I wanted to see the fish market, which is really close, in Colaba. It’s called Sassoon Docks, and the cab dropped off Dad, Mom, and I at the entrance around 7 am. It smelled horrible, and the fish smell was everywhere. It was really hectic, as women were selling all types of fish; pomfret, crabs, eel, prawns, and other saltwater fish. Fishing boats come in and people rush to bring in the day’s catch. People were shouting, buying, carrying fish on their heads and on carts, and running to get more fish. They are the descendents of the original inhabitants of Mumbai, the Koli fisherfolk. Their problem is that as the city grows and Mumbai grows more affluent, the normal people don’t want the stinky fish around, and so they pay government officials to move the fish markets away, and they are now vanishing. The ground of Sassoon Docks was slimy and smelly. I could hardly breathe, but it was interesting. Mom and Dad hated it. After seeing that they said they’d never eat fish in India. Obviously this is why photography is not allowed in the premises. Not like that stopped me or anything. They went back to catch their Mumbai city tour. I walked through fishermen’s slums in Colaba on the water to use the internet. I had some breakfast and was picked up for a tour to Dharavi, the largest slum in Asia. The tour seemed interesting and different. I have a feeling they don’t get much business, let alone from Americans. Me and Elroy from New Zealand were the only customers. He was a short guy who was hilarious. For example, we passed through Mumbai’s Red Light District on our way north. He says, “Oh, wow, the Red Light District. Yeah, I haven’t been here since my university days. So in Delhi they must have something like this too, right? I’m sure you’ve found it by now”. Apparently the Red Light District is big business; at its height 60,000 sex workers were “employed”. Young girls are taken from rural villages with the promise of good jobs in the city, where they ultimately live out their lives as prostitutes here. They cannot run away or tell the police, for fear of being beaten or sent back. They work at all times, including 9 am, when we drove past. Sure enough, the young women in saris were standing outside the doors of the brothels. Fortunately this trade is declining, and it is common to use condoms. Nevertheless, it’s still really sad. Next we drove through Chor Bazaar, meaning “Thieves’ Market” because the Queen of England came to Mumbai, and the porters stole her things. She came to Chor Bazaar and actually found her favorite violin hanging in one of the shops, thus coining the new name. Chances are my phone and wallet are here right now. Under the stairs of footbridges at train stations, NGOs have set up shelters for boys who would otherwise be sleeping on the streets. Here they are given very crowded beds, kitchens, and shelter from the monThey mostly have come from rural villages and lack any formal papers. So they cannot get a job besides street laborers. We stopped to see Dhobi Ghat, a series of tanks owned by the Mumbai Municipal government. The spots are rented to laundry businesses, which take dirty clothes from patrons all over the city, and wash and dry them here, and return them with stunning accuracy. Thousands of workers were whacking clothes against the rocks, rubbing in soap, and soaking them. In total, 50,000 employees work in Dhobi Ghat. I’m positive this is how my clothes are washed in Delhi. Hence the hole in my shirt and the massive stretching in all my clothes. We came to Dharavi Slum, right outside Mahim Train Station. It smelled horrible, as there was a huge pile of trash that they were burning. We walked past homeless children sifting through trash, and the huge pipelines that service the entire city. We walked into the narrow lane between two buildings made of scrap metal and tarp. Although this is the largest slum in Asia and the residents live in extreme poverty, no one sits idle. It is too hard to scratch out a living here. No one can afford to waste any working time. This is why Dharavi has an annual turnover of $665 million annually, mostly because of small-scale industries. Everyone was working, and hardly seemed to notice us. We saw a plastic recycling plant, where free plastic from garbage is brought here, sorted, and finely chopped up. Then it is put through a heating machine, where it is made into raw sheets to be used for toys and consumer goods. Then next door was a building where they take metal paint and oil cans and hammer them so they eventually look good as new. It is so resourceful. Up to this point I have always thought that India was more wasteful than the United States because there’s no recycling, and trash just accumulates on the streets. However, in India they reuse everything they possibly can. I’m glad, it’s very efficient. And the people in this slum have the chance to earn a living. Next we saw a tanning factory, where raw goat hides are put in large barrels and turned by hand. Then they put the hides in water, and dry them with a machine, before spray painting them (without masks). The workers were all Muslim because I doubt a Hindu would do that job. Then we saw basically a sweatshop where a dozen workers stitched Western clothes. It was hot, with fans, and they all had sewing machines where they worked. There were huge piles of clothes, and people sorting through them. And I pay $40 for this. Then we saw a school, where the kids all stood up and greeted us in English on the demand of the teacher. The school had good facilities, which was surprising in the midst of this shantytown. We then walked more through a main thoroughfare before ducking into more small alleys, water and trash everywhere. Men were making jewelry in dark rooms. Belt buckles were made by pouring red-hot liquid metal into a stone mold, where it was formed into a shape, and then they hammered it into place. In a large clearing, hundreds of papads were drying on large wicker baskets in the sun. Women sat by shaping and rolling them. These are bought by huge food corporations and packaged for sale. Pictures are strictly prohibited because the government would crack down on this…the illegal papad-trafficking trade. Next were the clay pots. Pots were drying in every inch of space. They were shaped by Gujaratis using hand power. They don’t use machines because they can’t afford them. They are good at making pots, and the whole city buys clay pots here. Then they are fired and painted in Dharavi, also. The tour was awesome, and I saw a slum yesterday, but this tour allowed me to see a slum at work, more from the inside rather than the outside. Afterwards, I walked to Crawford Market, a huge covered shopping center selling absolutely everything. In front, they sold wholesale cosmetics, jewelry, and spices. The whole place was teeming with shoppers and annoying salesmen. Outside were stall after stall of fruits and vegetables. Homeless families congregate here. There was also a row of pet shops, selling parrots, rabbits, fish, and cute golden retriever puppies. And under the cages I saw some rats and mice, ironically running free. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there, so I walked to the beautiful Bombay Stock Exchange building and saw all the businessmen taking lunch from street dhabas. After that I got a shave from some guy on the street and walked to the hotel to meet Mom and Dad. I hung out there before riding the train (ugh) uptown to Malad, a rich suburb. I had to ask a million people where the big mall and movie theatre was, and rickshaws wouldn’t take me there. As I found out later, they have rickshaws for one side of the tracks and rickshaws for the other. Segregation? I finally got to the huge, brand-new Western-style mall. Built three years ago, it had four stories, and a food court (with McDonalds, Ruby Tuesday, and Subway), upscale shops like Benetton and Bose, and a new movie theatre. They even had toilet paper in the bathrooms, and filtered drinking water with paper cups. Here bourgeois Mumbaikers enjoyed a luxurious shopping experience. Everyone was young, trendy, and rich, and represent the new-money consumerist, Americanized Indian middle and upper class. Within six hours and only 3 miles apart, I have seen both the largest slums in Asia and a huge consumer shopping mall nicer than any in the US. Welcome to India. I had some dinner and watched a documentary about Mumbai called Seven Islands and a Metro. It was an art film, so it was weird, but it had good views of the city, and told the story of a bunch of Mumbaikers, including a Japanese Buddhist priest speaking Hindi (but of course he couldn’t pronounce “L”s), a Sephardic Jew speaking Hindi with a stereotypical loud raspy voice, angry Kolis who want the migrants to leave, and rich businessmen. It was good in order to get into Mumbai. However, I already hate Mumbai so much that no movie alone could make me like it. I took the train back to the hotel.
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