Goa – Mumbai. 2 days.

Tick…

March 14th

Ok. First stop Mumbai. We got up early checked out and had a last breakfast in our local café. They were such a nice bunch. As a leaving present they served Merryl her fruit salad with rat-faeces in. I would never have known as I am not an expert in rodent poo. Merryl on the other-hand is doing her PhD in the study of epidemiology in water voles. She complained. They were so kind they removed the cost of her food from our bill.

We took a taxi to Anjuna airport and checked in. The flight was delayed. We had the illusion of time to kill. Airports are one of the strangest and most fascinating places for me. The whole concept of being at an airport is transience. No-one belongs in an airport. Every person here is passing through, or working to effect the passing through of another person. Major airports are as busy and as vivid as a city. Sometimes they are even busier, so many people, so much activity, twenty-four hours a day, with shops, bars, hotels, restaurants, fountains, chapels, mosques. They have every convenience, amenity, and comfort available, yet everything in an airport serves as a sole-function to enable you to leave. You would never just pop down to an airport to hang out for an evening, or to do some shopping, despite the fact that everything you need is available to you in one location. Alan de Bottain’s Art of Travel explores, in elegant and eclectic detail, the exquisite ennui of the human experience of travelling and the places that facilitate it. Planes, trains, and automobiles are oft considered the anathema of the backpacker the world over, however I don’t believe this is true. They are all part of the tao of travelling. There is nothing more focusing than spending 12 hours on a cramped bus, 8 hours waiting for a delayed plane. 10 hours on a train with people climbing through the windows and sitting on your lap. It forces you to live completely in the present, hones your mental acuity to accept the discomfort of life, and compels you to interact with everyone around you – whether you like it or not: Enlightment in a departure lounge.

We flew into Mumbai late in the afternoon. The airport was a teeming mass of opportunists. We were – to them – large bundles of rupees fluttering in the warm breeze. The average wage of a denizen of Mumbai is around 145$ US per month. The population of Mumbai is over 20 million and the density of the populus is 22,000 people per square kilometre. Here you begin to glimpse the dark underbelly of this vast country. India has 1 billion souls dwelling within her bosom. The number is growing exponentially. In ten years it is projected to reach 1.4 billion. I wondered, in a curiously macabre way, does the site of rich tourists walking through arrivals make a person salivate.

We fought our way through cries of ‘Sahib’ and offers of free help, free accommodation, and free taxis outside into the ever rising temperature. We haggled for a fare and jumped in a taxi via a rickshaw. For the sake of saving 200 rupees we had to head off away from the airport and pay in advance. I was kicking myself at being so naïve and was gearing up for possible fisticuffs with our driver who would soon ask for our fare once again, claiming he didn’t know the people we paid at the airport once we arrived, however it turned out to be ok. He did try to squeeze us for a little extra, but there was no elaborate scam going on.

The journey was long and hot and took us right through the centre of Mumbai. The city is vast and the slums are extensive. They are amazing and strange places and I was really hoping to get a chance to visit them. Partly to satisfy the perverse voyeur in that is compelled to wish to view such things; partly to genuinely seek to understand how people can live in such conditions. The poverty in Mumbai was a little less than palatable. Kids washing and running naked on the side of the road. Starving children trying to get into your taxi. Not just begging for money as professional beggars. They are starving. You can see there hallowed skin, sunken, bright, feverish eyes. They are not just asking for cash. They are asking for food.

We got to Colaba late afternoon. We had our bags dumped on the side-walk by the taxi driver who sped off. We tried out the first hotel, recommended by the Good Book. It was fully booked. We then tried out a second option. It was a real shite-hole but we took it. We took it because it was late in the day, blisteringly hot, and we were exhausted. It had a fan and a lock on the door. The shower was only cold water, but refreshing. The toilets were shared and were squatters [from this point on you can take it as read all toilets will be squatters with a jug and a bucket for flushing, unless otherwise specified].

We had barely put our bags down when there was a knock on our door. It turned out a scout was hunting for western people to star in a Bollywood movie the next day. The deal was 750 rupees (£10) to spend the day on a film set as extras. We told the enthusiastic rep we’d think about it as we only had 48 hours in Mumbai. But even before we’d discussed it we both knew we’d do it. Some things you just can’t miss out on.

After we’d settled in, so to speak, we took a walk up along the causeway road and stopped off for dinner. We then spent the rest of the evening hanging out in Leopold’s. This restaurant/café/bar has been immortalised in Gregory David Robert’s book, Shantaram, as the place to be seen in Mumbai. Everyone from Gangsters to Movie Stars frequented the place. It was a bustling hive of activity with marble floors and ornate booths perfect for skulking inside and watching the world go by.