I had asked Rolf Baechler, my former mentor, for animation contacts in India. He hooked me up with Bill Dennis, who hooked me up with Vina, who hooked me up with Uma. So far everything went by email.
I was supposed to meet Uma at Rhythm & Hues already on Thursday, but luckily we could postpone for Friday morning. Once more I would travel North by train, this time equipped with a book. A taxi rickshaw brought me out to the mindspace towers near the shore, where people were a bit taller than average and dressed fashionable.
Except for a handful of people the facilities of R&H were deserted: "The Kingdom", a movie they had adorned with special effects, just had a screening. But Uma would soon return, and although there wasn't a real purpose in me seeing the place she would kindly show me around. There were no surprised except for the unusual ethnic interior architecture. I explained I had a meeting with Vaibhav Kumaresh lined up, and she recommended to also go round another 2D-studio called Animagic and gave me their contact.
I remember laughing histerically when seeing his MTV-shorts "Poga" a couple of years ago, so I was excited to meet Vaibhav Kumaresh. He had done a lot of clay animation, but also ventured into all kinds of techniques and styles. His studio was a 2 bedroom apartment in an rundown building in Borivali, with some very basic equipment. Picnic tables bending under the weight of CRT monitors. - An alchemist's kitchen. A major project had just been finished and there were basically no other people left working at this point. He kindly took me for lunch, recommending "Idli", a couple of palm sized rice based cakes with a fine grain like cous-cous, and a fresh lemon soda.
On the way back I stopped at the Animagic studio. I knew nothing about it and didn't quite know what to expect. In any case I didn't hold my breath when I entered the house in the suburbs.
I found the same warm welcome as before, and more. The three friends Chetan, Gayatri and Sumant who had been running the studio for the last ten years provided an almost family-like environment. They all lived in the neighborhood and would hang out at the studio long before and after the regular hours. It was their place of inspiration. They told me they started out as animation enthusiasts, learning everything from scratch out of the few books they had, watching as many movies as possible teaching themselves all sorts of techniques. In the meantime they had grown into an absolutely professional allrounder enterprise, covering everything from cereal commercial-style 2D animation to 3D special effects, even to feature film storyboarding and production design.
They all spoke excellent English, and Chetan spoke a lot of it. And he had a point. "What is it we're supposed to do?" he asked. Make McDonald's commercials or make movies with a message? Indeed they had already won a bunch of awards with a 20 minute commissioned film regarding child abuse. While that project was basically done for free they had always kept a stack of commercial jobs to keep them alive. Now they're in the preproduction of an absolutely amazing feature project and for that matter try not to invest too much energy in other things. - A passionate attitude that I can only admire!
I showed them my short "Swiss Fuss" on my website, and to my surprise they all laughed spontaneously! I didn't expect anyone other than the Swiss to really get the point. Talking away it also turned out they shared my point of view on the movie "300" as a simplistic and dangerous depiction of ethnic groups, very fatal in the present world situation. - And what's more: They don't drive cars.
They offered I stayed for dinner, and around 22:30 I finally left from there. Six hours had just vanished in a moment.
Sunk into my book on the way back on the train a foul stench cut through me. Looking out the window I could make out a creek in the moonlight. I tried not to breathe, but it was too late: It had crawled inside me and caused me physical pain in my ribs. - Mumbai was a stinky city indeed, smells of feces and diesel follow you almost everywhere you go (one exception was luckily enough my hotel room). On the upside you could blast the most atrocious fart and everybody would take it for a fresh breeze.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What a mess!
It must have been still early in the night when I had to let go through my head again what I had consumed over the past 8 hours. In reverse order, down to dinner. What had left my stomach already by this point would plash out the other end in a watery spray. Once I was all empty and hollow I would still feel sick. It was time to lay off the regular diarrhea pills that I had started a couple of days ago and switch to the antibiotic! I realized I had to stay upright if I was to keep it. It was the kind of sickness where the slightest thought or smell or visual sensation could cause and irritation. Sitting on the edge of the bed I tried not to think or focus on anything. I had invented meditation. And it worked for that matter.
Day broke, night fell.
There I was, with a purple baby foot, a head swollen from banging against all the low ceilings in India, a mouth with sores and smudged with vomit, and an ass like a garden hose. India had welcomed me with a fine treatment!
Day broke, night fell.
There I was, with a purple baby foot, a head swollen from banging against all the low ceilings in India, a mouth with sores and smudged with vomit, and an ass like a garden hose. India had welcomed me with a fine treatment!
