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Health & Fitness

Draining my bucket list: Passage to India – Thirty-six years and several hundred (probably thousand) dollars later.

Stop talking about it; Nike it.

After several years of talking about going to India, I finally put the wheels in motion after a particularly bad day during which I concluded I needed a break.  I decided to pursue my long-time desire to travel to India. 

When I made this decision back in November I started dusting off my library of India materials and came across the Incredible India guidebook from 2008. Had it been that long since I first paid a visit to the Indian Tourism Board in New York?  I felt more motivated than ever to cross off this bucket list item as “done”. 

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I made stand-by flight reservations with Emirates Air, taking advantage of the flight benefits I got by being married to a flight attendant.  Flying through Dubai sounded exciting and was something that I could share with my Arabic friends.  I then made hotel reservations in Mumbai with essentially the first hotel that looked good online and ranked five stars.  Both plans eventually got changed and I flew through Paris instead and used my credit card points for my hotel stay, a big savings.

Unlike the ease in which I made these basic travel arrangements, applying for an Indian visa proved to be a laborious, frustrating and daunting ordeal.  But rather than dwell on the bureaucracy and what and sane person would see as a most inefficient system, now that I have landed in Mumbai, the first leg of my journey, I want – need – to focus on the positive

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My long-imagined journey really began to gel when the visa arrived via FedEx.  (It’s attached to my U.S. Passport so just getting this important document back was reassuring.) But when the wheels of the Air France Airbus that brought me to Mumbai touched down on the tarmac around midnight and two days of travel time, I felt a new sense of exhilaration.  I finally did it!

First blush impression: As I departed the plane, I couldn’t help but feel like I was navigating the steps down to the #2 subway train at Times Square.  Like most American travelers, I am more accustomed to crossing over a jet bridge to a well-lit and inviting airline terminal.  Instead, I boarded a shuttle bus along with probably 75 other passengers and their luggage for my first somewhat harrowing ground transportation ride in India. I happened to be standing right behind the driver’s cab and so I could see firsthand how he swerved around other vehicles, airport equipment and even airplanes as he navigated the poorly-lit tarmac.

Considering the size and central location of Mumbai to all of India, I was surprised to find such a utilitarian airport.  Nothing luxurious about it, other than the luxury of being able to move quickly through customs, no questions asked and no tips expected as I was lead to believe would be the case.  I easily converted dollars to rupees (definitely not enough, however) and then tried to find a phone to call my hotel.  No such luck and I caved to the arguments of the local “red caps” that I should just take one of the local cabs awaiting travelers. 

The ride from the airport to my hotel added fuel to my excitement! As expected, the streets are lined with shanty towns.  In the States, these “homes” would have been bulldozed years ago.  But I am not here to judge. I am here to witness and experience all that is India.

What can only be described as ramshackled, I was struck by the contrast between the dilapidated condition of this “housing” and the numerous TV satellite dishes that many of them sport.  The hour was late and so most were dark but I think I can safely assume they were all occupied, including a burnt out old car that might also be someone’s house.  Every once in a while I would see some lights on as we sped through this very rundown area en route to my luxury hotel.  I caught a glimpse of a wedding reception wrapping up, the entrance to the venue decorated with very bright hot-pink lights and an over-sized white wedding bell, a brightly-lit shrine of the crucified Christ, and even an occasional Christmas tree.

More disturbing were the dozens – probably hundreds – of people bedded down for the night covered by blankets, tarps and whatever makeshift shelter they could cobble together. At one point I spotted a woman in a sari leaving over on her side, appearing to be in conversation with the person in the neighboring “bed”.   After a while, it became hard to tell what were fellow human beings, entitled to the same rights and dignity as this privileged American and what may have been just piles of trash – absolutely no insult intended.  God bless them all. 

About this time I had a flashback moment. The time was 1977 or 1978. I was working at a fancy Madison Ave. PR firm and I remember having a conversation with a colleague that I recall was maybe the boss’ secretary. “Judy” was very short, had closely-cropped bottle-blonde hair, wore Coke-bottle horned rimmed glasses and when she opened her mouth, there was no disguising the fact that she was a born and bred shrill, opinionated New Yorker.  I remember so well her response when, even back then, I expressed my desire to go to India:  “You want to see people begging? Filth? S**t in the streets? People starving?”  So much for reinforcing the romantic image I had of India and still hope to discover.

She was partially right.  From what I have seen so far he contrast is striking.  My hotel sits atop a winding road. It is protected by a guardhouse.  As the taxi approached, we were greeted by two security detail, one who positioned himself directly in front of the cab, preventing the driver from moving any further less he run down this man who was only doing his job.  The other guard made his way around to the back of the vehicle to inspect the trunk’s contents.  Instinctively, my driver popped-open the hood of his cab to show that he was not transporting any explosives.

The other thing that struck me was the number of stray dogs.  I read about this yet I was surprised to see how many roam the streets.  After a while, I lost count.  From my perspective in the passenger seat, they all appeared to be somewhat healthy and they also all looked like they were the offspring of the same parents.  They were large, usual.ly tan or brown in color, and have tails that curve upright toward the nape of their neck.

And then there was the cab ride itself.  My driver is actually a very good motorist.  It is clear that navigating Mumbai’s traffic is not to be attempted by an American tourist behind the wheel.  Cars and auto rickshaws which to me resemble mini open-air hearses,  come at one another with no regard for traffic lights, road conditions, yielding, merging, yellow lines, dotted lines -- you name it! 

I have clearly arrived in India!  More later after my first journey into town.

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