Mumbai, India Day 1 March 13, 2016


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April 21st 2016
Published: April 22nd 2016
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Shailesh of Mystical Mumbai Tours. The adventure begins!
Mumbai, India Day 1 March 13, 2016

A chaotic beauty, a marvelous mess, a delightful dervish of fundamental contradictions of modern and traditional, of pristine and filthy, of friendly and fraudulent.

Mumbai is a series of social contradictions. Mumbai contains all faiths and politics. Mumbai is crowded, dense and compact. Mumbai is about 19M bodies all trying to cross the street at once.

It is a ridiculously huge city and we will fill two days with only tiny portions of it, and these portions are geographically close together. This is a gigantic and disjointed place, although if we keep to our tour plans, we should never be more than a couple of dozen kilometers from the ship. Mumbai was once a series of seven islands, but infill, as we have seen in places like Boston and Singapore, has turned it instead into a sprawling peninsula.

An enthralling array of fascinating vignettes on this tour. Our two days in Mumbai stand out as a centerpiece of our experiences. On the first day, our group tour covered all the requisite sights and scenes available in a brief visit; day two was more immersive, a taste of real life in real Mumbai.

Standing at the railing in the early morning as we tied up, we saw nothing but activity in this industrial port. Trucks and other heavy equipment whizzing to and fro, piles of material, and an overwhelming sense that this is not a place that puts a priority on occupational safety and health. Near hits seem common but the workers seem equally unperturbed.

Pranav's dumping of us as clients (see post Singapore Feb. 17) turned out to be a great thing. While I did follow up on a couple of his alternatives, the responses were slow or unenthusiastic. In great contrast to this was a response from mysticalmumbai.com.

Shailesh was accommodating, eager, and best of all for me, highly flexible. Over our several-week email correspondence, I had changed from one to two days and back again, ranged from six to twenty-six people, and varied our demands for itineraries. In the end, we filled most of a smallish bus for the full two days. For both days we were going to play lunch by ear as it was not included in the tour, but Shailesh said he could easily set something up at our individual expense as
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The Gateway to India. Built for King George V and Queen Mary. They never visited the completed structure.
we wished.

Because of the dangerous work going on in the port, we were funneled into shuttle buses to get to the port gate, the Green Gate as it is known. Nothing fancy or historical, it's just painted green. Lots of soldiers for security, many female (some strikingly so) and all armed.

Leaving the gate, you are instantly in downtown Mumbai. Taxis, buses, hawkers and police fill the street. Rolf spotted a sign with my name, and we met the indomitable Shailesh. Tall, slight and young, his is an air of helpful confidence, and a smile that promised a day of amazing things. He is a doctoral candidate in chemistry at Mumbai University while he runs his tour groups and teaches school in the Dharavi slum, where he lives. The tour group is in its seventh year and he employs dozens of tour guides (almost if not all students from the slums) and rents lots of buses with drivers.

His copilot was Sushil, a young man of whom Brainard said should be in Bollywood, with his killer grin. A business admin student, he wants to continue in the tour business, and Shailesh is his mentor. Sushil no
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Us continuing the adventure!
longer lives in the slum but his father has a business there and Sushil often runs it in his father's stead.

60% of the population of Mumbai live in the slums. There is no particular shame in it, it is not abnormal. There is a sense of loyalty and common cause among those who have roots in the slums. They tend to pull together and help each other out, and given the repulsive and still-lingering power of the caste system, that is a good thing.

So, introductions made, and with all of us on the bus, I sprang my last change on Shailesh. We need to reverse the itineraries so that all the walking will be on the second day, as on this day we had people whose transmissions weren't equipped for slippery slum touring or cobblestone hill climbing.

No sweat. We were off, first of all to the Gateway of India, which, it was pointed out, became the gateway from India to the British after Indian Independence in 1948. "Bye, bye British," grinned Sushil as he waved imaginary redcoats onto their departing vessels.

