Mumbai

India and Nepal

Monday January 4^th 2010

   Today is a special day.  It’s my 35^th birthday, and it’s the day when I finally get to see a country I’ve wanted to go to since…well, since I’ve wanted to go anywhere. All being well, tonight I sleep in India. 

As befits a day of such noteworthiness, it starts early.  We’re up at 5.30 to get the airport bus, which will take about fifty minutes to speed us to Incheon for our 10am flight. The first of the day’s unexpected events greets us as we open the front door – it’s snowing, hard.  As we walk the twenty minutes to the bus stop, the snow continues with gusto, and is soon laying a worrying blanket over the roads.  Snow and transport don’t mix particularly well, but I’m encouraged by the sight of airport buses passing in the other direction as we wait for ours to arrive.  Less encouraging is the length of time we find ourselves waiting.  Departures are supposed to be every fifteen to twenty minutes, but it’s well over half an hour when finally, at just after 7am, the bus draws slowly into view from within an ever-thickening veil of snow. Once aboard, things don’t improve to any great degree.  We are moving, but only just, due in part to the weather, and in part to the traffic, which is almost as heavy as the snow.  I look out for landmarks to indicate our progress, but they are all taking far too long to arrive, and after fifty minutes, we’re not even halfway there.  My eyes move from the clock to the window, out of which I strain for any perceptible increase in speed, and back again, but neither offers any comfort. It becomes alarmingly clear that our check-in deadline is approaching far more rapidly than the airport.  At 9.22, in a state of near panic, we disembark, running.  Jung-Ok makes for the desks while I take both the bags.  Immediately inside we scan the boards for information, but our flight is not on the list anymore.  This is not good.  She sprints off in the direction of the Cathay Pacific desks, and I get there just in time to see a conversation with a member of the ground staff ending with my wife’s head hitting the desk in despair.  It’s too late; for the first time in my life, I’ve missed a flight.  To add insult to injury, not only have we missed it by about five minutes, but it’s also pretty much the only departing flight this morning that is not delayed.

Desolation gives way to frustration, annoyance, and then bitter disappointment. Happy Birthday.  It falls to Jung-Ok, with a clear linguistic advantage, to find some means of salvaging this disaster, and to her endless credit she’s on the case immediately and tenaciously. The Cathay ground staff say we may be able to fly tomorrow, but we’d both really like to get out today somehow, anyhow, so Jung-Ok calls our travel agent to get her on the lookout for anything, via anywhere, that might be available sooner.  Our predicament is made no less galling by tannoy announcements about cancelled flights to China, where the weather is apparently much worse than it is here. Other people’s inconvenience is no compensation.  Phone calls go back and forth to the travel agent and the airlines, and with them it seems, our hopes of departure. One minute we’re looking at getting out no sooner than the 7^th, the next perhaps tomorrow, the next who knows when? Today looks impossible though.  Finally, nearing 11am, the agent gets back to us with news that two seats have just opened up on the same Cathay flight tomorrow, and it won’t cost us anything extra. This seems to be the best we’ll do, and is great news.  She says she’ll call back when it’s confirmed.  Agonizing minutes pass before she rings back, but then it’s to tell us that we’ll have to contact Cathay direct, because their computer system is not registering the date change for the Incheon-Hong Kong leg of the journey, despite her having reserved it.  The Cathay desk is, of course, closed until 12.15, and so we try to call, whereupon we ride an endless, trilingual carousel of, “All our lines are busy, please try again later.” in English, Korean, and Chinese. Jung-Ok manages to get another number from the information desk, and finally gets through.  They confirm, we are good to fly tomorrow. While I’m relieved, I still feel a clawing uncertainty not least because it is still snowing, harder than ever in fact, and this cannot bode well for the airport’s efficiency in the morning.  All we can do is hope.

With the transport quagmire successfully traversed (and Jung-Ok deserves a medal for her work this morning), our thoughts turn to what’s left of today. We face an unexpected twenty two hours in Korea. Neither of us can stomach the idea of going back home again, so we set about finding a hotel near the airport. Very little work finds a leaflet for the Hotel June, which we settle on largely because it is eight minutes from the terminal, offers a complimentary shuttle service both ways, and has free mini bar. It’s about $90 a night, but hey, it’s my birthday. The transfer to the Hotel June takes about twenty minutes rather than eight, such is the abominable condition of the roads.  I’ve never seen snow like this in Korea. Once we arrive, the place is nice enough, although their ‘high-speed internet’ is without doubt the slowest I’ve ever used in this country, and their ‘free mini bar’ consists of two bottles of mineral water. They don’t even supply complimentary tea and coffee in the room, which come as standard even in the cheapest, nastiest love motels…apparently. 

We mount an expedition, through what is now well over two feet of snow, to the nearby supermarket, and stock up on comfort food and a couple of bottles of wine, then spend the most of the rest of the day in the warmth of the room, where we learn from the unnecessarily large plasma screen TV that this is the worst snowfall in Seoul for forty years; today of all days. Still, you can’t fight destiny like that. As much as I’d like to completely kick back, get merry, and enjoy my birthday, there is still business to be done. We had a hotel reservation in Mumbai tonight, and I need to amend it for fear of our stay getting cancelled altogether. This is not so much out of concern for ourselves, since we’ll get into the city about 8pm, and so could if need be, find something else.  It’s more for our travelling companions, my oldest friend Andy, and his wife Odette. They are due to arrive in Mumbai in the early hours of the day after tomorrow, and since our reservations were kind of tied together, it would be nasty if both got cancelled and they found themselves there at 3am without a place to stay. I email Raj, the owner of the Hotel Moti, to explain.

