Days 3, 4, 5 – I’ve lost count!

           Limited time and access to both the Internet and electricity have made it hard for me to     continue my reporting on a daily basis. 

            While in Mumbai, each day I told myself that I was going to get an earlier start so that I      could explore as much of the city as possible, continuing to focus on the more “untraveled” parts    of this city of 18.4 million people.  But as anyone who knows me knows, my definition of         “early”
            usually means arriving at least ten minutes late.  The luxury of my Mumbai hotel, one of the few   perquisites of this trip, was both a minus in leaving it as well a plus in returning to it.  After                  traipsing around various bazaars and some of the “slums” of Mumbai for hours on end, having a   deep tub, hot shower, king-size bed, and local food and water gave me a comfort level of health       and safety as well as a respite from the noise, pungent smells, and masses of people that      define nearly every square block of Mumbai.

I have previously written about the auto rickshaws.  Now let me comment about the seemingly two most and only important parts of the rickshaws, scooters and autos (two-wheels and four-wheels as they are referred to by the locals).  In order of priority they are the horn and the gas pedal.  Braking is optional as is paying heed to traffic signs and conditions.  Driving here is clearly a free-for-all.

All drivers blow their horns instinctively; they can’t help themselves.  The minute they turn on the ignition and enter traffic: blow the horn.  The light turns green: blow the horn.  Rounding the bend in the road:  blow the horn.  “I want to get in front of you and I don’t care if there is no room for me to fit”: blow the horn.  “I am behind you…just want you to know”:  blow the horn.  Holy cow, not holy oxen, goats, pigs, dogs, camels and elephants: Blow the horn to make them move if they want to live to see another day.  Virtually every delivery truck in India has “Blow Horn” printed on its rear bumper.  Why? No one needs this incentive.  It’s instinctive!

My destination for Day 3 was to make it to Haji Ali, street fairs, and the “Gateway of India”, a massive archway built between 1911-1924 to provide visiting royalty and other dignitaries a “worthy” reception area upon disembarking their ship.  It is situated on the Mumbai Harbor overlooking the Arabian Sea. 

I also decided that today would be the day I would try my hand at riding the above-ground metro train to reach the southern tip of the city, the destination of most of my site-seeing.  Don’t imagine this to be equivalent to a ride on MetroNorth; more like New York City subways circa 1970s or earlier.  Tickets are sold but are not collected.  However, I was later told that passengers can be randomly stopped by the station police to see a copy of their ticket.  If they cannot produce it, they will be fined.

It took me about three or four attempts to figure out which train platform I needed to be standing on to board the right train.  My strategy for getting directions was to approach someone who looked “westernized” (shoes and socks vs. sandals or bare feet are a good clue), who hopefully spoke English, and who could steer me right.  It’s interesting to me that even though Mumbai is considered the center of finance and commerce in India, I encountered very few English-speakers.  Many speak English with a very heavy accent and so it is hard to understand, especially since I have never had a good ear for different dialects.

    Eventually I lucked out in finding a willing and sympathetic guide -- a young man who works in mergers and acquisitions. He got me onto the right train where we ran into a business associate of his who was traveling the distance and able to further help me transfer at the proper station.  We were jam packed into this car and it soon became apparent to me that I was now the “tourist Seitz”, an object of curiosity for the local commuters not accustomed to seeing a Westerner use this commuter train, according to my unofficial guide. (Since this occasion, I have been asked to be photographed with locals on three separate occasions. I guess they like the novelty of being seen with a Westerner. Just imagine if I was blonde, fair and blue-eyed!)

Despite the fact that I cannot speak the local language, this did not prevent a fellow metro passenger from attempting to engage in a lively and animated conversation with me.  I provided him with direct eye contact, smiles, head nods, and occasional glances to my new guide/friend/interpreter to try to turn this monologue into a two-way conversation. But even he was baffled by much of what this non-threatening gentleman had to say.  I did learn that he was Hindi and that he spoke two or three of the local languages.  What we couldn’t figure out was why he was so interested in my backpack since he was also carrying one.  And while I must admit I clung onto it tightly, I don’t think he had any intention of taking it. Maybe he wanted to trade because he liked its reddish orange color.  I also don’t think he was crazy; just very friendly and intrigued by seeing a non-Indian aboard this open-air train.

Upon arrival at Victoria Station, Mumbai’s gritty version of Grand Central Terminal, I couldn’t help but feel a bit victorious myself! To paraphrase Blanche DuBois: Throughout India, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”.  I have been very lucky to meet some wonderful people who have helped me get from point A to point B, thus avoiding getting too lost in between.  Here I encountered my first peddler selling charming little bird mobiles that I hope will also delight some friends of mine back home. As I worked my way through an endless labyrinth of street vendors, open-air stalls and more sophisticated shops that were a part of partially-enclosed markets, I kept my eye out for small, unusual items that will always bring back memories for me of India.  My most cherished souvenirs will be my photos and the memories that I try to capture in words while still fresh in my mind.  After all, I did not come to India to shop, although it is a shopper’s paradise.  I came to see the people and the off-beat areas that not all tourists venture into.  While Blanche wanted magic – “Yes, yes, magic” – and not “realism”, I have been in search of both.

It is now night time/early evening rush hour – Day 3 -- and if Mumbai traffic could ever get heavier it is hard to imagine.  Usually the auto rickshaws are on the ready for passengers, as are cabs.  But, at this moment, none were to be found.  Trying to hail a cab from the wrong side of the road didn’t help the situation and, again, a local was kind enough to steer me to the right side of the street. I MUST remember moments like this the next time I see a perplexed out-of-towner in New York!

As usual, my site seeing plans for the day were overly-ambitious and so I made as my final destination for the night, a visit to the famous Taj Mahol Hotel, the site of the Mumbai terrorist attack in 2008, perhaps one of Twitter’s most shining moments as an effective tool for getting the word out fast that something important was happening.  All guests entering the hotel must now have their bags and bodies go through metal detectors. In fact, this is often the case throughout India.  The Taj Mahol is a very gracious, old world hotel although, I must say, I was not overwhelmed by any sort of extraordinary grandeur.

After treating myself to a martini (OK – two martinis), I had a very tasty seafood dinner.  Fortified, I felt ready to head back to the local commuter train and, again with the kindness of strangers, I made it back to my hotel in one piece!

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve.  Ending 2013 in Mumbai and sailing off into the New Year will be the subject of my next posting.