The gateway itself was accessible only through a security checkpoint (men left,
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India's 'Big Ben' at Mumbai University.
women right). An impressively useless piece of architecture, the Gate sits on the edge of the water to serve solely as a triumphal arch for the entry of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911. Sadly, construction did not begin until 1915 and the Royal Couple instead inspected a cardboard model. They never returned to see the completed structure.

Today it is a central tourist attraction, skirting as it does a nicer area of affluent Bombay, with a lovely seawalk, lavish hotels and British-style University grounds, government buildings and more upscale businesses. There are several jetties remaining nearby, and there is security pressure to have them closed, as the perpetrators of the 2008 terror attacks in downtown Mumbai landed secretly at a nearby fishing jetty.

I was impressed by the locals hustling their goods; this idea was new to me. These guys had small battery-powered photo-quality digital colour printers in their backpacks that communicated with their Bluetooth-equipped cameras. They were doing a booming business taking candids or group photos and printing them out on the spot.

Back on the bus, we headed for Marine Drive, called "The Queen's Necklace," for its glittering lights at night circling
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Detail of the Jain Temple.
the bay like a choker. On the way we passed several historically significant buildings, Shailesh taking the stopped-in-traffic time to tell little tales about what we saw, and what was worth getting out to see.

Mumbai University boasts some amazing 19th century British design. If you have ever been to St. Pancras Rail Station or Big Ben in London, England, you would recognise the style instantly. No walking tours allowed since the nearby bombings occurred so we wandered up and down a sidewalk which afforded nice views of the grand structures.

Across the street was a huge public park packed with colourfully-dressed crowds and some of us took our cameras to investigate. It being Sunday, it was cricket day, and dozens of teams filled the giant lawns, being cheered on (or jeered at) by friends and family as they incomprehensibly hurled balls and pegs and swung bats and ran back and forth and waved and shouted a great deal. Picnic baskets and kites and children and bright Sunday saris showed a charming picture of Mumbai at play.

Down Marine Drive with its seawalk along the Arabian Sea, with art deco apartments so kitschy that we could be
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The Gardens.
in Miami. We stopped at the far southern end to take in the view. There were several families wandering about, or sitting on the seawall, Ken befriended a hopeful and friendly dog, and a gang of young men threw stones into the water. Small fishing boats floated in the bay, nets thrown out and regathered. Don't know what they might catch in that water, but I'm not going near it.

We gathered to do a group photo. After some milling around we succeeded in having several pictures taken with multiple cameras, and as the group fell away, the group of young men we had seen earlier mobbed Marianne, clamoring to have their picture taken with her. So there's blushing Marianne, surrounded by a whole passle of smiling, young, virile Indian guys. Doug was right there, and vigilant.

Chowpatty beach, although large and quite sandy in spots, is not an area for traditional beach-type recreation. The water is not suitable for swimming, low tide reveals an uneven rocky surface and suntanning is not big here. Shailesh said that it is a popular location for religious festivals or large family celebrations.

Reaching the far side of the bay, the
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The Old Shoe play structure.
bus began climbing the hillside. We passed a temple which on first glance looked Hindu, but was different, and enough people expressed curiosity that Shailesh asked if we'd like to see a Jain temple.

Less friendly than Hindu temples, visitors are tolerated rather than welcomed, and not permitted to enter the temple proper. The world's 4M Jains have firm views about what constitutes pollution of their temples. They believe in karma and reincarnation, but not in the Veda Scriptures (the oldest teachings of Hinduism), nor in a judgement day or a Creator god, nor in the caste system. Liberation from the life cycle comes from a life of purification, discipline and nonviolence. All living things have a soul, including plants. Dietary restrictions abound and most Jains are vegan although some consume dairy products if suffering of the animal is not involved. Degree of suffering is a highly subjective judgement amongst the faithful, and extremist Jains will fast to death (Santhara) to avoid causing suffering to plants.