A few hours later, and various TV stations and websites are indicating that the skies should clear by tomorrow.  Indeed, as I look out of the window in the late afternoon, I’m very cheered by the sight of bright sunshine, blue skies, and an enchanting lack of falling snow. In other interesting developments, Andy and I coincide online, and are able to discuss goings-on. Raj has still not replied to my email, which is odd, as he’s usually very prompt to do so.  Andy tries to call the hotel, but gets ‘number not in service’. We are hoping these things can be explained by their phone line being down, or some other equally innocuous circumstance, as opposed to the place having burnt to the ground sometime in the last forty eight hours.  Yet more lingering doubts; I’d expected to be thwarted at every turn once in India itself, but not before we’d even left home!

About 10pm, I’ve still had no reply from Raj, but while perusing the Lonely Planet, I discover that Andy has been using the wrong country code to call India all day!  Armed with this information, I try myself, and get through to Raj immediately. He accepts the alteration, with good-humoured protestations about losing business. I point out that I emailed him about ten hours ago, and that it’s his own fault for not checking his email. He then confirms, “So, a first floor room for Rs2700?” to which I reply, “No, we agreed Rs2500.” This is followed by a chuckle and, “Ah Mr. Andy, you are very smart!”  He then asks if I can pick up a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label somewhere en route, for his father, for which I’ll be reimbursed on arrival.  I tell him I’ll see what I can do, although my optimism about being paid back by a man who’s just blatantly tried to stiff me for two hundred Rupees is not substantial.

With everything attended to as much as it can be, the evening proves quite enjoyable, and I retire just after midnight, tired, a little merry, and full of anticipation for departure mark II.

Tuesday 5^th January

   Today is a special day.  It can’t hurt to be optimistic, so I’ll try again – all being well, tonight I sleep in India.  Having ensured that we pilfer all available toiletries in recompense for the deplorable lack of reasonable gratuities, we take the shuttle back to Incheon. The roads are very much improved this morning, and it’s substantially less bitter than the -17 degrees of last night. Check-in is already open when we arrive, and in a bizarre turn of fate, we are processed by the same woman who dealt us the crushing blow yesterday.  She remembers us, and by the by informs us that about sixty other people missed the flight yesterday too. There’s a terrifying moment when she says she can’t find our reservation, and has to go off to the ticketing desk, leaving both of us thinking ‘Oh please God no!!’ but she returns swiftly with a smile and our boarding passes, at which point my heart is able to retrieve itself from my stomach.

   Take-off is delayed by an hour due to the necessity of de-icing the plane. This should still put us in Hong Kong with an hour or so to spare until our connecting flight, but nonetheless, I am growing weary of crossing my fingers, and we’re not even out of Korea yet.  Once airborne, the flight is unremarkable, as are the food and entertainment, but we arrive in Hong Kong more or less on schedule, which is all I really care about. We’re greeted by Cathay ground staff, who separate all those bound for Mumbai, apply a yellow sticker to each person’s arm, and then lead us off through the myriad halls.  I think this is done to ensure that with time being short, no-one disappears or gets lost, and indeed, boarding is well under way when we arrive at the gate.  The plane is a shiny new one, with space-aged comfy seats (although mine has an Indian woman in it), on-demand entertainment (although Slumdog Millionaire, which I pause while eating, refuses to unpause again) and really good Indian food (although Jung-Ok isn’t overly impressed, and many of the Orientals on board turn their noses up at it completely; quite how they’re going to survive in India I’m not sure).

   Approaching Mumbai we’re put in a holding pattern, which affords us a view of quite the most bizarre and inexplicable meteorological phenomenon I’ve ever seen.  As we fly circles over western India, a magnificent sunset paints the sky with gold, pink, yellow, red, purple, and very unexpectedly, green. Yes, green. There’s a large band of it stretching across the lower sky. I have to get Jung-Ok to look at it to confirm I’m not seeing things, and she’s as surprised as I am. I’ve never seen anything like it before. We try to photograph it, but it doesn’t come out.  Definitely a first.  It’s almost 7pm when we finally (in light of yesterday’s events) make a hard landing in Mumbai. Formalities are swift, and aside from a portly security officer asking me what I have in my bag (You’re the one with the X-Ray machine, you tell me!) painless. 

A prepaid taxi of suitably beaten-up condition takes us out into the humid, balmy Mumbai night, for the long, noisy drive to Colaba, an area close to the harbour, and where much of the backpacker accommodation is found.  I find the ride thoroughly entertaining, largely because this is my first taste of India.  Mumbai’s streets are thronged with a heady, chaotic mix of congested traffic, and pedestrian bustle, which my eyes drink up as my throat chokes back clouds of exhaust fumes. Rickshaws fight for road space with monstrous numbers of cars, trucks, buses and motorbikes, along streets lined with gaudy, hand-painted shop fronts, and commerce of every variety and scale. There are purveyors of fruit and vegetables, making their living next to pavement cobblers, tailors, snack vendors, and a myriad other enterprises; all of this on the street outside swanky car dealerships, department stores and boutiques, which themselves share space with tiny, hole-in-the-wall kiosks and rickety street stalls. It’s a bizarre fusion of new and old, large scale and small scale, rich and poor.  People take their chances with the traffic as they dart across the roads, while the occasional cow saunters nonchalantly along the carriageway. The whole place strikes me as being similar to the result of what would happen if Phnom Penh and Cairo were suddenly fused together. It’s manic, exotic, intriguing, unfamiliar, and all set against a backdrop of architecture that owes as much to the British Empire as it does to the developing world. Jung-Ok has somehow, despite the bumping jangle of the taxi and the noise of ten thousand car horns, most of which seem to be inches from our heads, managed to fall asleep. I think she’s reached the end of her batteries. I’m close to reaching the end of mine, but arrival always seems to fire me up however late the hour or long the preceding journey. 

