Around the World: Leaving Bombay

February 4, 1992

The sun has just peeked over the horizon and I am eager to put some distance between me and this cockroach infested hotel. Bombay has three train stations, Churchgate, Victoria and Bombay Central.  I'm hoping to get on a train headed towards Aurangabad, close to the Ellora and Ajanta caves.  I have no idea which station is the right choice, so I'll try my luck at the one that seems to be the busiest.  I find a taxi and ask the driver to take me to Bombay Central station.

The taxi ride is just as harrowing in the daytime as it was last night, only the traffic is thicker and the occasional wayward cow just adds to the chaos.  The guidebook mentions that Bombay is overcrowded, but what I see goes beyond this polite description.  The sidewalks are a subdivision of shelters, seemingly constructed from whatever materials were available.  It would be grossly inappropriate to describe these cardboard and corrugated metal structures as homes, but that's apparently what they are.  Few are larger than the size of the box used to ship a refrigerator. 

Photo courtesy of The Hindu

Arriving at the information counter, I ask when the train to Aurangabad is leaving.  The clerk tells me this train doesn't leave from Bombay Central.  I have to catch it at Victoria station.

I find another taxi and endure another white knuckled drive through Bombay's over crowded streets to Victoria station, where the clerk at the information desk informs me that the train I want leaves from Bombay Central.  At midnight.

It's now 9am, and the taxis of Bombay have me sufficiently traumatized. Another taxi ride is out of the question.  Logic presents me with two indisputable facts.  One: I have an Indrail pass that allows me unlimited travel without needing to make a reservation on India's railway network.  Two:  I am at a train station.

I can go anywhere if I can figure out how to get there.  I can still go anywhere, even if I don't know where I'm going.  Right now, "Anywhere" sounds like a great place to be and wherever it is, it has to be better than here.  I resolve to consider any and all available options before insanity claims what remains of my ability to have a rational thought.

While I have the attention of a clerk who seems willing to be helpful, I want to know what he knows.  "Is there an earlier train that goes near Aurangabad?"

"No."

"Are there any trains that leave from this station?"

"Which train?"

"Any train."

"Yes, trains leave from here."

"Is there one leaving soon?"

"Going where?"

"Anywhere."

"Yes," he replies patiently.  "One is leaving in a few minutes for Mad Man." 

So, I don't have to go insane after all.  I can take a train there. Oh, goody! "What platform do I go to?"  Whether he has named an actual place or insulted me is of no consequence.  He points me to the platform that will take me away from Bombay and I couldn't be happier.

Unreserved seating in 2nd class on an Indian train. 
Expect to share your seat.

I am, at the moment, the only person on this train.  The seating is bare-bones basic, to the point that I wonder if I will soon be joined by luggage and parcels.  The platform has a putrid stench that makes me wish I could cram durian fruit into my nostrils.  It's beyond gross. The train continues to sit in the station for 40 more minutes, while I am besieged by constant pleas from beggars.  Eventually, other passengers board, including four Indian men who occupy the seats across from me and collectively, they pepper me with questions about where I am from and requests for various items from my country.  Just before the train is ready to leave, the platform is swarmed with people trying to get on the train.  Behind the crowd are several men, all dressed in bright red and white, shoving the crowd forward, I'm guessing to speed up the boarding process.


The countryside is uniquely beautiful and rugged.  Mountains in the distance beyond the open spaces of bush freckled desert.  It is a drastic difference from the densely crowded streets of Bombay.  When the train is in motion, there is a tangible sense of relief, like a blanket of solace that is abruptly shredded to bits by the bedlam at each station stop.  The platforms are always full of insistent vendors hurriedly trying to sell food and drink through the windows and the in-your-face hands of beggars that board the train.

Rural Maharashtra
Photo by Nichalp, Creative Commons

Every eyeball in this car is looking at me.  At first, I thought it was just paranoia, but after a careful survey of eyeballs, the evidence is conclusive.  I am being stared at. It's not in any way threatening or adversarial, in fact there is a distinct absence of expression.  At first it is amusing to stare back with a friendly smile and a little wave or a nod, just to see if I can elicit some reaction.  More often than not, my efforts are unsuccessful.  I can't say I'm getting used to it.  Although I was told to expect it, I find it takes a great deal of effort to ignore.


And then I notice the guy sitting across from me has six toes!  Now I have something to stare at too!

