Dear god, India

This is a post of sleep deprivation, like so many other posts in the past.  In a city that never sleeps, I didn’t really get given the chance to, either.  I awoke a short time ago, and mind, I was half asleep at the time, but I awoke to...I’m not even sure.  It was loud and persistent; in that precise way that absolves the listener of any hope of sleep thereafter.  It sounded like drums, and jackhammers, and it was rhythmic: and there was singing.  For probably two minutes this went on, and I don’t understand what it was, or why it was, or why it had to be so loud.  

Welcome to life in India. 

But I suppose I should backtrack a bit.  I left Thailand without incident, though in Bangkok I nearly missed my connecting flight.  WHY is that airport so huge?  It boggles the mind.  I had to check in again, because Thai Airways doesn’t do connecting flights to Malaysian Airlines, and then I had to go through security again, and my gate was the last gate, at the end of the international departures section, and I only just barely made it.  After that, though – things went as well as 12 hour flight days can go.  Except that they play classical music during takeoff and landing, and I couldn’t help but think that crashing during a particularly moving piece of classical composure would be probably the worst way to go.  It made the whole experience of takeoff and landing to be really surreal, and I felt like I was outside of myself.  I can’t say I liked it.  

I got into Kuala Lumpur, and by the way, flying over Malaysia was gorgeous, and the airport was gorgeous, and the people in Malaysia are gorgeous.  The airport was a bit of fun – after having been nowhere near western shops or western things, it was nice to shop around in the duty-free.  I bought my mandatory Starbucks (Malaysian Starbucks receipt: obtained!) ...and the airport even had a HARRODS!  Only my British friends are going to know what that is – but it’s just this high-end upscale department store in London, but it’s pretty famous, and I was so stoked to see one in Malaysia, if only because it was something familiar. 

I also got this magazine from the UK called “Very Nearly Almost” and it highlights graffiti and street art from across the world.  I thought it was really neat – but I do have an almost unnatural obsession with beautiful street art (think: Banksy).  

The plane to Mumbai/Bombay (so far, people who live here still call it Bombay, so I will too) was a bit of an interesting experience: the men were served scotch on the rocks, though I doubt it was real scotch, or good whisky, for that matter – and I was stoked that the plane had in-flight movies:  I watched Cowboys and Aliens (which is a TERRIBLE movie, by the way) – but the fact that I could sit down and watch a movie at all was a bit of a novelty.  It’s been nearly two months now, since I’ve just sat down and vegged out to something.  Oh, and I sat next to an Australian woman who was flying to Bombay to visit relatives, and I have to say, there’s something about the Indian-Australian accent mix that is almost attractive.  On a side note, she kind of reminded me of my family doctor, and she was really nice, and when I bombarded her with questions about 

Bombay, she was kind enough to answer as many of them as she could. 

I didn’t get into Mumbai until almost 11PM that evening, and getting to the hotel was somewhat of a disaster.  I booked a car/shuttle service to my hotel from the airport, which is fine, except that when I went to go meet the guy with the name card for the hotel, he informed me that the driver wasn’t here, and that he was sleeping in his apartment and we’d have to wait.  So after several phone calls in Hindi that I didn’t understand, with the attendant occasionally telling me “five more minutes” – we sat in an underground parking lot at the airport for thirty minutes.  I was exhausted, and after a few minutes, I was also the only white person left there, and I got stared at a lot.  Coming from a country where I was all but invisible most of the time, it makes me incredibly uncomfortable and I don’t know how to deal with it. 

I finally arrived, and checked into my four star hotel, which deserves its four stars for being perhaps in a third-world country, and perhaps it deserves it for how polite the staff were, or how nice the poolside breakfast eating lounge was, but my room?  I’ve stayed in better in Thailand for dozens of dollars cheaper.  I was really disappointed – my room was carpeted with stains and cigarette burns; there were stains on the walls, and the bathroom was just as run down as most of them in Thailand.  There was actually hot water, which was a plus, but it ran out of the showerhead like it would run from a tap.  The room was moist, and smelled really badly of mould, and the A/C had two options: Frigid, or off.  My view from my window was of a wall...inside the building.  Needless to say, for the price I paid, I was royally disappointed.  

