More Mumbai

So much to do in Mumbai, but so little time, as we were due to move onto Goa this evening. To try and maximise our time here, Sarah and I set our alarms for the ridiculous time of 5:30am. We desperately wanted to join in with the Mumbai Laughing Club, an informal pre-work get-together involving yoga breathing techniques leading to mass-hysteria as a form of stress relief. Unfortunately, circumstances conspired against us, such as forgetting to bring the map in the first place and being told a different direction to go by every head-wobbling Indian, alas we did not make it to the laughing club. However, so as not to entirely waste our early morning enthusiasm, we headed to Sassoon Dock, a stinking, pre-dawn fish market, buzzing with activity. The dock was rammed with men and women rushing and bustling past us, frantically bartering for the freshest fish and then balancing huge catches on their heads. We definitely got some wide-eyed stares here, but I can’t blame them. Why the hell were 2 foreigners there before the Sun had even come up?! As I forced myself not to gag, I asked myself the same question. We were attracting particularly stern looks from one suspicious looking guy, who was paying extra-attention to the rather large Canon dangling around Sarah’s neck. He sidled up to us and in an interrogatory manner began asking us what our purpose was for being here and suchlike. After telling him we just wanted to watch the market, he introduced himself as a police officer and commanded that photography was strictly forbidden. Obviously we obliged, but then I got to thinking why was a policeman needed at the fishing docks anyway? And why was photography so strictly forbidden? Smuggling maybe? Who knows? It’s certainly a bit fishy if you ask me. . . .sorry. What I did know was that the stench was far too much for this time of the morning so we sauntered back for some breakfast. On the way back, we were treated to an even more unsavoury sight, a homeless guy masturbating through his trousers. Nice. Maybe pride is your last concern if you’ve been on the streets for a long time. We tried to shake the image from our minds and then woke up Jitka, who had wisely decided to lay in.

After a hearty breakfast we were ready for the next event; the Dobi Ghats, India’s largest open-air clothes washer. To get there, we needed to negotiate Mumbai’s city trains for the first time. On the walk to the station, we saw another public display of masturbation! By this time it was broad daylight on the busy streets of Colaba, did this man have no shame whatsoever? This guy even had a lookout, who obviously wasn’t very good at his job as his mate was caught out. By just about everyone. The logic of this scenario bamboozled me, why have a lookout when you are on a busy street and people can see what’s going on? But then I suppose if you’re the kind of guy who likes to wank in public, logic doesn’t really apply. The train itself was were pretty straightforward, apart from me inadvertently ambushing the women’s only carriage and then having to wait until the next stop before I could sheepishly jump off and go to the men’s compartment. Strange, that a city needs segregated carriages. Do the local men have a problem keeping their hands to themselves as suggested by female foreigners? Or is public masturbation so prevalent here the men and women cannot be in confined spaces together? We were soon to find out.

We exited Malahaxmi station and rounded the corner for the Dhobi Ghat, looking for the viewing area to watch washing on a massive scale. Bizarrely, the viewing area from the bridge was packed with Indians, all trying to get a glimpse and we had to push through to catch a view. This struck me as unusual, normally this kind of activity is only of interest to foreigners, surely this is everyday life to local people? Without concerning ourselves too much further, we joined in with the crowd and observed a serious amount of clothes drying on washing lines and huge piles waiting to be washed. Oddly, not much actual washing seemed to be going on, just some guy on a microphone barking out orders, so we went into the action to have a better view. Sadly, as we were foreign we were told we could not stay. Obviously this enraged our Western equal rights sensibilities and we refused to leave, almost resulting in physically being ejected from the area. Everything made sense when we realised a TV company was filming the ghat! They didn’t want us white skinned folks ruining the authenticity of the shot. Boo. By now, it was turning into an uncomfortable crush. I wanted to give Indian men a fair go and not prejudge them all as lascivious perverts waiting to get their hands on a piece of exotic flesh as widely reported by the backpacker community. However, the sheer numbers of blokes there meant that I found myself just keeping an eye on the girls to make sure no funny business went on. I was relieved to discover the deviants were keeping their hands to themselves, other foreign travellers had been exaggerating and maybe I could relax a little from now on. But then just as I let my guard down, some guy grabbed Sarah’s crotch as we were leaving. It happened so fast, I didn’t even know anything untoward went on, but Sarah delivered an instinctive slap to the back of his head as he disappeared into the crowd. Just as a shocked Sarah explained what happened, unbelievably, another bloke thought he would have a feel, less than 30 seconds later! This time there was nowhere to hide, adrenaline coursed through my veins, but I managed to hold back on the beating he deserved and just let rip a furious tirade. He pathetically tried to claim it was an accident (hmm, unintentional crotch grab?), but soon slipped off when a crowd of people heard what had happened. Poor Sarah was obviously shaken up and I was absolutely raging, how are we going to travel this country if this kind of thing is going to go on? The worst part about it is that Sarah dresses respectfully here, long baggy trousers, long-sleeved shirt and scarf and these guys still thought it was okay to have a touch. Unbelievable. Our early time in Mumbai had been great until this point, but these incidents left doubts as to how much we could enjoy this country if this turned out be a frequent event. Still seething, we tried to put it to the back of our minds as next up was a visit to the Dharavi slum, which we had been looking forward to since we organised it back in Bangkok.

