Jock's TravelBlog Because sometimes I go places

Mumbai

As soon as you step out of the airport, you are faced with the reality of India. Here is a modern international airport, and just outside you are presented with a crush of people. We had booked a prepaid taxi inside, and were sent out to find it. Immediately a young boy started directing us.

"This way sir, this way mam," he says as he reaches to take My Bosses' bag. Another man come up upon me and tries to help me. I resist until we get to the taxi yard. Then I make the crucial mistake, I take my hand off the handle to look around. He is immediately on my bag and haranging the driver to open the trunk. There is much wresting with the bags and finally they are all loaded. The open the door and usher us in. Just before they close the door, they make a point of rolling down the window.

"We help you sir, you give us money," he says. Both he and the boy have their hand out. "Pounds sir, pounds." That was an odd thing to say, neither I nor My Boss look British.

"No pounds, dollars" I say. I reach into my pocket and pull out a bill. Immediately they try and tell me it isn't enough. I'm punchy, and the reality of the buying power of the Rupee hasn't fully hit me. I double it and give it to the boy.

"For both of you", I say. The kid takes the money and starts to back away. If he doesn't squirrel it away quickly I have a good idea he won't see any of it. The kid will learn or not, that wasn't my problem. The man tries to tell me it wasn't enough. For reasons known only to my own foolishness I try and argue with him. Eventually I just roll up the window and stare ahead until the driver comes back from wherever he went to. Then he is off.

Driving in Mumbai reminds me of a flock of birds. They swoop, and dive, and cut one another off. They don't collide, and it isn't always clear why they make the moves they do, but the swarm makes its way. It early in the morning on a Sunday, so we make good time. Mumbai is waking up. I've seen extreme poverty before, but there is something different here. We see people bathing in the streets, doing their laundry, preparing food. It's not even a shanty, this is all on what would have been the sidewalk. They make no effort to hide it. The only thing I can think of to compare this too is my father's stories of Shanghai before the revolution.

I expect to see a transition, here were some of the poorest. Next I expected to see a shantytown, then run down buildings, etc. up the economic ladder. Eventually it would reach some apex and the pendulum would swing back the other way. Some swings would be greater, some not so much. From above it would look like the ripples in a pond circling out, but it wasn't like that. The line that physically separates the rich and the poor is as thin as a strand of silk. It's all right there swirled together. There is no room for separation. Everything is shoved together out in the open. This is India, take it or leave it.

We checked into the hotel, which seemed like an oasis of calm in the chaos. After we took a much needed shower and I found an unwrinkled pair of pants, My Boss and I took a walk on the waterfront. We are staying at the southern end of Bombay. There is a little bay, like the hook and the end of the tail of a seahorse. It's called the Queen's Necklass. I didn't understand why until night.

The walk on the waterfront is a popular one, especially for courting couples. They walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, or sit and snuggle on the sea wall. Life happens in public here. It is all out in the open. Houses and apartments are small here, and often more than one generation lives together (or in close proximity). In the crush of humanity here (and I will use that term more and more), you have to make your own private spaces.

This means there is no real taboo against physical contact. How could there be? If 17 million people each needed the personal space of a border collie, then you wouldn't be able to fit Mumbai in all of Oregon. You get bumped, you get jostled. This is India.

We spot a man with a Monkey on a leash. I'm note sure what kind, possible a Macack. Its the size of a small bulldog. He spots my camera and my eyes lingering on the monkey for a fraction of a second and it begins.

"Hello sir. You want picture? No problem. No danger." He launches into his banter. I shake my head and don't stop. If I could have captured a picture of them before they noticed, that is the shot I would have wanted. Hell I even would have given him the money after I did. But the last thing I wanted was a picture of a performance meant for the tourists. He launches up from his seat, and follows me.

"You want picture?" I hear again. "No problem. No danger. He does very fine Michael Jackson dance." I nearly stop at that. I want to ask him "The Moonwalk, or Billie Jean," but he wouldn't get it. I just shake my head and keep walking. He follows for quite some distance. Same banter over and over again, said in the low slightly whining drone I hear the beggars use. The "no danger" part amuses me. He'd better not piss off that monkey too much. It is strong enough to rip off his fingers, but it just pats along next to him. This is India.

We loop back on the other side of the road. As we get close to the hotel we look at some of the side streets. On the main drag there were just people -- including a film crew -- here there was commerce. Bombay is a place of commerce, large and small. Money changes hands everywhere here. Tiny stall after tiny stall are lined up on the sidewalk. It's still possible to walk on the sidewalk here, just. People walk in the streets without a second thought. There is the periodic sound of car horns. Sometimes it means "here I am, do not move" and sometimes "move you are in my way." Somehow the difference is always clear. Even to me, and I have only been here for a couple of hours.

I can feel my body heading for a crash. I can see My Boss is too. We head back to the hotel, to take a nap. A couple of hours later I am wired again. I want to get up, I want to get out. I wonder if I should head out and catch up with My Boss later. The phone rings. It is T. She is the representative from the outsourcing company we work with. She shares and office with me, and helps coordinate the efforts of my teams. She has come separately on this trip. I'm glad she's here. Not just because I like here, but because she used to live here, before coming to the states. She has a perspective that straddles both worlds. We arrange to go out to dinner, the three of us.

She asks the question you are always asked when you are on vacation, "where do you want to go out to?" We have no opinion, we've never been here. I suggest that I have heard that they have good Indian food here, so T takes us out for a little light sightseeing and then to dinner. We see the Gateway to India, it's a popular spot. Locals and tourists domestic and imported. The flow of people is like a river and we get swept up in it. It pulls us around the building. After we take a drive and T points out some of her favorite buildings. You can see the British influence here, and their love of big works of masonry. You can see every other era here as well. Nothing seems to get replaces, just added on too. This is India.

At the restaurant, T is worried that I am not enjoying to food. I am. It is wonderful. It is both familiar to the Indian food I eat at home, and different. There seems to be a wider range of flavors. They are painting with a different palette and catering to different tastes. I know when we had members of my team over to Portland, I always worried if they were OK with the food. It is what you do when you have guests.

At the end of the meal we start to hear the sound of drums, and then trumpets. It builds and get closer. Eventually it stops in front of the restaurant. We go outside to take a look. It is a wedding. There is a crowd outside the restaurant, and a horse. All are dressed up. Eventually the groom comes out of the restaurant. There is more music, more ceremony. He looks put upon, long suffering. This is his wedding, but it is not for him. Its not for his bride either. This is for everyone else. So the bride and groom take it all in stride. The groom mounts the horse and the procession begins. There are colorful costumes. There is dancing. There are fireworks. There is a little car playing music. It is everything our dry Anglo-Saxon Protestant traditions aren't.

I'm sure at the next wedding, the bride and groom will celebrate twice as hard because it is not them...