Jerusalem: City of GO(L)D

Mumbai was quiet in the weeks following the attack. There were very few tourists and the locals seemed more somber. Initially I was concerned that the love affair I started with the city five years ago, on my first visit, was merely a timing infatuation experienced by one who is stepping out onto the sub-continent for the very first time. The affair continues. Mumbai is still the best city I have ever visited. It's a city where you can do anything or nothing and never get bored.

The twisted limbed beggars beg by the entrance to Nike stores. The rag wearing orphans wait for wealthy locals outside swanky bars with dim lighting, fancy cocktails and chill-out electronica. They wait amongst the dogs and rickshaws, hoping to receive any lose change that may be lost at the bottom of someone's deep pockets. An ox pulls a cart past a Mercedes. Ten people, me included, walk through a detector at the same time. The alarm fires off a warning, the police wave us all through. The country is on high alert, Indian style.

Dominique and I ventured into one of India's famous dance bars. A small harshly lit room, made harsher by the shrilling music and glaring light bouncing off the white tiled walls. Groups of local men sat along the outside of the room facing inwards. An electric drum kit, guitar and keyboard (with all the sound effects) accompanied a woman singing in Hindi. If you've ever watched a Bollywood film you'll know the vocal style. Attractive girls stood in the middle of the room, wearing very modest traditional saris. They looked bored and completely un-interested in the music and men. The music continued pumping, the louder and faster it played the less attention they payed it. They stood still and silent, yawning and staring at the walls or floor. It was the least sexy or alluring thing I've ever seen. Their boredom was matched only by the frenzy that the men had been whipped into by the building music and intoxicating spirits they were consuming. They lept into the air sporadically, cradling 10 rupee notes in their left hand and firing them off over the heads of the girls with their right.The girls refused to recognise the men or the money that was now lying at their feet. Waiters sidled in picking up the money, handing it to the girls while keeping some for themself. Apparently no sexual favours are exchanged, but it depends on who you talk to. I don't know what to believe.

We had a taxi driver who had nicknamed himself Sami Davis. He was a close second to the one and only. He carried a lightly more grimy coolness to the original.With his fly constantly down, hair sticking out from his ears at ninety degrees and a marmoset moustache he informed us he had been driving taxis for 50 years and that he was world famous in Mumbai. Our trips with him were the most amusing and informative. Amusing because he drove directly at groups of passerbys, swerving away at the last second, sticking his comical little head out the window and yelling "Out of the Way Babydoll". Amusing because he littered the most ordinary of sentences with the most unique collection of English swear words. Informative because his love of the city was matched only by his knowledge of it. Taking us to scenes of both major and minor historical events. Informative because he showed us different parts of the city, places so far apart in style, history and fortune, yet so close in location. Informative because he was able to explain the rules and set ups of the numerous hut and tent colonies that were seemingly pitched up in random scatterings along the sides of roads and buildings.

Some people say Mumbai isn't the real Inida. But every culture in India is represented in the city. It's like an Indian theme park. Sometimes triumphant, often tragic but always everything at the same time