The Dharavi slum was made famous by the film Slumdog Millionaire (although only a tiny portion was actually shot there), however, thankfully life there seems more hopeful than the onscreen representation. The slum has grown to be so well-known that organised tours now profit from taking tourists there, but for our tour, Sarah had acquired the services of a local ‘guide’, Mohammed, who actually lived in Dharavi. Mohammed is a mere slip of a lad at 21, but possesses excellent English skills and the entrepreneurial attitude needed to make this kind of venture a success. Now, when I think of a ‘slum’, rightly or wrongly, I picture extreme deprivation, stealing, begging, a constant struggle for survival amongst disease and squalor. I actually found the reality to be far removed from this blinkered image; firstly, most people in Dharavi have some kind of a job, so they are supporting themselves. True, these jobs are extremely underpaid and often involve dangerous working conditions but at least people aren’t begging or stealing, they have something that is theirs and the pride that can bring. Most of the tour actually focused on the different industries within Dharavi, plastic recycling being the largest but there were also factories working with textiles and fabrics. The workers, mostly young men, were only too happy to stop for a few minutes (everyone likes an extra tea break) and tell us about their jobs, but also quizzed us on life in the U.K. It was a good experience to have this brief cultural exchange through the mediation of Mohammed, who was obviously well-liked by the community of Dharavi and had an excellent rapport with the workers there.

After we finished looking at the industry of Dharavi, next up was the residential area, which from a voyeuristic point of view was the part I was most looking forward to. Here I expected to see the ‘real’ Dharavi, the shit and the squalor as portrayed in the film. But once again, I was pleasantly surprised, the conditions of the concrete ‘shacks’ were certainly cramped and open sewerage drains were exposed (as in many places in Asia), but people definitely weren’t living in boxes or on the street. Everyone here had some kind of permanent home and what appeared to be a network of support involving friends and family We’d actually come across far worse poverty and desperation on the streets of the city, people with absolutely nothing but the ragged clothes just about still draped over their emaciated bodies. This infamous slum seemed almost like paradise in comparison to this existence. Mohammed led us down small roads and we squeezed through tiny alleyways, past surprised, yet friendly locals and happy children still dressed in their school uniforms. We eventually emerged for a well-needed cold drink, where we got to know Mohammed a little better. He’s a sweet guy, who saw an opportunity, learnt English and now his business is doing well, fair play to him, I reckon he’s the real-life Slumdog Millionaire! We then walked down the main road towards Mohammed’s house which was to be our final stop. Despite the open air, the street felt more claustrophic than the tiny alleyways, the Sun was intense, traffic seemed to come from every direction, churning up dust clouds as it moved on through the mass of bodies going about their lives. Next to the road was a guy face down in the dirt, motionless. He may just have been the local drunk and the way everyone just walked around or stepped over him would suggest this was the case. Looking back on it though, we really should have stopped to help him, but because no-one else seem bothered, we shamefully carried on towards Mohammed’s house. It just seemed kind of natural that he was there, just part of the scene, I regret not stopping now though. I suppose this was more of what I expected to see in a Mumbai slum, so the reality wasn’t all rosy.

We eventually made our way to Mohammed’s house, which was a very basic one-room dwelling, in which 5 people all slept tightly packed on the floor. Mohammed revealed his keen business instinct and not only insisted on us filling in questionnaires about the tour, but also filmed an interview on his mate’s phone, so future customers could see our feedback. We didn’t begrudge him this; he has a tough job against the official tour groups, so we were happy to help him out. We then paid him the agreed 300 rupees each (4 pounds) and he kindly escorted us back to the nearest train station. Dharavi slum had been a great experience, not what I had been expecting at all, but the reality seemed far more positive than what we envisaged. Of course, it’s possible we had a tour to the more Western friendly parts of the slum and didn’t really get to the real core of Dharavi, but from what we saw the people were more than just existing. We then headed back on the train (the total cost of our rail journeys today was 32p!) to make our night bus to Goa.

