I was awoken on the bus by the fat guy sitting next to me, who was wrapped around my arm like a fire pole. He also smelled like saliva. It was raining when we entered the hilly green outskirts of Mumbai, developed with high-rise apartments and swamps covering the rest. It’s exciting driving into the huge metropolis, one of the largest cities in the world. I got dropped off at Borivali, and had to walk through a sea of humanity, cars, black auto rickshaws, red buses, businessmen and their kids, trendy university students, and poor dirty slum dwellers. I got to the busy train station and waited for any train downtown. I had to wait for some time because the trains were all so full that literally no one else could fit in. So I sat back and put my hands in my pockets. My empty pockets. My wallet, which was in my front pocket, was no longer there. Within the last half hour I was pickpocketed! I haven’t even gotten on the train where pickpockets usually work, and I’ve been robbed. I haven’t even been in the city an hour and already I was mugged. I haven’t been in Mumbai more than half a day and already I’ve been robbed twice! I have no idea when or where it happened, let alone who did it. All I know is it was there before, and now it’s definitely not. I was furious, but there’s no one to blame, so I’m going to be irrational and blame it on Mumbai. I officially hate this city already. Not to mention riding the train is a nightmare. It was morning rush hour, I had to transfer trains, I had all of my luggage with me, and I was pissed off about getting robbed. The train slowed down at the station, and everyone on the platform crowded the train. Men jumped off while it was still moving, and when it finally stopped, men ran out from inside the train. It was chokingly crowded with men trying to board and de-board amidst a sea of bodies and yells. I got in line. And by ‘line’ I mean the massive crowd of whoever could push to the front. The entire crowd was pushing their way onto the train without any order. I didn’t even have to move because the crowd I was in was pushing on all sides into the train. Men pushed from all directions, my body flying around like a dummy, and my bag being tossed around like a beachball. I made my way to the center of the car, and didn’t even need to hold onto anything because there were men pressed against me at each of my four sides. Mostly businessmen and college age men occupied the train, but there were a few porters who were soaking wet from the baskets of fish they were carrying on their heads. It was hellishly hot, and smelled like sweat, urine, sweat, trash, sweat, curry, sweat, fish, and sweat. It was like a slaveship, and I was in no mood to talk to the guys that were staring and giggling at me. I was grabbing hold of my bag so tightly because apparently Mumbaikers will steal your belongings. I couldn’t move my head to read the small readerboard, so of course it was the local train, which takes four times as long stopping at every station. It took an excruciating hour to get downtown. These are the same trains that two months earlier had been bombed by terrorists. The terrorists had the right idea; this is the highest concentration of people anywhere I’ve ever seen. I ran out of the train when it reached CSTM train station, which everyone calls Victoria Terminus. I was glad to be able to breathe again. Once out of the station, there were Mumbaikers everywhere. You could barely see the streets because it was crawling with humanity. I followed the flow of the businessmen, going off to work in the Fort Area, the commercial hub of the city, and all of India and South Asia, for that matter. For being the central business district of a huge economic powerhouse, it was small, undeveloped, and dilapidated. Buildings were in disrepair, there were no skyscrapers besides the modern Bombay Stock Exchange buildings, and the streets were tiny. The fort area is an old British outpost (hence the name), and has many colonial buildings of the era. There are lots of restaurants, print shops, industrial warehouses and factories, modern upscale shops, and houses with balustrated balconies, all in the old English brick style. I had a lunch thali again, among India’s rich busniess class. I walked through the Fort, an interesting mix of businessmen in suits and on their cell phones, women hanging colorful laundry from balconies, street vendors, and dabawallahs. Dabawallahs are the men in sailor caps that deliver lunches to businessmen. Most businessmen commute several hours from the suburbs, and they want home-cooked meals at work. The dabawallahs collect lunches from their wives at home and deliver them to their husbands, all over the city. The huge disparities found within in India are all found within Mumbai. Mumbai sits on seven islands, originally home to the Koli fishermen. Several Hindu dynasties ruled the islands, followed by Muslims, and then the Portuguese. The Portuguese