It’s about ninety minutes later when we pull up outside the Hotel Moti International, a crumbling colonial relic hiding amidst a pleasant growth of vegetation in a relatively quiet Colaba street.  Raj has already gone home, but the receptionist calls him and passes me the phone.  A loud cheerful voice bellows down the line, “Hello Mr.Andy!  Welcome to India!”  I take the opportunity to check that our friends’ reservation is all sorted out, and Raj is massively amused to discover that he will have two Andys staying. Leaving the admin until tomorrow, we’re shown to our room via a marvellously decrepit but I suspect formerly glorious winding wooden staircase. The room itself is a little on the grubby side, but it’s large and has a balcony with sweeping views of a back alley and what looks like the rear end of a textile factory.  It also has a huge iron safe that looks old enough to have witnessed a number of lifetimes, although why it’s there is anyone’s guess. To be honest though, none of the details matter save one - tonight, I sleep in India!

Wednesday 6^th January

   Our balcony smells fantastic this morning, as delicious wafts of food and spices come drifting in from the alleyway below. It’s actually a much more interesting view than I gave it credit for in last night’s darkness. Aside from the general comings and goings of people (some risen, some as yet in slumber) and a variety of animals, our balcony also affords views across to the dome of the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower Hotel, Mumbai’s last word in luxury. It was this grand edifice, opened in 1903, that was seen around the world, a pall of smoke and flames rising from its windows, after the Mumbai terrorist attacks of November 2008.  One hopes happier times lie ahead of it.  What lies ahead of us is the prospect of breakfast, but we first call in on Andy and Odie, who should’ve arrived in the early hours. Signs of life betray the fact that they’re not only here, but up and about, so I knock. They are looking happy, healthy and tanned when they answer (as indeed they should be after three months in SE Asia) and it’s great to see them again after almost a year and a half, especially as it’s in a place none of us have ever been before. They’re almost ready to head out, so we hang on in order to take breakfast together.

   Mumbai’s streets are warm, bright and sunny, and it won’t be long until the day’s bustle really gets into gear. Already stall holders are setting up, shop fronts are opening, and the traffic is beginning to get raucous.  There are still one or two of the street people yet to rise from their makeshift beds, but most of this large population of the city’s dispossessed and desperate are probably already about the day’s business of survival.  We take the short walk round the corner to another Mumbai institution – Leopold Cafe. Long a hangout for travellers, tourists, and locals, Leopold was another of 2008’s casualties. It was extensively damaged after grenades and a hail of bullets tore through it, leaving bloodstains, anguish, and ten deaths in their wake. To look at the place today, you would never know anything had happened, except perhaps for the precautionary addition of a metal detector at the entrance. Having said that, Leopold is open-fronted, so very few people even go through the machine on their way in. Despite a pleasant, cosmopolitan atmosphere, Leopold’s breakfast passes only as average. It’ll do for today, but I don’t think we’ll be eating here again.

   Back at the hotel, we finally meet Raj in person.  He’s in his mid to late forties, with a wide smile and a very friendly countenance. He’s also a big man, not only physically, but in personality too.  Everything he says seems to come with an extra helping of enthusiasm, such that simple greetings feel like long-lost reunions. I like him immediately – he’s certainly the friendliest hotel owner I’ve ever met anywhere. Among a great many other things (Raj is on the loquacious side), he tells us that he doesn’t need our passports or details because, “You are here as my personal friends.” Something tells me we’ll still have to pay though! The Moti has a small garden area at the side, and he joins us here for a chat. We mention a few things we’d like to see in Mumbai, and that we have a contact for a guide. Raj suggests we engage a driver through him, which, once we do the maths proves a lot cheaper and easier, so that’s settled for tomorrow morning. We’re considering a slum tour tomorrow afternoon.  I say considering, because while it’s something that interests us all, there is also an uneasy feeling in each of us at the idea of paying to see poverty. We voice the idea to Raj, and he recommends the tour immediately, telling us exactly where to find the agency that organizes it. Encouraged by his positive response, we decide to commit, reservations aside.

   Our next mission therefore is to find the agency’s office.  It seems simple enough, as according to Raj and the LP it’s in the same street as Leopold. This is India however, and we must remember this.  Once in the right road, we follow a sign for ‘Reality Tours and Travel’ pointing down a side street, but a thorough exploration turns up only sleeping dogs and a lot of people milling around without apparent purpose. Backtracking to the sign, we notice small print.  It directs us through a corner shop, up some stairs, past the Jalani Commerce Centre, and into an office labelled ‘Information Systems’. Once there, the place is so tiny, that only one of us can actually get into it. Andy volunteers, and is put on the phone to someone. An amusing conversation ensues, involving humorous amounts of, “No, I didn’t understand that.” “Could you repeat that please?” “Sorry, I’m afraid I still don’t understand.” “I couldn’t get that.” and so forth. At one point he says something about “doors closing”, only to eventually decipher it as “modest clothing”. We all get this immediately, even second hand, but it’s only about fifteen seconds later that he seems to understand what he’s said himself, as he suddenly exclaims, “Ah! Wear modest clothing!  Ok I see!”  Anyway, he’s successful, and the slum tour is booked for tomorrow at 2pm.

