The Rest of Mumbai and Onwards

I write this sitting on the train, nearly two hours into my trip to Delhi and thankfully I haven't got bored yet but with almost 24 hours still to go there's still time. I'm relieved to say that my fears of a journey in a cramped un-airconditioned carriage, shared with the very poor and other mugs who didn't book in advance have not materialised but that I'm sitting in absolute luxury with a couple of Swedish psychedelics, two very friendly Muslims, not wearing baggy clothing and without suspicious looking rucksacks, (sorry for the inappropriate joke) and another as yet unidentified traveller. 

Yesterday evening I strolled down to Marine Drive on the eastern edge of Colaba, (its one of Lin's favourite hangouts in Shantaram) and sat reading and chatting to passers-by. After a while Deepak ran up, apologised for being late and handed me a coke. We chatted for a bit, he started trying to expand my Hindi vocabulary, reached about ten words then switched to teaching me Marathi, the language of Bombay and the surrounding province, Maharashtra. Sensing I was about to become very confused I suggested a stroll. We walked for hours, up to Chowpatty, the northern point of the Bay of Reclamation, there was a beach of sorts and it seemed the place to be for young families on a Friday night. Then we looped south, had a quick beer and then went our separate ways at about mid-night. 

Chowpatty beach from across the Bay of Reclamation

This morning I woke up in my 400 rupee a night shoe box, had a shower, found a taxi that would be able to accomodate both me and my enormous suitcase. I succeeded-ish and with my neck bent at a right angle to fit my head in we headed off to the station. There I dropped my bags at the left luggage and headed to the slums with Deepak. Twenty minutes by train took us to an area of Mumbai that really wasn't very different to what I'd just left, there were fewer tourists, a bit more dirt and shabbier, less advanced architecture, but it didn't feel desperate or downcast as I'd expected it to. It was just as vibrant and loud and bustley as Colaba and the people didn't seem any diminished in ambition or friendliness. The kids thought I was the funniest thing they'd seen all yer and came up to me with their 'Hello, how are you's (I wish I could put an Indian accent into writing, it really cracks me up) and all shook my hand.

'Hello, how are you?'

Dharavian monkey enjoying some grapes.

It was only when I suggested to Deepak that we head off the main road that we saw real poverty. He only admitted it then but he'd never been to Dharavi slum before so it was all new to him too. To boost the local economy we bought cups of chai and a mixture of herbs and spices wrapped in bhang leaves which were a bit like eating very lumpy grass without the nice flavour. Huge rubbish pits began to appear with skinny, big balled goats rummaging through them, little children would squat down and wee in the street and the houses transformed from fairly sturdy concrete to mud, bamboo and plastic sheeting. Even that wasn't as bad as I'd expected and the kids all still ran around with no signs of malnutrition or dampened spirits.

Then in a little corner in between the main road and the railway lines there was a few acres of absolute squalor, people packed into shacks that were barely standing and would certainly fall when the Monsoons came, stick thin children and disease struck adults with missing limbs and hollow eyes littered the streets. The entrance had been disguised by plastic sacking and it was clear that foreigners never came in here. I was told not to go in by young men at the entrance and Deepak told me that 'it was a bad place'. I carried on walking and then found myself being ushered through stinking, narrow alleyways round in a loop and then back onto the main road. They were clearly embarrassed at the state of it and wanted me to leave as soon as possible.

I caught the train back down to CST, then grabbed some lunch with Deepak and we headed north again to the Haji Ali mosque, named after a rich merchant who, legend has it, saved a women from her husbands beating by making oil spurt out of the ground. However he realised that he'd harmed the Earth and subsequently died of remorse, his coffin was cast into the sea before running aground on some rocks just of the coast of Mumbai, so they built a mosque there in his memory, as one does. It is joined to the mainland with a causeway of 333 steps and has become an attractive site for pilgrimages and sweaty backpackers.

Haji Ali, its not actually at an angle thats just the photo.

I then stopped by Dhobi Ghat, where the Dhobi caste wash the laundry of millions of Bombayese??. It bizarrely attracts a fair few tourists and was the only place I went to in the city that you had to pay to enter. Then, broke and mindful of the upcoming train journey I walked the 8 km back to CST, stopping by a flower show on the way.

It was a brilliant way to see the city because you are at the peoples level and you see and experience things that you don't from a car, and theres no taxi drivers to prise all your money away. 

Back at the station I said goodbye to Deepak and promised to see him in a few weeks for his brother's wedding in Uttar Pradesh which he'd very kindly invited me to. He'd been brilliant the last couple of days and I'm sure I'd be in a huge mess without him, and he wouldn't accept anything to say thank you, he seemed offended almost when I offered money which was a lovely change to many of the other people I'd met.

And then onto the train and onto Delhi. 

Cheers to Mumbai for now.

Max