Despite all this, my initial impression of Bombay was a good one.  24 hours later, my impression has changed, somewhat.  At first, all I could do was take in the sights and the sounds (a chaos that makes Bangkok look sane), but the people are beautiful.  The women in their brightly coloured saris, and the children, and the sea.  Although, it amuses me to note that there is a distinct lack of geckos here.  I didn’t think that would be something I’d pay attention to, but it’s noticeable.  Unfortunately, there are pigs and rats instead. 

My second night, and my first full day in Bombay ruined that initial impression.  I left the hotel at noon and took a taxi into a part of town called Bandra: the taxi driver charged me 570R when I later learned it should have cost 120R.  I tried to haggle it, because I knew I was being royally ripped off, but when you have no idea how much something should cost, how do you haggle it?  I said no to him, and tried to lower the price, but then he refused to take me, so I didn’t know if it was negotiable, and eventually, I gave in.  Despite that, he was a nice taxi driver, although, I had to slouch in his car because it was so short.  He tried to cheat me again when I paid, by only giving me 200R change when it should have been 430R.  Why do people see white skin and think they can take us of all our money?  This is a point that’s going to come up again in a little bit.

I took the taxi to Mehboob Studios, where I waited to meet a Couchsurfing host on his lunch break from work.  Even just sitting there, minding my own business, people came up to me to talk to me, or would stop and talk to each other as they stared at me before moving on.  One boy came up to me with a change jar, and asked if I would give him money.  Not having any on me at the time, I said no.  Then he demanded I give him money.  I still said no.  And then he begged, and demanded, and pleaded “you give me money, you give me candy.  I’m hungry.  You should feed me.  Give me your money, I want it, please madam.  Please.”  Over and over again he said this, and if I looked away, he would step into where my gaze took me, and ask again.  And finally, he just stood there, silent, and stayed there staring at me, and as I ignored him, people were staring at me, with glares for someone, either myself or the boy, and I felt my heart break, just a little. 

After that, I became really pensive and put my headphones on as loud as I could bear to try and drown out the sound of Bombay.

Heman finally met me, and I regarded him as my saviour.  We chatted for a few minutes, and then hopped in a tuk-tuk (though, they call them auto-rickshaws here) and headed someplace to lunch.  We ate at a place called Candies, which is hilariously backwards:  it was a super upscale fast-food joint.  We got security checked coming in, and the building it was in was positively gorgeous, with three or four levels of tables sitting outside, and a rooftop veranda.  We ate at the very top – and the food they served was self-serve, same as any fast-food place, and we ordered what I’m presuming are the Indian version of ‘hot dogs’.  I got curried paneer in a hot dog bun, with some chips and a lemon iced tea, and Heman got ...something.  Minced lamb, or something.  It looked like sloppy joes, but it wasn’t beef.

It was an interesting place, and nice: there were clay mosaics everywhere of famous people – Steve Jobs, Ché Guevara, Michael Jackson.  

After Heman’s lunch break was over, I got the auto to drop me off at some promenade next to the sea, and we agreed to meet again after he got off work. 

I have mixed feelings about the few hours I spent alone.  In a way, it was really pleasant, because it was a boardwalk on the sea, and the wind was blowing, and the sun was shining, and I even burnt my nose a little, which is surprising considering how many weeks of sun my face has seen.  I took some photography, though I think I only got one really good photo out of the bunch (wishlist: new lens).  The place I went seems to be popular with young couples – after being in Thailand, the shock of so much public affection was almost embarrassing for me.  I’m just not accustomed to it.  After a while, I just sat around, though in hindsight, I wonder if that was a wise decision.  I was the only white person I saw all day yesterday, and I’m pretty sure 