   Returning to today, we are going to leave the mainland and visit Elephanta Island, a site of historical interest about 9km out into the Arabian Sea. It’s home to the Elephanta Caves, carved from the hillside basalt itself sometime between the 6^th and 8^th Centuries, and dedicated to Shiva. The island is reached by ferry from the Gateway of India, which conveniently gives us an opportunity to see this imposing structure up close, along with its neighbour, the aforementioned Taj Mahal Palace and Tower Hotel.

There are certain icons of India – the Taj Mahal, Hindu holy men, cows in the street, auto-rickshaws, hand-painted Bollywood signs and so on; things that I knew, when I saw them, would tell me I was here. The Gateway of India was one of those icons.  At twenty six metres high, the Gateway is a grand and ornate arch, topped with four minarets, and facing out to sea at Apollo Bunder. Architecturally it’s a fusion of styles, being structurally Muslim, and decoratively Hindu. It has welcomed visitors to Mumbai’s shores since its 13 year construction was completed in 1924. Part of me thinks it’s a great pity that visitors don’t arrive this way anymore; the airport is just not the same. As the hot afternoon sun beats down, I look at the Gateway, and enjoy the effect it has on me of saying, loudly and clearly, “You are in India.” In truth though this message is delivered with equal if not more clarity by everything that goes on around and beneath it. Large groups of tourists, mainly Indians, mill around taking photos, or talking, while others casually stroll by taking in the atmosphere. The brightly-coloured saris that make Indian women some of the best-dressed in the world are everywhere to be seen, and it strikes me that whereas in nature, the male is very often exotically plumed or coloured, while females are drab, here this order is turned on its head. Women pass by in vibrant golds, yellows, blues, greens, and reds, adorned with armfuls of colourful, glittering bangles, while their husbands mostly wear plain, western clothing – simple cotton shirts and trousers. They are quite outclassed by their womenfolk. Hawkers ply these cheerful crowds selling giant helium balloons, although seemingly without much success (small wonder really as I can’t imagine what anyone would do with a six foot helium balloon), and a few beggars also work their way around. Ragged groups of children are on the prowl here too, and Odette seems to be the most popular mark of us all.  She is besieged, whilst the rest of us are largely ignored. One small girl puts a bracelet of petals on her wrist, before demanding money for it. I don’t watch the protracted negotiations very closely, but I can hear that they go on for some time.

Having finally escaped the attentions of Mumbai’s enterprising children, we make our way to the front of the Gateway, from where the boat to Elephanta departs. It’s only Rs120 for the one hour journey, and after a brief wait, during which we fall victim to some spectacular Indian queue jumping, our vessel arrives and we’re able to secure four decent seats with views back to the city as it recedes with our progress across the harbour and out into the Arabian Sea, which here at least certainly holds the unenviable distinction of being the brownest sea I’ve yet laid eyes upon.  It’s a pleasant but unremarkable journey beneath strengthening heat, and the only thing of note along the way is an island that looks to be entirely covered by a vast and hideous industrial sprawl; either an oil refinery or a chemical processing plant I suspect. Whatever it is it’s nasty, and I’m glad to look in the other direction and see the green, forested hills of our destination.

Having disembarked, we face the sad realisation that to get to the green forested hills, we first have to pass a beach laden with large piles of filth, composed mostly of rubbish, but also of a host of even less appealing things best not mentioned. It’s not completely unappreciated though, as evidenced by the scrawny black cow that stands in the thick of the nastiness chewing on a coconut husk. From here, things improve, and we are soon making our way up a long stone stairway lined on both sides by the full gamut of souvenir stalls and local traders. I envisage a gauntlet of hassle here, but surprisingly there is none. Usually in these places, even an accidental glance at the wares is enough to have people leaping up and shoving bracelets, necklaces, jewellery boxes, and soapstone deities under your nose, but Elephanta is very pleasantly free of any of this. We are thus able to amble slowly up the steps, getting our first taste of the vast shopping potential of this country. Even from this cursory inspection, I can tell that I could happily fill a number of large packing crates with souvenirs. To further enhance matters, the entire staircase is infused with the aroma of incense, as most of the vendors are both burning it and selling it.

At the top of the steps, approaching the caves themselves, the monkeys appear.  They are Rhesus Macaques – big, brutish animals with a tendency towards antisocial behaviour. Signs inform us to ‘Beware of Monkeys’, and not to tease them in case they ‘…harm you’. To be honest anyone who gets a kick out of teasing monkeys probably deserves to be harmed. We pass their outer guard unimpeded, and make for the caves.  There are five Elephanta Caves, and the first, unsurprisingly called ‘Cave No. 1’, is the largest and most impressive. A space the size of a concert hall has been carved out of the basalt with rows of thick, trunk-like columns left as support. To the left and right it opens onto the air and daylight, before antechambers once more plunge into the rock. All around are huge, elaborate statues and sculptures depicting Shiva and various Bodhisattvas. Two of the most impressive are a carving showing Shiva and his consort Parvati, on Mt Kailash, and another depicting Ravana, the ten-headed, twenty-armed demon god, attempting to bring the mountain down. The cave’s most important sculpture is the Trimurti, a twenty foot high relief on the back wall, showing Shiva with three heads, representing the three aspects of Brahma - creator, Vishnu - preserver, and Bhairava - destroyer. Many of the sculptures are now damaged or eroded, and only tiny traces of the original paintwork remain, but their scale and artistry are no less impressive for that. Here again, as in so many other places, the lengths and efforts people will go to in the name of devotion are astonishing.