Moving further up to the next hill, we found the Kamala Nehru Park sitting over a reservoir contained in a hilltop, which is covered with The Hanging Gardens, a botanical collection, and
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One of the many busts of Gandhi.
intricate pathways. Religious altars and shrines scattered throughout give parkgoers a place to pray or meditate or to walk to and from. Further east and across the road, a lookout give a fine elevated view of Chowpatty Beach and the Queen's Necklace along Marine Drive. Further into the park sits the unexplained Old Woman's Shoe, a play structure for children.

Nearby looms one of the the Towers of Silence, where Zoroastrians place the dead atop a tower to be scavenged by birds, so as to avoid contact of the unclean dead with the sacred elements of earth or fire. After as much as a year, the bones, bleached by sun and wind, are put in the center pit where assisted by additions of lime, they gradually disintegrate, the rainwater pulling the particles through multiple layers of filters of coal and sand on their way to the sea.

Modern use is much debated. Neighbors complain of unconsumed bits being left on their balconies, as the declining vulture population proves inadequate to meet demand. Clergy have responded by restricting eligibility of Zoroastrian products of mixed marriages to use the towers, captive vulture breeding programs, and even the use of solar
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Diorama of Gandhi's assassination.
concentrators, like solar ovens, to accelerate decomposition. Wow. That's commitment.

Down the road, a US$2B apartment tower. 600 servants. 27 stories, but the height of a sixty-story building. The first six floors are for parking, the seventh for the in-house mechanical garage. One family, seven residents. Yes, seven. The city won't allow them to use any of the three helipads, though. Crazy money.

To the opposite end of the spectrum: the house where Ghandi cogitated and planned his quiet revolution from 1917 to '34. Filled with a reconstructed library and office/sleeping room, artifacts of Ghandi's simple life are showcased. Most of one floor houses multiple dioramas showing pivotal scenes of his life. I at first found this tacky in representing such a significant personality, but as I reviewed them, I was struck by their detail and accuracy in terms of the story being told.

Just past the storied Mahalaxmi Racecourse, home of the Royal Western India Turf Club, Mumbai's Dhobi Ghat cannot be missed. They exist all over India, as Dhobi Ghat just means a place of many washers, who are known as Dhobi.

What's the big deal about a laundry? An open-air laundry slum. Mumbai's
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Dhobi Ghat. Oneof the largest outdoor laundries in the world.
is proportionally huge. Row upon row upon row of 1500 family-owned concrete troughs, men only doing the work, wash, dry and fold by hand, all the while thigh-deep in chemicals and detergents. Industrial loads of laundry, from hospitals and hotels and myriad institutions and private homes. Bright flags of tablecloths, sheets, towels; here a section of just jeans, there another of bright white shirts. Everything hums right along with hardly a washcloth mislaid or stain unmoved. Until the rains come. Then things get difficult for the dryers, who count on good weather to help complete their tasks.

We had been so captivated by the sights, sounds and smells of the day that we were surprised when Shailesh said, "You mentioned lunch." It was midafternoon and we had been going since early morning. I had been prepared for people by that time wanting to return to the ship, and for Shailesh to be suggesting that, but the immediate concensus was, "Press on!" I was proud of my group, and Shailesh made a phone call.

Lunch was pretty fine. Service was slow, but when twenty people, mostly ignorant menu-challenged tourists invade, what can one do? The owner bustled about, assuring
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The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel.
us that he was indeed a doctor and that there would be no "Delhi Belly" here, and if there were, well, he would take care of it. According to his card, he is not only a physician, but a former kickass police officer, politician and proprietor of several restaurants and other businesses. Shailesh was upfront: he did not get a kickback for bringing his bus here, but when he and friends and family go there for a rare celbratory meal, he gets 20% off.

Aside from Ken having a hard time getting a cold beer, things went well and nobody ordered anything they couldn't handle. As it was, my mild curry was not, and my sweaty forehead shortly demonstrated that.