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Many gods in Mumbai
Much as a continuation of the visit to the ancient temples the day before I planned a route to see a number of religious sites in the city, starting out with a short cab ride to the newly renovated St. Thomas Church at the Horniman Circle. A rather small church in a slightly gothic style, its side wall lined with pompous marble gravestones and memorabilia. A strange impression gave the two series of ceiling fans that were suspended from the pillars like lanterns, but on long sticks so they would reach down to the benches beneath. It looked a bit like a multi-engine heavenly aircraft. The room was empty except for an old woman kneeling at the choir entrance. A group of three European looking tourist girls gathered in the back of the church. They were all wearing mini skirts and sleeveless tops. - I was wondering about the thoughts and comments of the locals on that.
I continued on walking South thru a bazaar I called "office town". Almost every single store advertised in yellow, red and black letters services like computer typesetting, xeroxing, lamination and the like. It's incredible where people around here can fit a computer workstation! In tiny booths along the street sat people in front of 14 inch CRT monitors on crooked shelves, typing away in concentration. While I usually had trouble fitting in in cybercafes, knees bent and back to back with the next person, Indians cope with that by simply not taking up much space. Most of the times their loosely fitting dress shirts, pants suggest slim and bony bodies, and obviously they're rather short. What if you would magically swap every Indian with an US American, and every minimal sized vehicle in the streets with one of their hummers and pickup trucks? India would be piled 3 miles high!
I was actually looking for a Jewish synagoge in the quarter, and although I was certain it had to be in the immediate proximity I decided to interrupt my search and go for lunch instead. The rather exclusive and stylish Chinese restaurant "Silk Route" seemed a welcome change from all the bazaar snacks. Half an hour and only a few steps later I had reached the light blue building. After signing into the book a warden would let me up to the ceremony room on the first floor. Being small and furnished with generous, laid back benches gathered in a circle around an altar in the middle of the room it had a cozy feeling to it, but other than that it was rather plain and uninteresting. There were no churchgoers at the moment, only one guy sweeping the floor and another one waiting to ask for a baksheesh for opening the door to the upper level.
Churchgate train station could be easily reached walking a couple of hundred meters along the traffic. Just looking at a map in order to decide which station to buy a ticket for would attract a tourist guide trying to make friends with me, telling me at which train station I actually was and pointing out a garbage disposal when I apparently wanted to dump my empty water bottle. - Come on! Luckily, he was gone again after 4 minutes. I noticed that's the time that people from any line of business would harass you before looking for their next victim.
I followed the LP travel guide recommendation to see the clothes washing from the overpass at Mahalakshmi train station. - The view offered a wonderful composition of the facilities indeed, making it look much more like a fantastic movie set than a place of unforgiving every day labor.
There were two temples at the water. It was a bit hard to find the access routes from the street, but soon I passed a colorful bazaar lining the alley to the Hindu temple. It ended at the bottom of a staircase, where I was going to add my new sandals to the pile of shoes from the other visitors before the climb, but a beggar woman took them into custody, handing me a numbered plastic chip for a token. At the top of the stairs I was reminded by security personnel to keep my camera in the bag. The temple site was small and mainly consisted of an open air square lined with benches under an arcade. the building in the center looked much like a box office and held lots of fences ready for long lineups, men and women separately, for blessings by one of the two massive shirtless priests. Donations were given by sticking (by what means I didn't inspect) coins to a wall. If the space got too full a temple servant would wipe them off and they would fall thru a grate into a container. - Most of all however I was drawn to go down the steps to the sea that had been absoluteley conceiled from view until now. There was a small resting area with snack opportunities, but no outside seating and no access to the water. Thru a an iron fence the Hindus would watch their Muslim fellows cross a quai to their church, located out on the water, maybe half a mile away.
The quai would flood at high tide, and the church would become an island. I didn't do any planning regarding the tide and was lucky the quai wall was far above the water level. It wasn't straight, but had a slight swing to it, and a colorful band of people stretched on it in the afternoon sun. The path was lined with sellers and beggars of all sorts. A guy had dug out an old scale and tapped onto it with a stick, encouraging the passers to have their weight measured for a baksheesh. People with deformities. Three crippled monks laid on the ground singing a rhythmic chant, their stubby legs in the air.