The rest of the caves are smaller and more modest, so we get round them fairly quickly. The scenery is lovely though, and the monkeys provide a wealth of entertainment by alternately fighting, playing, and shagging their way through the afternoon. There are also large numbers of dogs, the majority of which are catatonic in the hot sunshine. It’s easy to sympathise, and having returned to the top of the steps, where a smattering of cafes and restaurants are located, thoughts turn to refreshment.  On a pleasant terrace with a view out over the Arabian Sea and the oil refinery, we order four beers and four vegetable thalis. A Thali is comprised of five or six different dishes, served on a steel tray; usually one or two curries, bread of some sort, and perhaps chutneys, dhals, or raitas. This is the first I’ve tried in India, and it’s delicious, although the beer is a bit of a disappointment.  We’d rather hoped for something authentic like Kingfisher, but have unfortunately (and particularly to Odie’s distaste, being Australian) been served Fosters from cans.

Having made our way back down through the myriad stalls lining the steps back to the coast, we find that the tide has come in, and thus the beach of filth has now been replaced by a gently lapping sea of it. The coconut-munching cow has also been replaced, by about six others, a smattering of goats, and a small pack of lackadaisical dogs. We make the ferry just before it departs, and with no seats left, find deck space near the prow. We bought standard tickets, rather than the VIP option than entitles passengers to a seat on the top deck. For the briefest of moments as the four of us squeeze into the relatively small space available, we regret this. However, it isn’t long before such thoughts vanish completely. With the wail of a siren, and the barking of a stern voice through a megaphone, the Bombay Harbour Patrol pulls up alongside our vessel. Everyone on the top deck, all of whom have paid extra to sit up there, are ordered down aggressively. The crew protest, and for a moment it looks like we actually going to be boarded. In the event though, some more shouting and a few authoritarian gesticulations prove adequate, and the lower deck is soon filled to standing room only as the top deck is cleared. Suddenly we feel rather smug about our little space, where at least the four of us are able to sit. I can only assume that all of this is due to the contravention of safety regulations, although it could quite easily have just as much to do with not having sufficiently bribed the Bombay Harbour Patrol.

Back at the Moti International, Raj offers us beers, and we sit and chat with him a while in the pleasant little garden of the hotel. Talk turns to the Mumbai terrorist attacks of 2008, and he explains that in the period immediately afterwards, tourists, and thus his business, dropped some 90%, although numbers began to pick up again after a month or so. I’m surprised things weren’t down for longer to be honest. More cheerfully, in relation to the Taj Mahal hotel, we enquire as to the price of a drink in their bar. This evening has been earmarked as a late birthday celebration, so we are considering pushing the boat out a little. Having said that, when Raj explains that the Taj Mahal slaps a 37% tax on every drink one purchases, we decide that the boat really isn’t up to that kind of open ocean, and should probably remain a little closer to shore.

The evening thus sees us back at Leopold for a couple of drinks, followed by dinner at the New Laxmi Vilas, an establishment highly-recommended by all three of our guidebooks. Upon entering, we’re directed upstairs to the air-conditioned area, a peculiar, hermetically-sealed box reminiscent of something from a poor quality 1970s Sci-Fi show. The food, by contrast, is wonderful.  I order a vegetable saagwala, aloo palak, samosas, and steamed rice, while Jung-Ok dines on rice, and mushroom masala. There are frankly too many dishes on our table for me to accurately state what Andy and Odie eat, but by all accounts theirs is lovely too. Very satisfyingly full, we take a stroll by the waterfront along Marine Drive. It’s still buzzing with couples, families, beggars, hawkers, weighing-machine wallahs, balloon salesmen, and everyone else you’d expect to find on a Mumbai street, but now we are also joined by horse-drawn carts ready to transport tourists up and down the coast road.  They are all adorned with brightly-coloured tube lights, and while I assume this decoration is supposed to add an air of the romantic, it really succeeds only in achieving an admirable level of tackiness. If you have ever seen a neon palm tree, you’ll know exactly what I mean. The ladies decide their day has come to its end, so after escorting them back to the hotel, Andy and I have a few more drinks in the slightly bizarre Alps Bar and Steak Grill, where beneath photographs of Swiss chalets, Mont Blanc, and the Eiger, one can dine, if the menu is to be believed, on ‘Chicken Lolly Pop’, ‘Chi Chese Sanfich’, and ‘Rusain Sausege’. It isn’t long before we too call it quits and make our way home through streets where dogs are beginning to prowl, and the homeless are beginning to settle. 

Tuesday 7^th January

We’ve arranged a taxi to take us round Mumbai’s sights this morning, so meet at 8.30 for breakfast. The weather is once again sunny and bright as we make our way past stallholders beginning to set up for the day, Mumbaikars on their way to work, and the few still-slumbering street people, tucked into doorways, or more commonly simply sprawled on the pavement. We spurn Leopold, making instead for the nearby Cafe Mondegar. Here we are served a breakfast of vastly superior quality, in my case a masala omelette with cheese and mushrooms, and a cappuccino. 

Awaiting our taxi back at the Moti, we once more get chatting to Raj. I notice something very interesting about the way he speaks. When he addresses his staff, he often switches mid-sentence from Marathi, to English, and back again. It’s rather like listening to Rowley Birkin QC. When I point it out he explains, “Well, I’m not an educated man. I have been brought up speaking Marathi and English, so I just use whatever works.” A moment later one of the staff comes over, and Raj gives him instruction as to the details for some soon-to-arrive guests. This too is done in a mixture of the two languages, and Raj explains to us as he says it, “Oh, yes I used Marathi for that – it means 2^nd floor. Yes, that’s easier in English. Mm, I often use Marathi for times of the day.” and so on. I get the impression that he’s never really thought about it before, and it seems to amuse even him when he analyzes how he speaks.

