We arrived at about 5am on Friday morning, exhausted even though the flight was only 4 hours. After shuffling our way through customs and baggage claim we were herded outside where at least a hundred or more people were waiting for passengers. Some were there for family or friends but most were taxi drivers looking for a fare or waiting for a prearranged pick up, like ours. We searched out the crowd and found the half-awake driver holding up our names on a placard and silently made our way to the van. It was a wonky little van. It reminded me of the old VW buses but much more narrow. It rattled and shook as we drove along, running stoplights and winding through narrow streets, honking at any car, man, or beast that lay ahead. My husband and I quietly admired the early morning sights, the foreignness of shrines along the road, cows hunkered down in sleep on the median, men shaving or taking care of other morning business in the gutter of the street. We would motion to one another as these sights went by, whispering our amazement as though breaking the silence might disturb the already precarious driver who was trying to get us to point B. “It’s so green.” “It’s so dirty.”
After a short nap at the hotel we were on our way to explore the great city of Mumbai. We walked a few blocks down from the hotel and found Leopold Café, one of the sights of the recent terrorist attack. The window where the bullets had come through was boarded up and for the most part it was hard to tell that only a week ago this cafe had been a part of one of the deadliest attacks in India. The people seemed relaxed and at ease, even though there were police officers camped out right in front. We noshed on small plates of chicken curry and a vegetarian sandwich with potatoes and spices and gulped everything down with mango lassis.
Leopold Cafe
We continued our walk down Colaba Causeway dodging street vendors until we reached Apollo Bunder and the Gateway of India. The area right in front of the Gateway and the Taj Hotel were still roped off but it didn’t seem to deter the crowd of people from enjoying the sights off the harbor, watching the ferries to Elephanta Island, or trying to hawk postcards, personalized tourist photos and other souvenirs.
At the tip of Apollo Bunder
Hundreds of crows sat along the waterfront and wandered all over the city.
Docks and ferries to Elephanta Island.
The Taj Hotel
The Gateway of India
Giant trees like this were everywhere, the vines draped over everyone and everything.
People lighting candles in front of the Taj.
Mumbai is definitely a unique city. While, I still have much traveling to do, I’ve never even come close to experiencing anything like it. Lonely Planet describes Mumbai as such:
"Measure out: one part Hollywood; six parts traffic; a bunch of rich power-moguls; stir in half a dozen colonial relics (use big ones); pour in six heaped cups of poverty; add a smattering of swish bars and restaurants (don’t skimp on quality here for best results); equal parts of mayhem and order; as many ancient bazaars as you have lying around; a handful of Hinduism; a dash of Islam; fold in your mixture with equal parts India; throw it all in a blender on high (adding generous helpings of pollution to taste) and presto: Mumbai."
And it’s true. Anything you’re looking for, anything you’d want to experience, you can find it in Mumbai.
Most shocking for my husband and I, however, was the poverty. We’d never seen poverty like the poverty in India. Those who could manage homes, lived in shantytowns made of corrugated metal, scraps of cloth or whatever else could be found for the structure. These areas were usually rampant with garbage and animals. The poorest of the poor were even worse off; they slept on the sidewalk under the awnings of closed storefronts, entire families sprawled out as though it was one giant bed they shared that you had to step over. During the day, you couldn’t escape the beggars. Tourists were singled out and nothing we did could deter them, especially the children, they were unrelenting. The adults would turn away after a few gentle no’s but the children clung to you as though you were their only hope for food.
During one cab ride a little girl, no more than six or seven approached my window and held out a cup with one hand and gestured to her mouth with the other. It was a long traffic stop and we must’ve stayed there for at least 10 minutes during which she persisted the entire time. I noticed she had tears in her eyes but realized that she seemed to be trying to force them out especially when she wiped her cheek on the car window so that I could see the tears. Those 10 minutes had felt like hours, the sadness for this little girl and other like her still sits deep in my stomach. I didn’t give the girl any money and I’m still wrestling with that fact but there was a reason to my actions. In India, as all over the world, children are exploited as beggars. They work for an adult or small group of adults who teach these children how to look sad or needy and force them to beg. The way the girl persisted and tried to display her sadness on the car window made me think that someone had taught this girl how to beg. Someone had showed her how to cry and look as pitiful and helpless as she did, someone had showed her how to manipulate the emotions of others and this angered me. My anger wasn’t directed towards the girl but to whoever had put her out there, whoever was watching her and planning on taking her earnings at the end of the day only to give her a scrap, to whoever could take advantage of a child. I didn’t give her money because I don’t want to encourage those who take advantage of children like her but the image of her standing at my window with tears in her eyes will probably haunt me forever.