The church was bigger and more elaborate, but much like the Hindu temple consisted of a courtyard. You had to leave your shoes outside the bungalow in its middle in order to receive the blessings, and again there were separate doors for men and women, the room for men however being quite a bit bigger. I entered barefoot and after a moment remembered to put my hat back on. People brought the priests flower ornaments wrapped in newspaper and in return received a pat on their head with a feathery utensil. There was no ban on photography, and other people took pictures too. But then bystanders interfered when I would take a picture of the women on the other side of the altar. I decided to leave the room at all. I found that in the back the church opened to the seashore rocks below and people enjoying a 5 Rupee ice cream would spread out over it, eventually go in the water, too. A buy even bared his upper body. So much freedom!
I took a taxi to Chowpatty Beach and took a stroll. I passed a circle of girls sitting on the sand, of course all of them wrapped up in clothes and veils. Much to my surprise they called "Hello! Come over here!", but when I approached they all froze up. - So it was a joke after all. I continued on along the seawall, and eventually ended up walking all the way back to the hotel.
I had met no other white tourists all day. No wait, I caught a glimpse of two older ladies at Mahalakshmi and a young couple near the temples. - Of course I was a stranger in India, but I was also basically alone being a stranger. Which was a good but unusual thing. In any case I never felt lost or unsafe.
Completely oblivious of my experience the other day I ordered the same "Chicken Roast" in the same restaurant and got the same disappointment, only this time it was fully cooked.
I had plans to go to a night club with the frivolous name of "Red Light", and since it would close around 1:30 I took a taxi to around 9:30. But no... The place was still empty and lit. I was advised to come back around 11:30, and I walked down to a bar in Colaba. It was crowded, so the waiter sat me down at the table of the lonely beer drinkers where a guy from Belgium and a Saudi already had been quietly enjoying their Kingfisher. They both temporarily worked in Mumbai. We talked, no, slandered about the town and its inhabitants until I took off and went back to the club. The entrance fee was 1000 Rupees, of which 800 were returned as vouchers for booze. I couldn't quite enjoy the nice setup of the club as half of it was a restricted VIP area. I started talking to two white men - business from South Africa as it turned out - who were also trapped in the lower caste, and the slandering went on. - Once it was full the club featured an exceptionally multicultural crowd. As everybody sang along to the "Hare Krishna"-song however I was reminded I was in Mumbai.
I continued on walking South thru a bazaar I called "office town". Almost every single store advertised in yellow, red and black letters services like computer typesetting, xeroxing, lamination and the like. It's incredible where people around here can fit a computer workstation! In tiny booths along the street sat people in front of 14 inch CRT monitors on crooked shelves, typing away in concentration. While I usually had trouble fitting in in cybercafes, knees bent and back to back with the next person, Indians cope with that by simply not taking up much space. Most of the times their loosely fitting dress shirts, pants suggest slim and bony bodies, and obviously they're rather short. What if you would magically swap every Indian with an US American, and every minimal sized vehicle in the streets with one of their hummers and pickup trucks? India would be piled 3 miles high!
I was actually looking for a Jewish synagoge in the quarter, and although I was certain it had to be in the immediate proximity I decided to interrupt my search and go for lunch instead. The rather exclusive and stylish Chinese restaurant "Silk Route" seemed a welcome change from all the bazaar snacks. Half an hour and only a few steps later I had reached the light blue building. After signing into the book a warden would let me up to the ceremony room on the first floor. Being small and furnished with generous, laid back benches gathered in a circle around an altar in the middle of the room it had a cozy feeling to it, but other than that it was rather plain and uninteresting. There were no churchgoers at the moment, only one guy sweeping the floor and another one waiting to ask for a baksheesh for opening the door to the upper level.
Churchgate train station could be easily reached walking a couple of hundred meters along the traffic. Just looking at a map in order to decide which station to buy a ticket for would attract a tourist guide trying to make friends with me, telling me at which train station I actually was and pointing out a garbage disposal when I apparently wanted to dump my empty water bottle. - Come on! Luckily, he was gone again after 4 minutes. I noticed that's the time that people from any line of business would harass you before looking for their next victim.
I followed the LP travel guide recommendation to see the clothes washing from the overpass at Mahalakshmi train station. - The view offered a wonderful composition of the facilities indeed, making it look much more like a fantastic movie set than a place of unforgiving every day labor.