Around 9.30 our driver arrives and we head out into the raucous Mumbai traffic. This is undoubtedly a crowded and busy city, but it’s by no means unpleasant for that, and it teems with an infectious energy that makes the noise and bustle more invigorating than draining. We pass a cricket game taking place on a field near the huge and impressive colonial facade of Mumbai University, and it’s here amid a storm of car horns, that we are very nearly side-rammed by an SUV. In truth though, vehicular progress through the streets of Mumbai seems generally to be punctuated by near misses and potential traffic accidents, and so we find ourselves paying it very little attention.

Our first stop is Nariman Point, Mumbai’s business district, where a promontory affords great views of the city skyline, and where the quiet chugging of a slow wooden boat, making its way across the bay, strikes a stark contrast to the high-rise commercial buildings that represent India’s recent economic success.  A little further up the coast we reach Chowpatty (four channels) Beach. During the day this is little more than a wide stretch of sand, populated largely it would seem by street children in search of a few Rupees. By night however, it is apparently a hive of activity, with food stalls, hawkers, masseurs, and a host of other small-scale entrepreneurs doing what they can to make a living. The day shift has spotted us within moments of our feet hitting the sand. Once again, for reasons unknown, Odie is their primary target. A small boy of about five or six, one of a large group, asks for her sunglasses. She replies, “No, they’re mine” and this is greeted with a chorus of, “Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!” I cannot help but think of the seagulls from ‘Finding Nemo’. We don’t linger long, partly because we have already agreed to take dinner here this evening, and partly because while the upper half of the beach is white sand, the lower, tidally-affected part is a heinous natural dump for anything that washes in from the Arabian Sea, much of which consists of things one would never wish to see on a beach.

From here we progress up Malabar Hill to a spot where our driver pulls in, very narrowly missing a pedestrian, opposite a Jain temple. Jainism is believed by historians to have originated sometime between the ninth and sixth centuries BC, and focuses on self-improvement to reach enlightenment, and on non-violence to all living things. This is certainly the first time I’ve ever actually seen Jains in the flesh. Those here are of the Shvetambar-Murtipurjak sect, and thus wear white robes, although like all Jain monks and nuns, walk barefoot and sweep the ground before them to avoid harming insects and other forms of life. The temple itself is of modest size and decoration, with an atmosphere noticeably less sombre than many other places of worship I’ve visited, but I still have the slight feeling of being an intruder, as I do whenever I walk into the religious spaces of those whose faiths and doctrines I do not share. Having taken a look around, Jung-Ok and I are waiting outside for the others, when we are approached by a postcard salesman. He asks where I’m from, and on learning that I’m British, says immediately, “Oh, you are very rich.” I can’t dispute that relatively speaking, this is probably very true; however I’m still not going to buy any postcards.

We are en route to our next stop, the Hanging Gardens, when at a standstill in heavy traffic, comes our first exposure to traffic-side begging. Oddly enough, I am just recalling the episode of ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ when Michael Palin was in a stationary taxi in Mumbai (or Bombay as it was then known) traffic, and a little girl suddenly reached an open hand in through his window. His words, “It’s endemic, the begging. It’s all over the city” are in my mind precisely at the moment a small hand pokes in over the wound-down window to my left. It’s attached to a young girl of perhaps nine years old. She has the empty, hopeless eyes of a person who is surviving rather than living, and this seems all the more noticeable for the fact that those eyes form part of an enchantingly pretty face. Seconds later, other little hands are appearing in the other windows, and I think all of us are relieved when the traffic finally gets moving again. It’s an experience that is repeated with depressing regularity whenever we stop for signals. As sad as it is to see small children living on the streets, sleeping on the pavement, sitting empty-eyed under flyovers, or begging amongst the traffic, I can’t cure Mumbai’s poverty.  I can’t house those children, and a few rupees won’t change anything. I have to stick to a policy, however harsh it may seem, of not giving anything to anyone, because once you start, where can you stop? It’s just something I have to be hard about.

The Hanging Gardens, despite their name, consist only of a small park lined with topiary, and the only things of note here are a great view back down to Chowpatty beach, a giant fibreglass shoe-shaped house containing a slide (it’s only for the under twelves unfortunately) and a selection of deplorable portaloos, only one of which passes muster, and then only with the door left open.

We move on to the Mani Bhavan, the house where Mohandas K. Ghandi lived from 1907 to 1924. It’s been converted into a small museum of the great man’s life and works, with a host of photos, newspaper articles, and documents. Most affecting are the room in which he lived and worked – a small, modest space with Spartan decor, a photo showing his worldy possessions at the time of his death (a lantern, a safety pin, a spoon, and a few other items), and an article about his assassination, which describes the way he smiled and bowed to the man who moments later was to end his life with a single gunshot.

Our last stop is the Dhobi Ghat, in the far north of the city, where Mumbai does its laundry. This huge area, comprising innumerable tanks, basins, and more washing lines than you could shake a wet shirt at, is a hive of soapy activity. Washing from all over the city comes to the Dhobi Ghat, where it is scrubbed, soaped, thrashed, beaten, rinsed, wrung, and hung by an army of launderers. Men work the tanks, washing and rinsing, while women deal with the hanging and unhanging of the clothes. Such is the brutal treatment the garments receive as they are pummelled against the stone slabs, that we have been told one never sends a shirt to the Dhobi Ghat without expecting it to come back shy of a few buttons.

