We knew our first day in Mumbai would be overwhelming. We’ve done a bit of homework on the plane, combined with the well thought through suggestions of my friend Purvi, we are armed and ready with Lonely Planet city guide in hand to tackle the city in a somewhat orderly fashion. We’ve been to Delhi before, so mentally we think we are prepared for the day that lies ahead. Of course, our Delhi trip back in 2004 was well planned, and we were well catered for with personal driver, a/c mini-van full of friends, play by play itinerary, coupled with 4-5 star hotel stays. This trip was unplanned, except for our first three nights hotel stay, and ideas in our head. Overly paranoid of getting scammed, pumped with adrenaline from being in a new place, and hyped up on caffeine from the pot of sugary, spicy masala chai, we stumbled out into the street to grab a cab… a cab right into the middle of the mass of people, buildings, and chaos. There is a plan, a purpose, a direction. I have our hotel address card tucked safely away in my hidden pocket with my passport. In case we get completely lost, we’ll just pull it out the card and grab a cab to the hotel… easy, brainless, we’re ready. It takes us an hour and a half to drive 10 kilometers. The spicy tingly flavor of masala on my tongue quickly succumbs to the flavors and smells seeping through our open cab window. No A/C here, just a hot, sticky ride, sweaty clothes now clinging to our bodies. Outside the safety of our cab windows lies a world foreign to most Americans. Entire families sit roadside, mothers breastfeeding their babies, dirty bodies being bathed and cooled from a bucket of brown soupy water, meals cooked over simmering flames and smoke, a man urinates on the side of the road, cows munch through plastic bags and newspaper and drop mounds of excrement that all add into the toxic mix of bellowing black diesel clouds and burning petrol fumes, red dirt and spiraling dust devils that all mix into the air we breath in, coating our lungs and nose passages. Our cab driver routinely opens the door to spit a big loogey, and men squat on the roadside, no privacy ablution blocks here. The cab is stopped more than it moves. Children claw their fingers on the backseat window hoping to get through the window opening to be given a coin; a legless man rolls himself on a small square wooden plank on wheels in-between cars moving centimeters from each other, hoping for a survival handout.
The poverty stricken population that lives on the banks of many of the rivers and outlying streets and freeways are a poor but beautiful group of human beings. The colors they wear, beautiful blues, pinks, oranges, greens and yellows dance amongst the smog and filthy air, as they blow in the wind. These people are enduring and surviving some of the most horrific living conditions. A world of capitalism and materialism swirl around them. Freshly waxed British Ambassadors, shiny Mercedes and SUV’s power by, with trucks, taxis, rickshaws and motor scooters screaming by, giving way to no one, except the sacred cows. Shopping centers, restaurants and movie theaters sprout up all over, catering to the desires and wants of those participating and thriving in the growing economy here in India. Everywhere is a buzz with business being conducted over cell phones.
Stop number one for us today is a maze of mastery, the dhobi ghats. On the banks of the train tracks sprawl an organized array of cement squares filled with brown washing water. This is where your hotel laundry transits through before it ends up nicely folded and set upon your freshly laid bedding. Hundreds of men slap water-drenched articles of clothing against cement blocks, 10, 15, 20 times apiece until clean. It gets hung to dry in the steamy sun. This process is logistics mastery, ensuring that thousands of clothing articles move systematically through the cleaning process, and arrive back at their correct hotel rooms. This same logistical wizardry applies to the way Mumbai prepares, processes and delivers hot lunches to the working folk throughout the city.
We had the chance to visit the Mani Bhavan, and learn more in depth detail about Ghandi’s life work and the impact he had on championing rights and conditions of the Untouchables. While his work had significant impact, the population below the poverty level is so vast, it causes us to wonder how the increasing gap between the wealthy and the poor will close, as the economy continues to grow, and the needs of the population become more taxing on the environment and resources. All countries have pockets of poverty and economic need, but in India, it seems so much more pronounced given the size of the population and the polar extremes living alongside each other.
Our city exploration today takes us hiking up hills through parks and hanging gardens with beautiful views of the harbor and city boardwalk. Near a shrine, vendor stalls with fragrant jasmine, colorful orange and yellow marigolds and other flowers of religious significance are piled high. Plumes of incense fill the air, and plumeria scents flow from women wearing colorful saris. We descend down the backside of the park, through the back streets of the city, and wind our way along the hot, desolate shore of Chowpatty Beach. We continue to walk, winding our way through an ocean of people, mostly men, with intense dark stares. I attempt not to engage in the stare-down, as women interlocking eyes is taken as promiscuity here. We swelter in the heat, checking our map for landmarks and hoping for a cool café to duck into to take a reprieve from the sensory overload we are experiencing. No such luck. Another hour of walking, we’re dehydrated, and needing to find safe drinking water. We find a street vendor, selling of all things, Baskin Robbins, and order a water, pounding two liters quickly. Exhausted, overwhelmed and weary, we flag a cab back after a long day of exploring and experiencing the sights, smells and sounds of Mumbai. The cabbie does not know the northern area of town we’re staying in. We drive for two hours, and still no sign of the hotel. We’re exhausted, lost, and stressed. Eventually we wind our way through auto-rickshaw only roads, and local market streets with room only for the mass of humanity moving along the pathways. I look out the window and up to the building tops, and miraculously see Hotel Metro Plaza atop one of the buildings. The cabbie tries to get away with not using the tariff card, stating it was a long way and he should get 250 rupees. We’d already fallen for that scam earlier, and paid an excessive amount for a 10-minute ride. I give him a stern eye, calculate the 13 times the meter reading and give him 160, the real rate that should be charged.
Still no sign of Darrin’s clothes, and the number they gave us at the airport goes unanswered. Figure, the airport evading their responsibility because they have no clue how the bag ended up in Singapore, and where it is now. So he don’s his fresh Qantas tee bed shirt and we head down to the hotel pub for a bit of butter chicken, naan and a large Kingfisher.