There were two temples at the water. It was a bit hard to find the access routes from the street, but soon I passed a colorful bazaar lining the alley to the Hindu temple. It ended at the bottom of a staircase, where I was going to add my new sandals to the pile of shoes from the other visitors before the climb, but a beggar woman took them into custody, handing me a numbered plastic chip for a token. At the top of the stairs I was reminded by security personnel to keep my camera in the bag. The temple site was small and mainly consisted of an open air square lined with benches under an arcade. the building in the center looked much like a box office and held lots of fences ready for long lineups, men and women separately, for blessings by one of the two massive shirtless priests. Donations were given by sticking (by what means I didn't inspect) coins to a wall. If the space got too full a temple servant would wipe them off and they would fall thru a grate into a container. - Most of all however I was drawn to go down the steps to the sea that had been absoluteley conceiled from view until now. There was a small resting area with snack opportunities, but no outside seating and no access to the water. Thru a an iron fence the Hindus would watch their Muslim fellows cross a quai to their church, located out on the water, maybe half a mile away.
The quai would flood at high tide, and the church would become an island. I didn't do any planning regarding the tide and was lucky the quai wall was far above the water level. It wasn't straight, but had a slight swing to it, and a colorful band of people stretched on it in the afternoon sun. The path was lined with sellers and beggars of all sorts. A guy had dug out an old scale and tapped onto it with a stick, encouraging the passers to have their weight measured for a baksheesh. People with deformities. Three crippled monks laid on the ground singing a rhythmic chant, their stubby legs in the air.
The church was bigger and more elaborate, but much like the Hindu temple consisted of a courtyard. You had to leave your shoes outside the bungalow in its middle in order to receive the blessings, and again there were separate doors for men and women, the room for men however being quite a bit bigger. I entered barefoot and after a moment remembered to put my hat back on. People brought the priests flower ornaments wrapped in newspaper and in return received a pat on their head with a feathery utensil. There was no ban on photography, and other people took pictures too. But then bystanders interfered when I would take a picture of the women on the other side of the altar. I decided to leave the room at all. I found that in the back the church opened to the seashore rocks below and people enjoying a 5 Rupee ice cream would spread out over it, eventually go in the water, too. A buy even bared his upper body. So much freedom!
I took a taxi to Chowpatty Beach and took a stroll. I passed a circle of girls sitting on the sand, of course all of them wrapped up in clothes and veils. Much to my surprise they called "Hello! Come over here!", but when I approached they all froze up. - So it was a joke after all. I continued on along the seawall, and eventually ended up walking all the way back to the hotel.
I had met no other white tourists all day. No wait, I caught a glimpse of two older ladies at Mahalakshmi and a young couple near the temples. - Of course I was a stranger in India, but I was also basically alone being a stranger. Which was a good but unusual thing. In any case I never felt lost or unsafe.
Completely oblivious of my experience the other day I ordered the same "Chicken Roast" in the same restaurant and got the same disappointment, only this time it was fully cooked.
I had plans to go to a night club with the frivolous name of "Red Light", and since it would close around 1:30 I took a taxi to around 9:30. But no... The place was still empty and lit. I was advised to come back around 11:30, and I walked down to a bar in Colaba. It was crowded, so the waiter sat me down at the table of the lonely beer drinkers where a guy from Belgium and a Saudi already had been quietly enjoying their Kingfisher. They both temporarily worked in Mumbai. We talked, no, slandered about the town and its inhabitants until I took off and went back to the club. The entrance fee was 1000 Rupees, of which 800 were returned as vouchers for booze. I couldn't quite enjoy the nice setup of the club as half of it was a restricted VIP area. I started talking to two white men - business from South Africa as it turned out - who were also trapped in the lower caste, and the slandering went on. - Once it was full the club featured an exceptionally multicultural crowd. As everybody sang along to the "Hare Krishna"-song however I was reminded I was in Mumbai.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
What's made of one piece will hardly come apart
I had to wait about half an hour at the table before breakfast was finally served, but that wouldn't stop me from being the first on the ferry to Elephanta Island. I had noticed I didn't feel quite 100%... There was a rumble in my stomach and my poo had started to get rather liquid (pardon me being so graphic). In addition to starting my diarrhea medication I got myself a Coke in order to help my digestion. Maybe it's true what they say!
There wasn't an excessive amount of tourists, the lower deck of the ferry filled just about up with a number of Swiss couples and plenty of other Europeans. An older Swiss guy was saving his money by fighting off a postcard seller. Obviously he was also saving on a hairdresser and razor blades. An Austrian tourist was delivering his travel adventures with a nasal voice to his fellow passengers. Someone applied sunscreen, head to toe.