The Lonely Planet, although by no means infallible, states that the Mumbai to Goa bus journey is definitely one to avoid, so it was with slight trepidation that we clambered aboard. However, our double berth was pretty comfy, so I settled down with a book I thought,”this ain’t so bad.” Traffic was diabolical and it took us 3 hours by the time we’d even left Mumbai. It was pitch black outside by the time the driver could put his foot down. Unfortunately, the road was ridden with pot-holes and the driver was employing a brake-at-the-last-possible-second strategy and it quickly became apparent why Lonely Planet gave such advice. A few minutes later, the driver flew over what must have a crater in the road, as everyone shot up half a metre in the air and actually hit the ceiling of the bus! What comes up, must come down, which resulted in disaster for one Indian guy, who began hollering in pain from behind his curtain. One no-one immediately rushed to his attention (we were still a bit shocked to have been catapulted into the roof), so he literally threw himself onto the floor of the bus, yelping even louder as he clutched his back in agony. Another local passenger came to his aid and much to the annoyance of the bus driver, it was decided the victim had to go to hospital. However, there can’t have been anywhere appropriate nearby, as the guy was taken to the local maternity ward! The bus now stopped for 45 minutes whilst they tried to patch him up, but his injury must have been too severe for him to carry on, his bag was sent for and the bus sped on again at the same relentless pace. That bus had put that man in hospital and we didn’t even crash! Madness. Let’s just say it was a sleepless night, but at least there were no more incidents and we arrived in Goa the next day with no further passenger injuries.

India – First Impressions

There are countless more events from the previous few months that have made it into my hand-written journal but are yet to appear in blog form, which i should probably write first. However, these events seem slightly tame in comparison to our first few days in India, so next up is Mumbai. I get to type this on our first train journey in India and its gorgeous scenery of mountains, jungles and waterfalls with plentiful wallahs of all kinds keeping me topped up on energy. i may never take a bus again in India, this is how traveling should be.

Mumbai

Vague feelings of trepidation on the flight from Bangkok were quickly replaced when Mumbai came into view. The city skyline at first reminded me off Seoul, white tower block after tower block, but the fact these structures were arranged along a sprawling coastline with dotted with palm trees quickly ended any resemblance. As we flew closer to the city, the blanket of apartment blocks was broken up by various flat, multi-coloured sections, which upon closer inspection revealed themselves to be some of Mumbai’s rubbish-strewn slums, one of which, Dharavi, we would be exploring in 2 day’s time.

At baggage claim we got talking to Jitka, a sweet girl from the Czech Republic. It was her first time in India too, so we decided to band together and share a taxi towards our Mumbai home, the traveller’s centre of Colaba, for a hopefully less stressful initiation into India. Mumbai airport has a great pre-paid taxi scheme, which rules out any chances of a rip-off as soon as you land. What was less certain was our chances of actually making it there, driving is manic throughout Asia, but this was taking things to another level. The girls almost soiled themselves numerous times due to the brake at the last possible micro-second method employed by our driver. I chose to avoid the extra stress and admire the manic new world I was now a part of. The city itself appeared to be an amalgamation of various cities I’d been to before, but most strikingkly reminded me of Bangok, Dubai and even Birmingham all rolled into one. Far more interesting than the structural elements were the people comprised within it. The streets were a throbbing mass of bustling businessman and beggars with the women in their gloriously colourful garb cleansing the dirty streets. There were religious people of various strains, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims all ramming the streets together and going about their affairs. The journey continued through filthy concrete ‘shacks, new high-rise apartments, cool neighbourhoods with tons of character until suddenly the city metamorphised, bizarrely, into London! We had suddenly reached the affluent area of Churchgate and it looked incredibly like England’s capital. Huge, grand buildings to rival some of London’s finest, tree-lined avenues and even red double-decker buses made my brain struggle to comprehend where the hell I actually was. I was expecting to see some British influence in parts but certainly not on this scale. The first 1 hour of the journey I definitely felt like i was in India, now I felt like I was back in the bosom of Britannia, very surreal.

We managed to find our chosen accommodation without too much difficulty and we ‘checked in’ at the Salvation Army hostel. By ‘checked in’, I mean we had to go and find our own dorm beds in this huge dilapidated building as the staff had a tough job keeping tabs on what was going on. The dorm rooms were huge, each containing about 25 bed-bug infested beds. The place was buzzing with activity with locals and travellers alike. However the place was so big it was totally anonymous and I religiously used the locker supplied to me. It certainly was not my first choice of residence, but the price was right (225 ruppees inc breakfast - 3 quid) and we wanted to stay together, particularly as Jitka was a solo female first-timer to India. We had been really excited about our first Indian meal in the taxi, but the thali we were served up was bland and a massive let-down. We finished up the evening with a very pricey beer by Asian standards (2 quid) at the much celebrated Leopold’s cafe, one of those traveller’s institutions’, glorified by the Lonely Planet, that mugs like me just can’t seem to get enough of for some reason and continue to line their heavy pockets! Before long,the fuzzy effects of a full belly, beer and the flight took over and we went back for a early night, hoping for a good nights kip to be fresh for a first full day in Mumbai tomorrow. When i was denied access to the bathroom by the hostel manager as there were “groups in there” (not quite as sordid as it sounds, I think Indian boys were showering together, there was literally 4 showers for about a hundred people), i could tell I was in for a restless night. I’ve had more good than bad experiences in hostels, but his one definitely fell into the latter, Indian teenagers were inexplicably playing A-Kon on their phones outside my dorm, snoring hippies that I kept having to shake out of their slumber and ladybird sized bedbugs keeping me up scratching all night. I’m getting too old for this! I finally managed to get about 4 hours sleep and was then rudely awoken by screaming Indian boys at 6am. Welcome to India!