From the Ghat, we take a short but hectic journey to Churchgate Station, where we will meet our guide for the tour of Dharavi slum. We have an hour or so to spare, so decide to get lunch.  Just across the road from Churchgate, having negotiated traffic that would put Cairo to shame, we find what would seem to be the Mumbai equivalent of a greasy spoon. It’s basic, and cheap, but more importantly it’s full of locals, which is generally a sign of good food. Deluxe thalis are ordered, and do not disappoint; lentils, chickpeas, potatoes, popadoms, chapattis, and rice. A meal that will hopefully gird our loins for the afternoon ahead.

Back at Churchgate, we purchase tickets to Mahim station, the nearest to Dharavi, and then meet our guide, Fahim. He’s a short man in his early twenties, with close-cropped hair and a pair of glasses that make him look like he should probably be studying quantum physics. His voice lilts gently, and he is prone to that most Indian of head movements – the wobble and tilt that seems to denote agreement, disagreement, consideration, and half a dozen other things, while being utterly inimitable. There are worryingly large numbers of tourists gathered, and I have visions of a herd of us being led around the slum like rich gloaters. Thankfully, Fahim informs us that we’ll be broken up into small groups when we get there. The thirty minute train journey is fun, if only for the fact that the carriages have no doors, and thus anyone could, should they feel the need, hurl themselves to their death at any moment. I have said before that I respect countries where everyone is responsible for their own health and safety.

Once at Mahim station, the various guides divide up the various tourists. We are in the last group to set off.  Fahim will be guiding the four of us and an Indian-American called Anand. A short walk from the station and we’re crossing the railway bridge that leads over the tracks, and into Dharavi slum. This is the largest slum in Asia, with a population density of 470,000 per square kilometre. A variety of trades take place within Dharavi, many of which involve international exports. In fact, the slum’s annual production is some $665, 000,000, and that’s only what’s declared. In addition to industry, Dharavi has schools, hospitals, emergency services, restaurants, bars, shops, and everything else you’ll find in the rest of Mumbai. We’re told that it’s quite safe, but that people may well stare at us, and it’s with this that we descend the steps of the railway bridge, and enter the slum itself.

We come down onto a main road, busy with the comings and goings of daily life. There’s little traffic here, but many, many people. Within metres, Fahim leads us off down a narrow side street.  We have now entered Dharavi’s industrial zone, a distinct area of the slum kept separate from the residential areas due to noise and odour issues. One of the specialities of Dharavi is recycling. If it’s used in Mumbai, and it can be recycled, then they’ll recycle it in Dharavi. A short way down the alley we stop outside a building where men are busily crushing biro ink cartridges – thousands of them. The smell of ink is almost overpowering. Once crushed and cut, the plastic will be washed, melted, remoulded, and resold. It’s not only pens either - in the same alley we pass recyclers of plastic casings for electric devices (TVs, monitors, stereos and the like), and paint cans. These latter are washed and then either melted down, or hammered out and reused. It’s a hot, uncomfortable afternoon in Mumbai, and all of this work looks substantially hotter and more uncomfortable. From within the dark interiors of the many ramshackle buildings, come blasts of furnace-like heat, and the odours of unpleasant chemical processes.  These men will work ten hours a day for Rs250, the equivalent of about $5 US. Still, Fahim tells us that people flood into Dharavi every day looking for work, and there is always something available for them to do. Many of the residents are men on their own, who have left their families in Gujarat, Uttar Pradesh, or other parts of India, and come into the city because even those five dollars are more than they could hope to earn in their rural villages. Many of the companies even provide their workers with housing within the slum. Contrary to what we westerners would be inclined to think, people here don’t feel hopeless and unfortunate.  There’s no shame in being a slum dweller. Poverty is not a mark of failure in India, it’s simply a fact of life. The people in Dharavi are proud – proud to be earning a living, proud to be working, and proud to be supporting their families.

From within the winding, maze-like alleys that make up much of Dharavi it’s impossible to get a sense of scale, but we are taken to another of the many plastic recycling companies, where it’s possible, albeit via a rather perilous set of stairs, to get up onto the roof. Here the size of the place becomes obvious. Dharavi sits between a buffer of two railway lines and a river, forming something approximating the shape of a heart. For this reason, and its centrality, it’s often called ‘The Heart of Mumbai’. It is simply huge. Fahim points to a distant building marking one of the edges; it’s miles away. Most of the slum is low-rise, no more than two or three storeys, although apparently it now expands upwards rather than outwards. As more space is required, people simply add more floors to their houses.  Nonetheless, there are a few larger blocks here and there. These are apparently part of a redevelopment drive by the government. Although Dharavi is a legal slum, the authorities would still like to develop it. Contracts are given to construction companies who must get at least 70% approval by the tenants of the piece of land to be developed. If this is obtained, the dwellings are cleared, an apartment block is built, and the original residents are given homes within it free of charge. Any remaining space is rented out. Rents are low here, but the land itself is expensive. This means that the residents get a great deal, which is another reason Dharavi is popular. Fahim himself lives here, and is at college studying tourism and hotel management. I ask him if he intends to leave the slum after he graduates. “No, absolutely not” is his reply. “My family is here, all my friends are here, why would I leave?”

 I find Dharavi, rather than being a depressing place, to be an entirely positive one. It’s optimistic, proud, and self-reliant, as well as being a model that the United Nations could learn a thing or two from. In a small workshop, some Muslim men are making Hindu shrines. There were religious riots in Dharavi in 1972, but since then things have returned to peace. Now, although Muslims and Hindus live in separate areas of the slum, they work together in harmony, this workshop being the perfect illustration.