It is getting late in the afternoon and I realize I should find a place to bunk for the night.  The train will be soon be arriving in Jalgaon, where transportation to Aurangabad is very likely possible.  The guidebook states that there is also a cheap hotel for 125 Rupees close to the train station.  When I arrive, I am thrilled to discover there is a restaurant in the lobby as I have not eaten anything since the flight from Hong Kong.  It's not the best chicken curry and rice I've ever had, but food has never tasted so good.  The best part is my room.  When I turned on the light, nothing scattered or scurried into the walls, a comforting fact that makes me gasp with a combination of delight and relief. 

• ¤ •

People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness.  
Just because you're not on their road doesn't mean you've gotten lost.  

~H. Jackson Brown

Around the World: Arriving in India

February 3, 1992

Last night, one of my hostel mates was retelling some of her experiences from her travels in India, some of which had us both in crying with laughter.  The only one I can recall is about a man that approached her in New Delhi's Connaught Place, a busy circular thoroughfare devoted to shops and travel and more.  She got disoriented in the layers of streets while looking for the address she needed to arrange her plane ticket.  This man approached her, claiming to be knowledgeable of the area and walked with her for over two hours, all the while boasting about how he knows everything about this area.  From time to time, she would point out that they had passed the same building before, but he vehemently corrected her and continued his boasting.  Eventually, they found the office, exactly across the street from where they started.  Despite her obvious irritation for wasting her time, he held out his hand and demanded "baksheesh", a tip for his services.

Her advice: Don't forget to pack a good sense of humour and a lot of patience.

It's Chinese New Year and Hong Kong airport is exceptionally busy.  The plane is packed to capacity and the gentlemen in front of me insist on reclining their seats back as far as they will go, making it physically impossible for me to get into my seat.  My knees are smashed into the back of the seat in front me, my back is wedged into mine and my butt is suspended about a foot above where it should be.  What has the potential to turn into five hours of hell suddenly becomes a few hours of heaven when the stewardess asks me if I'd be willing to sit in First Class, as they have oversold Economy.

Yes.  Yes, I would.

I have lots of leg room now and one of the choices on the dinner menu (yes, I have been given a "menu") will be lobster with a side of cloth napkin and silverware. 


The introduction of the Lonely Planet Travel Survival Kit says:

"Basically India is what you make of it and what you want it to be.  If you want to see temples, there are temples in profusion with enough styles and types to confuse anybody.  If it’s history you want, India has plenty of it; the forts, abandoned cities, ruins, battlefields and monuments all have their tales to tell.  If you simply want to lie on the beach, there are enough of those to satisfy the most avid sun worshiper.  If walking and the open air is your thing then head for the trekking routes of the Himalaya, some of which are as wild and deserted as you could ask for.  If you simply want to meet the real India you’ll come face to face with it all the time – a trip on Indian trains and buses may not always be fun, but it certainly is an experience.  India is not a place you simply and clinically ‘see’; it’s a total experience, an assault on the senses, a place you’ll never forget."

The plane is on approach to Bombay.  After dinner, I was moved back into the middle row of Economy, into a seat with less leg room than I had, but just a little more than I need.  Sitting beside me is an older man, with a very fatherly demeanor, asking me where I plan to go and offering suggestions on places to see.  He tells me he is a doctor and writes his name in the back of my journal.  "I wish you a wonderful holiday and hope you don't need to call me."

Stewardesses are walking down the aisles, wielding a mysterious aerosol can in each hand as they "spray the plane prior to landing".  Nobody volunteers what they are spraying or why.  I bury my mouth and nose in my shirt, mostly because the spray smells horrid and because that's what the doctor beside me is doing. 

Exit the plane, inhale and follow the masses to the immigration counters, which seem to have been hurriedly constructed for our arrival.  Now to find my knapsack and search for transportation to a hotel.  It's now 10pm.  Outside the airport is a taxi stand with five cars and their drivers engaged in conversation. 

I approach them and ask, "Is this where I can hire a taxi?"

I think one of them looks over at me and nods.

"Can you take me to Cowie's Guest House?"

Standard Bombay (Mumbai) taxi.
Photo by Niall Corbet

Their conversation continues undeterred for several minutes and is still going on as I leave to wait by the cars.  Perhaps these are not taxi drivers after all.  Perhaps these men are paid by the taxi drivers to guard their cars, India's version of automobile security.  Well, whatever the situation is, I've slept in worse places.  I get into the back of one of the cars and wait for the driver to arrive.