This was a fine group, and I was enjoying being the one who put it together. Much laughter and jollity and clinking of beers, and making of new friends. And I'm looking at Shailesh thinking about how he usually deals with happy folks on holiday, and musing, "You know, I could like this." He looks up, flashes a smile and a thumbs-up like he knows what I'm thinking.

A quieter drive back now as everyone was a little snoozy from the fine lunch. We passed some pretty squalid areas filled with squatters under tarps and overpasses, and thousands of people just going about their business.

Because it was Sunday, the streets around the port, usually packed with trucks and cabs, were filled instead with young men playing cricket. Just like street hockey, the Hindu word for "Car!" scatters players and one or two reluctantly drag the wickets off to one side. Still an incomprehensible game.

We set up plans for the next day, arranging the time and itinerary. Time for a shower and maybe a snooze.

But Brainard and Leslie had other ideas. Leslie is a bit of a hotel junkie, she likes to have a martini in the swankier ones when she travels, and one doesn't get much more swanky than cocktails at the Mumbai Taj with a view of the Gateway of India at sunset.

The story goes that J. N. Tata, an Indian businessman, built the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel after being refused entry to one of Old Bombay's European bastions, Watson's Hotel. Tata was stopped at the door, "No wogs or dogs." Incensed, he commissioned the hotel, swearing that it would be off-limits to whites and cats. So goes the legend.

So back to the Green Gate, where the senior cabbie in the crowd offered to take is to the hotel for $10US. "Nope," said Leslie, and ignoring his protests, said loudly, "200 rupees to the Taj Hotel." One excited old guy bustled to the front and led us to his cab. He chatted animatedly along the way to the hotel, asking our plans and saying that he'd wait for us, be happy to take us anywhere else we'd like to go. Thanks, have a good night. We knew we were being taken advantage of, as while 200 rupees is only about US$3, a metered, legal cab would cost only 50 rupees for the same ride.

At the Harbour View Bar at the ridiculously elegant Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, where photos of notable celebrities from the last sixty years festoon the pristine hallways, Jane tried a local wine. Under no circumstances can this be recommended. I had a bottle of knockoff San Pellegrino called Don Pellegrana or somesuch, while our friends had their US$20 Bombay Sapphire martinis.

We watched the sun set over our drinks, and while Brainard and Leslie ordered another round, I took the opportunity to go look for an ATM. Directions from the front desk sent me outside and down the street. I got swept up in the crowds, crossing the streets when they did and generally going with the flow. I soon had passed where the ATM should have been, so I did a couple of figure 8s to see what else I could find. The roads were full of people, and a couple of blocks from the hotel I realised they were mostly male and in their 20s.

I wandered unremarked through the groups, watching them prepare for an evening out, making calls, arranging redezvous, flagging cabs and waiting in chattering groups for buses. I found an ATM, but the group of a dozen or so bored-looking guys hanging out in front dissuaded me, and I made my way back through the streets and alleys to the hotel and its bar. A fun little jaunt through dark Mumbai.

Drinks done and hotel facilities explored, we asked the doorman to call us an honest cab back to the Green Gate. Instead, we got a cab broker, who offered a cab to the ship at only 500 rupees. "200," I said. "Four," said he. "Two got us here," I said. "Unlicensed," he replied, "flat rate, 300." "Done," I said, worn down.

Arriving at the Gate, I fished out 500 rupees and handed it to the driver. He smiled and nodded, and put the money in his pocket. "200 change," I said as I beckoned with my hand. He hopefully put 100 rupees into it, and smiled engagingly at me. "100 more," I insisted. His grin split his face. "A tip for me?"

Years ago I came across the Hindi word, "badmash." It means a naughty person, a rogue, a ruffian. I never thought I'd actually use it. "You are a badmash, aren't you?" He looked a little shocked, but the grin was back. "Yes, sir."

What could I do? I smiled, nodded, got out and headed for the Green Gate.

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