After seeing a few more parts of the industrial zone, including the awfully hot facilities where much of the melting-down of plastics and metals is carried out, and a building containing a veritable mountain of vegetable oil containers (another candidate for recycling), we move on into the residential area. Here, Dharavi becomes even more labyrinthine. Dark alleys barely wide enough for one person to fit down lead off in all directions. So complete is the feeling of disorientation, that I ask Fahim whether he knows every inch of these tiny streets. He responds immediately that he does, and that you could drop him anywhere in Dharavi, and he wouldn’t be lost. We are invited to look into a house. The room is about the size of the average kitchen, although apparently is the sleeping space for ten people. Many in the more affluent parts of the world could learn a lot from these people about stoicism, lack of complaint, and just how lucky most of us are.  Some of the surrounding alleys have open sewers, but most are relatively clean. I do see the day’s only rat here, but I’ve seen more than one of those in Seoul! More cheerfully, the whole place is teeming with the friendliest children I’ve ever encountered.  I lose count of the number of times we’re greeted with wide-eyed and excited exclamations of, “Hi!!” and “How are you?!” Even the adults are very, very friendly, and a good number of them stop as they pass to shake hands and say hello.

I mentioned the fact that before taking this tour we had reservations about what felt like paying to see poverty. Having spent a little time here, all those reservations are gone. I’d imagined feeling like a person who slows down when passing a traffic accident, with the morbid fascination and simultaneous guilt of witnessing other people’s misfortune, but Dharavi is nothing like that. People actually seem happy that we have come here, and as they don’t view living in the slum as anything to be ashamed of, they don’t resent us either. These are not people to be pitied, they are people to be respected, congratulated, and inspired by. It’s as if they are proud that a bunch of tourists would be interested in coming and see their neighbourhood. It would be hard to find as amiable and welcoming a group of total strangers anywhere in the UK or in Korea. Actually it wouldn’t be hard, it would be impossible.

Next we’re taken to an elementary school. It lies next to a large, stinking pile of rubbish, but this is apparently soon to be cleared. The sounds of laughter and excitement from within the school are merely one more illustration of the positivity of life here. Nearby is a leather workshop. 90% of the leather goods made in Dharavi are exported, with labels inserted to indicate that the jackets, handbags and shoes were made in London, Paris, or anywhere other than Dharavi! As afternoon slows to late afternoon, we walk along the street where a large percentage of the chapattis consumed in Mumbai are baked, and then poke our heads into an impromptu cinema, showing films the locals couldn’t otherwise afford to see. There really is no service that seems lacking here, although much of the electricity is stolen from the grid, and there’s only water for three hours a day.  When someone asks Fahim about the negatives of living in Dharavi, he mentions the lack of living space, and the sanitation (a large open sewer divides the slum in half) but struggles to think of anything else.

Past a truck being loaded with goat skins, we walk down a street lined with pottery workshops, and it’s here that we see a woman using a string of metal beads to clean or shape the rim of a clay pot. She hands them to Jung-Ok, saying in Marathi, “Feel this.” Jung-Ok takes it and asks, “Why?” It’s now that the woman convulses with laughter, as does Fahim before he finally translates her response, “Because they’ll make your hands really dirty!” Sure enough, Jung-Ok has been had, in an admirable display of comedy.

Our last stop is the community centre funded by the proceeds from tours like ours. Reality Tours and Travels puts the vast majority of the money it makes back into the slum, and this centre offers among other things, free lessons in English and computers. We’re given customer feedback forms, upon which the guides’ pay depends. This is designed to ensure that no-one tries to elicit tips, or force tourists to buy things while on the tours. Even without this, I would’ve filled everything out very positively, and indeed this is overridingly the best word to describe the entire experience of visiting Dharavi – positive.

We catch a cab back to Mahim station, and I spend much of the short journey back to Churchgate standing by the open door, enjoying the sensation and freedom of leaning out of a moving train, whilst considering all I’ve seen this afternoon. I’m really very glad we decided to visit Dharavi. It’s given us a glimpse into what, to prove the appropriateness of its nickname, really did feel like the heart of this city. The openness and friendliness I’ve experienced today may well be my overriding impressions of Mumbai, and these things don’t end at the borders of the slum. Our carriage is busy, this being the start of the evening rush hour, but whenever I make eye-contact I’m greeted with smiles.

We decide to walk back to Colaba, which makes for an enjoyable hour or so, simply absorbing the atmosphere of Mumbai, a city I’ve come to like very much over the last few days. Back at the hotel, Raj of course sits down with us to discuss our day, and after a few beers, we thank him for his kindness and hospitality, before bidding him farewell, and organising a 6am taxi for tomorrow – a connection to our early morning Goa-bound train.

This being our last evening in the city, we take a cab up Marine Drive, and back to Chowpatty beach for dinner. Some considerable time is spent perusing the various food options, and while most of the stalls are very big on staff enthusiasm, some of them are less so on hygiene, and this early in the trip, decisions have to be made wisely. We eventually find one where we can see all the food being prepared on a hot plate, and so settle down on reed mats on the sand, where we are served puri bhaji – bread with curry sauce, and cheese pilau rice. It’s a great meal all round, enhanced by the festive atmosphere of a Chowpatty evening. Another taxi takes us back to Colaba, but having quoted Rs50 when we got in, the driver now asks for Rs100 as we get out. None of us are going to indulge this kind of thing, and I give him the fifty and walk away, leaving him craning out the window. My mind is full of the day’s experiences as I hit the hay after a busy, enjoyable, varied, unexpected, and thoroughly stimulating last day in this steamy Indian megalopolis.