Determined to not let my lack of sleep spoil my first proper day of Indian madness, I had an early breakfast and was greeted by Sarah and Yitka about 8am, 2 fully-rested and chirpy ladies. Apparently the segregated ladies floor was a veritable haven of peace and tranquility. Bitches. After a couple of hours trying to sort out an onward train to Goa, heavily booked carriages meant we had to reluctantly settle for an over-priced sleeper bus, I had my first masala dosa, the much-championed snack of spiced potato wrapped in bread. This time I wasn’t disappointed. As Sarah says frequently, “Delici-oh-so!”. By this time it was getting baking out on the busy streets and we took sanctuary in Coffee Day, what I can shamefully see turning into a Western haven for us when you just need to escape the hecticness for half hour or so. After refueling on caffeine and sugar, it was time for a proper explore of Mumbai and what better way than a casual roam around the city? I don’t think I have ever experienced so much stimuli, it really was the full sensory attack on the senses I had been told about. Colourful people from every angle, saris, burkhas and turbans jostling for space amongst cheeky schoolchildren, cows ‘parked’up on the side of busy roads and peddlars and beggars competing for income. All this fervent activity was set to a cacophony of horns blaring and engines revving whilst the Sun beat down, hot and strong. My head was swiveling like the Exorcist child trying to take it all in. It was a wonderful mess. We managed to find some respite from these stimuli amongst the cute backstreets and neighbourhoods of pretty painted houses, getting merrily lost in this sanctum somewhere in the middle of the city. Further strolling revealed the chowpatty (beach), the skyscrapers hugging the East shoreline denoting the wealth contained within this city of extremes. The beach front itself tells a different story, desperate beggar children combing the debris for anything they can salvage amongst the rusting boats, stopping their activity to plead with passers-by for hand-outs. This sad story was once again juxtaposed by next neighbourhood we came to, the affluent Malabar hill, with it’s gleaming new high-rises. We hadn’t come all this way to pry on Mumbai’s better-offs, hidden within this beacon of Indian modernity was a spiritual core, the vast communal bathing tank, which takes pride and place as the centre-piece of the neighbourhood. Indeed, many locals believe this place to actually be the centre of the world as signified by the wooden pole rising from the centre of the tank itself. Although we hadn’t chosen the best time to view (washing en masses occurs in the morning)), the huge stone steps rising from the pool in the middle provided a serene backdrop and we whiled away a few hours, just watching patches of life go by. Some people sat alone with their thoughts, Indian women shared tales of family life with their neighbours and children sharpened their cricket skills in the background. Nobody seemed too perturbed by our presence, in fact I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the overall lack of staring we’ve received in this short time here so far, not what i was expecting at all. We soaked up the serenity for an hour or 2, hardly believing we were in such a calm surrounding. As the Sun was beginning to fade, power-walking grandfathers took to the perimeter and an inquisitive child and grandmother came to share our space on the steps, the happy old woman gabbling away in a mixture of broken English and Hindi. Drums could be now be heard from the far end of the tank, investigation revealing uniformed teenage boys rattling out drum rolls on snares attached to their bodies. Evening practice or something more celebratory?

We took a stroll down some back alleys, chatting to friendly kids and adults alike and found our way to the local beach/rubbish dump/toilet. The Sun was glowing red over the ocean, brilliantly juxtaposed against the unsanitary scene below it. After the overpowering stench became a bit too much, we strolled back to the public square and were greeted by a large group of men pouring down the narrow streets, still in business attire, but most covered in red paint. Had Holi started early? No time to question it as a huge group of women donning their most extravagant saris flooded down the street after the men, the drummers in full flow by this time. When the groups converged in the centre, the rhythm overtook their bodies and the streets were amass with dancing bodies, the men particularly flamboyant in their movements. Once again we just could not believe what we were seeing and beaming at our luck in encountering such an amazing scene. To the delight of a group of teenage boys, I took part and let one of the kids give me a healthy dosing of red paint. It was a wonderful atmosphere and great to be a part of it. After the procession continued through the town, we took a taxi back to Colaba to reflect on an amazing first day in India.