named the Islands Bom Bahai, and the gave the islands as dowry to the British crown in 1661, who rented the islands for $20 a year to the British East India Company. Then called Bombay, the city became a huge trading port as merchants from the hinterlands were attracted by the promise of wealth that warranted the nickname “City of Gold”. Thousands of people continue to pour in every year, lured by the same hope of wealth. This has made the city become unsustainably overpopulated, crowded, and filthy. Mumbai is officially home to 17 million people, but it is estimated that as many as twice that number actually reside there. It’s as if a population the size of Tokyo, with the income disparities of Saudi Arabia, inhabits a city the size of New York City. Half of the city’s residents live in shantytowns, and Mumbai contains Asia’s largest slums. The richest Indians also live in Mumbai. It is India’s most crowded, busy, fast, expensive, fun, and anonymous city. It is the center of finance, industry, and entertainment (namely “Bollywood”) in India. In 1996, the city became Mumbai, named after a Koli goddess, and all the names were changed, but taxi drivers still use the British names. Claw-shaped lower Mumbai is the main city area, with the slums, wealthy suburbs, and airport reaching further up the island. After walking around the fort hotel shopping, I realized how expensive the city was. Paying under 300 Rs a night is not possible. The hotels were nice, air conditioned, and marble, despite the dilapidated buildings they are in. It was tiring hotel-shopping. I opted for the typical budget option, and took a cab to the Salvation Army Red Shield Hostel. I signed up for a room. The only downside was that there is no electrical charger for the iPod. Thankfully they had storage lockers, so that no more of my stuff will get stolen. Not to mention the location was incredible, along the Colaba Causeway, the center of the main tourist area within walking distance of markets, restaurants, movie theatres, and the Gateway of India. I walked to the Gateway of India, which looks out towards Mumbai harbor, and is a huge arch combining Hindu and Muslim architecture used to welcome the British king on his visit. Now it’s the symbol of Mumbai. For the first time in three months, saw the ocean! I hopped on a ferry for Elephanta Island, in Mumbai Harbor. The water was completely cloudy and brown. Mumbai has really nice weather, it was a pleasant 85 degrees, with some humidity and the ocean breeze off the Arabian Sea. There were a bunch of Indian container ships and oil tankers sitting in the bay, against the backdrop of the small skyscrapers of Mumbai Island. The island’s main attraction is the Elephanta Caves, which are Hindu rock-cut temples. Make it three days in a row of rock-cut temples. They charge you at three checkpoints. Because this annoyed me, I acted like I was from India to get the lower rate. I said, “Ek Ticket”, and then he asked which country I was from, so I replied, “Assam, India”, and he was hesitant, but gave me a 10 Rs ticket. There were a lot of tourists there, and shops selling maps, postcards, t-shirts, and handicrafts lined the walkway. There was only one main cave, and it had inside it a huge triple-faced Shiva, representing the creator, preserver, and destroyer. It is a mystery of who built the caves, but it was built between 450 and 750 AD. Not like those numbers are really exact, either. After some time, I came back and hopped on the boat back to the mainland. I walked through Colaba, a mix of old beachside mansions, five-star hotels, promenades filled with tourists and hawkers, a little marketplace with souvenirs and trendy clothes, and restaurants. I ate a really good thali at one of the restaurants called Laxmi Vilas. I figured that because I’m in the home of Bollywood, I should see some films. I saw Zindaggi Rocks, a new popular movie, at the Regal Cinemas. It was good and entertaining, and I didn’t even need to know Hindi to understand it. Bollywood is really interesting. It’s the largest film industry in the world, and the movies are all pretty much the same. A protagonist male tries to get the girl and does, and he fights bad guys. There is dancing, fighting, humor, and singing. Everyone overacts, so it looks fake, but it’s good if you don’t know Hindi. The actors are all light-skinned, rich, and trendy, unlike most Indians. The setting is usually a romantic location like Switzerland, France, New York, Singapore, or Mumbai’s suburbs. The music and dancing is exaggerated but entertaining, the soundtrack being one of the most important parts of any film. The man and woman fall in love, and always get within millimeters of kissing, but never do. It allows poor Indians, frustrated with the plight of their lives, to escape through the fantasy world of Bollywood films. I got back and slept in a bunk bed at the Salvation Army.
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