Today I decided to devote the entire morning to the trains. The Mumbai Municipal Rail is an adventure unto itself. I have already explained what it takes to board and de-board, and exactly what it’s like. I went at rush hour, and purposely got off at Dadar, the wretched station where all three train lines meet. Needless to say, it is a madhouse. It’s like the Tokyo subway system but lacking courtesy and order; in Mumbai people pile in, shove, don’t wait their turn, and it is hot and smells horrible. The platform is a congested sea of commuters, impossible to walk at a normal pace. Outside the train station, there was a street market, which was also crowded, and women were selling fish, vegetables, fruits, and sugarcane water. Commuters and probably low-life pickpockets were everywhere. I took the train further up to Bandra, which contains horrible slums but also some of the most prestigious residential areas in Mumbai. I wanted to see the slums, so I walked through the Muslim district, which was a collection of dilapidated dwellings made of a mix of sheet metal, tarp, tires, and discarded wood, all set up along a city wall. Trash overflowed into the gutters and sidewalks. While walking, I had to watch my step to make sure I wouldn’t step in trash, dirty water, or feces. The rancid smell of the slum was unbearable, and my sandals will probably never recover. Garments hung everywhere and obstructed the paths, which at some points were three feet wide. Women sat beating laundry, while men were off at work. Naked children flew kites and played soccer with garbage scraps. I walked to an open field adjacent to the train tracks, which was no longer a field, but a pile of dirty trash. Goats and pigs picked at trash piles, and men and children squatted in the open, defecating. And it’s not like it was healthy; all of it was liquid and diarrhetic. These people clearly suffer from poor sanitation and malnutrition. No one seemed to notice me, but I couldn’t help but keep watching these poor people walk through trash and have to live in this filth. I don’t really suffer from culture shock, but for once I can say I was thoroughly shocked. I have never seen such a display of grinding poverty. Imagine if that was your life. I can’t. To make it even more ironic, these slums hug the train lines, which are used by loaded businessmen to commute from their luxury condos on the beach to the financial center of India. Thus, the people who inhabit these slums come face-to-face with multi-millionaires of Mumbai every day. As much as I despise Mumbai, I’m glad to be able to see this juxtaposition of economic disparity, it’s more polarized than anywhere else in the world I can think of. And these people don’t give up, and the kids are smiling and laughing, playing soccer and flying kites. Yet they can’t afford clothes. This is the “City of Gold”, to which millions of hopeful migrants have poured from the rural hinterlands in search of economic opportunity and a more hopeful future. After walking back through the narrow alleyways, I took the train downtown and took a cab to Hotel Marine Plaza. My Mom and Dad are flying in to Mumbai today, for their two-week trip in India. I get the feeling they really didn’t want to come, but they just want a luxurious vacation and the chance to see me because I’m not home that much anymore. I’m really excited they’re coming, though, and now they’ll better understand how I’m living for these six months of my life. I had to wait for a while because they got stuck in traffic, which was not a problem. Compared to the Salvation Army and sleeping on trains and buses, any hotel above $3 a night is luxurious. The hotel was very nice; a five-star, with a turbaned man opening the door, completely marble façade, and sweeping view of Marine Drive and Back Bay. I was happy to see them, when they showed up in the lobby. Turns out their Mercer Island travel agent is incompetent; their trip was hugely overpriced. She also neglected to tell them about a full leg of their journey. They had to fly 30 hours to LA, Tokyo, Singapore, and finally to Mumbai. That is probably the most roundabout way to get to India. Whereas I took British Airways to London and then to Delhi. They were tired, but we went out and explored the city anyways. They’re not used to India yet, clearly. They thought it was really filthy, they didn’t want to walk on the dirty paths, they got scared crossing the street, they complained about the smell, they thought it was crowded, and they were surprised people drink water from the tap at temples. Welcome to India. The funniest thing to me is how they feel the need to tip everyone. They gave the bellman 100 Rs. I might have paid 10 Rs, and that’s if I was feeling generous. They were willing to pay $20 for a cab, whereas I would settle for no more than $1. We walked along Marine Drive to Chowpatty Beach, and took a cab back. We went down to dinner buffet, which they told us wasn’t open until 7. Then we went at 7, and they don’t open until 7:30 apparently. Mom and Dad didn’t particularly like the food. I, on the other hand, gorged. I ate seven plates of mouthwatering goodness like ice cream, fruit, mutton, chicken, Indian food, salad, and desert. I never eat like this here, it was amazing. They spend money, I save it here. They said they’re splurging because it’s their one vacation for the year, and also everything’s so cheap here that they can afford to live in this level of luxury. It’s also funny because the Indian Americans who are studying abroad in Delhi complain that their parents give them no money because they know how cheap it is to live here. My parents, on the other hand, give me money like I’m living in the United States, because they think India is unsafe and I’ll get sick or injured. I'm fine with that!
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