Our last day in Mumbai, we decided to set out to explore the local markets. Figuring we would need a couple of days under our belt to feel more comfortable exploring the inner bowels of the city, we took one last shower, and checked out of our hotel, stashing our luggage in the very secure spot by the open air door of the hotel reception- awaiting our sleeper train to Goa.
Fresh and clean, we were off to see the markets. Of course we chose to depart at probably the biggest traffic jam time of the day, around noon. ½ way to town, we wondered if we shouldn’t just turn back and seek refuge in the semi-cool a/c of the hotel lobby bar. Our cab was stuck in gridlock, and we were both drenched in sweat and a layer of dirt. So much for the chance to be clean on an overnight train ride later. We were in the thick of things, so we kept on going, and were let off in the middle of the most chaotic part of the city I think we’ve experienced. I desperately clung to my map, trying to make heads or tails of where we really were, and with street signs, directions and prominent land markers seemingly invisible, we were at a loss. It’s difficult not to look like a tourist. Typically I try to nonchalantly look at a map, where others aren’t going to see me looking so vulnerable and a ripe and ready tourist on display to be scammed. However, there was so being subtle here. We were the only white folk around. That fact continues to be reinforced by the service professionals all around us… the restaurant owner says, I’ll be sure the cook takes care of my “white” friends. The bartender comments incessantly about how his staff needs to be ultra responsive his “white” clients.
It’s humbling and overwhelming being a minority in a sea of millions of Indians. I don’t remember ever being the object of fascination, stare and gawk (aside from Papua New Guinea) to the extent we feel here. Looking dead center, we see a large Muslim mosque. It appears that we are in a very populous Muslim part of town, and not only are we feeling uneasy that we stand out different from the others around us, but it’s almost like we have a sign tattooed on our foreheads stating ‘property of America, home of George Bush’. Not a very reassuring thought or feeling, walking amidst a segment of people who might not think so highly of Americans. I say that in angst, not in fact. As there’s probably more anxiety and fear concocted in our own minds, that we’re projecting inward and outward from being visibly western, than what these warm, loving people around us in their hometown are actually thinking or feeling. But it’s in this moment that we are acutely aware of who we are, and how different we are. It occurs to us that our fear and anxiety is a product of the culture we’ve grown up in, and the frame of reference we bring from home and years of societal conditioning. And its at this point that it really hits home, why we travel, and why we’re intentionally placing ourselves into these situations… we’re learning about others, appreciating differences, and with that knowledge and appreciation comes understanding and a breakdown of walls, fear and anxiety. It doesn’t happen overnight, but after weeks being on the road in a completely new and different place, the differences and fear begin to fade into understanding, compassion and comfort.