I’m the only white person most of them saw all day, either.  I got stared at.  I got sat by.  I got propositioned, and spoken to, and close to a dozen children over the course of a few hours asked me for money in the same way that first boy on the street did.  I only gave money to one – I had been watching him and his friend play, and then I watched them discuss which of them was going to walk up and ask me money – it was like I was watching a business discussion, or something – and when the smaller of the two finally came up to me, I told him I would give him 10 rupees if I could take his photo.  So he gave me a big face, and I took his photo, and gave him money, and the grin he gave me was worth it.  I think he hadn’t really expected to get so much, but I didn’t have anything smaller.  Maybe I was trying to absolve my heart from the anguish I was feeling, I don’t know.  It temporarily worked, and was probably my downfall.  At one point, I had six kids around me, harassing me and touching my things and demanding money from me.  I had to actually raise my voice and say ‘no’ ...which nearly brought me to tears.  I don’t like being so rude or impolite.  

It wasn’t just children, though.  Men came up to me and asked me for money, or would tell me I had to give them the water I was drinking, or they would just come and sit right at my feet and stare at me.  Eventually, I put away my fancy electronics, got out a book, and wrapped my scarf around my head to try and hide my white skin, and put some headphones on.  Those noise-cancelling headphones may save my soul by the end of this month in India.  

When Heman finally got off work, it was a godsend.  I had been reduced to tears twice, and I was feeling like everything I did was being watched (which I think is true, maybe).  We got in an auto and headed to the train station – and oh my god. 

Chaos.

We took first class, which by the way, isn’t really any better than second class, except that the people hanging off the train are business people, rather than poor, smelly unwashed bodies writhing in a mass of their own sweat and grime.  The ticket was 78R, and for second class, it was 7R.  We were on it for a half-hour with my giant backpack, and I was usually the only woman, and the only foreigner.  If Heman wasn’t there with me, I don’t think I’d have even known what to do.  The trains were packed – there was actually people hanging off the outside of the train.  Photos weren’t even a thought – it’s hard to muster the desire to take photos when every single person is staring at you.  I wish I was invisible. 

On a positive note, I briefly recall seeing that the train station we got off at sold gulab jamin.  I almost stopped to buy them – such tasty treats!  On the walk to his apartment, we stopped and bought a weird fruit – a thick black skin on the outside, and white fruit on the inside, the texture of a potato.  It was strange, and I ate it because it was new, but like so many times in Thailand, I don’t think I need to eat it again. 

Heman’s apartment is charming, if old.  When we got there, he has two other couchsurfers from Poland staying right now, and they greeted us at the door (which is good, because they had the keys!) ...I slept on the couch last night, which was okay.  We sat around and talked for a while, and Heman’s cook came and made dinner (it’s a normal thing here) and then his roommate came home.  I was up way too late last night, but nobody wanted to sleep, so what was I to do?  I didn’t make it to sleep until 2AM, and I awoke to that noise at 6AM. 

We went for a walk last night, and bought some paan – it’s...indescribable.  It’s this brown paste, topped with some kind of seeds, and candied cherries, and then rolled into a leaf.  It can be made with tobacco in it, or betel nut, and you eat it as an after-dinner breath freshener.  It was very strange: it smelled like incense, tasted like menthol, and had an after-taste of soap.  I only ate half of mine, because I wasn’t hungry, just curious, but it was a very strange thing.  

And the air pollution in Bombay is worse than Bangkok, and my lungs and throat are very sore this morning.  To top it off, both Heman and his roommate smoke inside the apartment.  I had plans of staying in Bombay longer, but I’ve scratched that.  Heman is heading home to Gujarat for New Years, and invited me along – so, I’m fleeing the city tonight on a sleeper bus, and I guess I’m going to go experience what an Indian house party is like.  I just want to leave the pollution behind, before I get bronchitis again.  I’ll be back in Mumbai on Jan 2, when I think if I can get a ticket, I will leave straight away for Delhi. 

Which I’ve heard is worse.