latest production. This actually did occur to a couple from Canada we’d met; I think that they said they made 600 rupees (~$11) a day. Would I stand in the heat all day for $11 just to be in some ridiculously histrionic Bollywood dance scene? No, not since I was in an after-school special in High School and spent all day recording a scene, while listening to the belittling direction of some washed up director, just to have the back of my head shown on national TV, with subsequently weighty repercussions in the form of months of derision from my classmates. But, hey, maybe the LA delusion extends internationally and you’ll get discovered.



One great thing about Mumbai for me: it’s very hot, but not at all humid. I unfortunately do not function well in humidity (some yogic guru told me to check my alkaline levels), but Mumbai was the first place in something like 3 weeks in which I did not break even a little sweat the entire day, except during some stair-climbing we had to do on Elephant Island.



Elephant Island is in Mumbai harbor, off the coast of the city and reached by a 1-hour ferry ride. The island contains Hindu cave temples built sometime in the 5^th century AD. Although not nearly as impressive as what can be found in Ellora (more on that later), the temples were well worth the visit, with Hindu gods in mysterious postures carved deeply into canyon walls, bats fluttering about, and reverential Hindus bowing before it all.



We spent two days in Mumbai, but one would have been sufficient. On day two, not really knowing what else to do, we visited the largest Laundromat in the world, with all the laundry done by hand. It was slummy and we saw some druggies lying in the street with needles sticking out of their legs and arms and, intriguingly, some tattoo artists giving tattoos on the side of the street; and they had business. I wondered what makes someone decide to get a tattoo on the side of the street. We were earlier contemplating an organized visit to the Mumbai slums through a travel agency, but after seeing the Laundromat, we figured we didn’t really want to put ourselves in that element.



Before we departed on another sleeper train to Ellora, we (I) stopped at a bar to kill some time. There were no seats available, so I proceeded to the fridge, pulled out a 600ml bottle of Kingfisher, and walked it to the counter with the intention of sitting on the bar stairs to drink.



“How much?”



“10 dollars.” I gazed astonished at the Indian, who kind of resembled a pirate.



“10 dollars? That’s more expensive than in New York. That’s a joke, right?”



“100 Rupees,” the pirate responded with a silly smile.



“Ok, that’s better.”



I walked over to the doorway (the door was open) and stood on the first step.



“It’s ok. Take outside. Tourists can do anything in India.”



“Oh, I prefer not to. I learned my lesson in Kochi.”



He inquired about what happened, and I explained how the locals threatened us with the police.



“You no have to worry about the police here: you in Delhi before they come.”



“Maybe true, but, as a tourist, I don’t really want to draw attention to myself too much.”



“Who will care?”



“Pretty much just me… I want to be respectful. Just like I’m observing people and things here, I’m being observed as well.”



I received a head bobble, and Klaudia asked him to explain it.



“I think you starting to understand Indian culture.”



Yeah right… That is so far from the truth.

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