One of the men from the group comes over, opens the back door, and motions for me to get out of the car.  "No," I respond, "I need a ride to Cowie's Guest House and I would like a taxi to take me there, please."  He closes the door and the drivers work amongst themselves what to do with the tall, crazy blonde person bent on being driven somewhere.  The door opens a few minutes later, "He will take you."

He welcomes me into the taxi and reassures me with, "Cowie Guest House?  Yes, I know this place."

No one told me getting there could kill me.

Bombay traffic.
Photo by Lucy Spink

Red lights are optional, as are rules of the road, right of way, and other traffic is treated as a figment of the imagination.  My taxi driver knocked a motorcycle off the road, sideswiped several cars and a bus, but fortunately was able to miss being sideswiped by a bus.  After several brushes with catastrophe, my driver turns around to face me, while driving, and strikes up a conversation.  Lucky for me, he's also good at following suggestions, and responded appropriately when terror let me shriek out instructions to, "Watch the road!"

I won't even mention the pedestrians and I lost count of how many times we bumped the back of the moving car in front of us.  I never did make it to Cowie's Guest House because the driver, who claims to know the place so well, had us hopelessly lost.

He stops for directions and in moments, I am dropped off at another hotel.  The lobby is immaculate, decorated in sprays of black and white marble from floor to ceiling.  The ceiling is adorned by the largest and most elaborate chandelier I have ever seen.  I am sure the quote for a room is going to run into the hundreds of dollars, but being close to midnight and having survived the taxi ride, whatever the hotel clerk charges for a room is money well spent.

"One night?  400 Rupees."  A new place always means new currency.  What kind of math do I need now?  At the airport, I got 25 Rupees for each dollar.... that's 4.... at least it's better than 7... 4 is 100... times 4 again and ...$16 for this marble-topia?  Deal!!

The hotel clerk leads me to the elevator, the kind where you have to shut the door yourself and hold the button until you arrive.  On the second floor, he shoves the elevator door open, revealing a dark hallway, only one light in the distance flickers with the intermittent buzz of flowing current.  He guides me down the hallway to my room and opens the door.  Inside, it's pitch dark.  He turns on the light and what I originally thought was a blanket on the bed scatters into unseen crevices in the walls, revealing a concrete slab, covered by a thin mattress under a white sheet. 

It's a far cry from the lobby, but it's home and only for tonight. As for my skittish, six-legged room mates, the light is staying on.

• ¤ •

The Hindi word for yesterday is "kal".  It also means tomorrow.

Around the World: Dim Sum in Hong Kong

February 2, 1992

My hostel mates are curious about this Dim Sum thing I've been speaking about.  I explained how small portions are prepared and wheeled around the restaurant on carts.  Diners are welcome to choose from the selection as they pass by, all the while enjoying endless amounts of tea.  One of my mates had seen a restaurant advertising Dim Sum and was wondering what it was.  Together, we went in search for the restaurant and a late breakfast.

 Dim Sum fare.
Photo courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.

We were seated in the small restaurant and as the carts passed by, I encouraged the others to select whatever they thought looked appetizing and I chose a few dishes that I was familiar with.  None of the others had used chop sticks before and we quickly discovered their lack of skill with these unusual eating utensils was great comedy.  Bite size morsels of food were propelled around the table and sometimes over the heads of other diners.  After a few near misses with the occasional steamed dumpling, one of the waitresses discreetly slid a few forks on our table.

Chinese Junk in Hong Kong Harbour.

After a leisurely and entertaining brunch, we all parted ways.  I went exploring around Hong Kong Harbour, taking in the colourful sails of the junks on the water.  Junks are ancient sailing ships, their first recorded use around 200BC during the Han Dynasty as efficient and sturdy ocean transportation.  Throughout history, the junk has been used for both military and trade purposes.  Their compartmentalized hull and sail design, or rigging, has been emulated in several modern day, transatlantic races for it's ability to sail a ship with minimal crew while achieving the most efficient use of wind. Today, the junk's primary use is recreational.

I'm leaving the civility of Hong Kong tomorrow for the unique chaos that is India.

• ¤ •

"It isn't so much what's on the table that matters, as what's on the chairs."

~W.S. Gilbert