The ship started its journey to the East. Eventually it would slow down and drop local people onto other ferries in the harbor. I was sitting the head of the ship, looking for photo opportunities. Ships big and small would make their appearance in the hazy smog stretching over the surface of the water. A seagull was picking on a dead fish. Every now and then a shoe floated by in the murky water. - A shoe? Finally something much bigger distilled on the horizon: Elephanta Island, home to Hindu temple caves, some 1400 years old.
We climbed ashore on a quai wall that protruded out from the coast for about 200 meters. A miniature train stood ready for the tourist to bring them to the island. Almost everyone else got on, so I thought it's part of the ferry ticket. It turned out it cost 10 Rupees, which I hastily paid, and it moved at walking speed. Well, maybe still a tiny bit faster than I would have walked with my injury. The engine of the train had the old fashioned steam barrel bonnet but contained a tiny combustion engine that ripped the silence of the surroundings with a hammering rattle. We passed some food sellers, followed by a gate for 5 Rupee of tax fee of some sort, followed by a handicraft bazaar that would lead up along the steps all the way to the temple site. Me and my fellow tourists didn't get harassed once. - That would follow on the way down.
The notion that an entire columned hall including all ornaments could be chiseled out of a mountain was mind-boggling. A sacred but open minded atmosphere filled the cave. There were several niches with religious scenes depicting Shiva, about 3 to 4 times life size. All the (mostly quite well preserved) statues were wonderfully dynamic and elegant. Their faces showed subtle but very readable expressions, having their eyes closed at all times. It was as though they tried to be expressionless but couldn't help showing their emotions. In the center of the back wall there stood the majestic three-headed portrait sculpture of Shiva, as creator, preserver (with the curious attribute of a lime) and as destroyer. - I had prepared myself with some basic knowledge about the mythology and decided to encounter the artwork only visually at first before eavesdropping in on one or the other guided tour.
Along a generous path around the mountain followed a handful of other caves, but each was less and less elaborate, the final one being a mere crack in the mountain. "Cannon Hill" read a sign. An older couple was selling fairly cold beverages and trying to make a buck by having the woman's picture taken. "What's on Cannon Hill?" I asked. "Cannon!" Oh, silly me. I went on, walking the now narrow path through the woodland carefully slow. I was wearing the fake Nike sandal on my left foot, and the much hated, even cheaper toe-worn flip flop on my right foot since this was the only shoe that would accommodate the foot in bandage. The strap was starting a blister on the back of the foot.
It turned out there weren't just two 30 foot cannons mounted on huge carousels on the hill, but also an excessive amount of tourist litter, mainly water bottles. Simply careless. - An an artificial elevation on the very top of the hill must have been the lookout. Climbing down from that bump I got some pebbles in my fake Nike sandal. When I tried to shake them out the sole came off. Not just partly, but the entire piece of plastic, without warning. The hot midday sun must have molten the glue. Rats, I had just bought it two days ago! So much for shoes being thrown in the ocean. I would dispose of this one properly though. - I was just at the very beginning of my descent, but it turned out that walking without that sole wasn't too hard as long as I avoided the pointy pebbles.
The path led out of the wood onto what I discovered was the top of the second cave. The sun was burning down and close to a dozen of eagles were circling the hot air above. It was amazing! I dropped my bag and took my camera, shooting like a WWI air defense until I was dizzy. Further along the way, in fact back at the top of the stairs some monkeys were occupying a tree, being at war with birds and dogs. The latter didn't care much about the primates though. Eventually the monkeys would take a break from the fighting for a little coitus.
Back in Mumbai I got myself some anti-diarrhea antibiotic, just in case (a steal at 100 Rupees anyway). Travellers diarrhea is defined as "3 watery bowel movements within 24 hours in addition with one of the other symptoms such as fever, vomit etc." I didn't have shivers earlier in the day, but short "drop outs" in my hearing. Although... is that maybe related to the cool AC at night? Am I not infected just adapting to the new diet? In any case I would drink all I could in order to keep things going. I noticed that the climate this time of year was very dry. Things dried quickly, which was of course convenient when it came wet bathroom floors and laundry that laundry that I washed in the shower.
A pair of Bata sandals were horrendously expensive at 750 Rupees (25 Francs), but would hopefully last until the end of the trip. Most of all I could almost walk normally in them, what a great feeling of rebirth!
There wasn't an excessive amount of tourists, the lower deck of the ferry filled just about up with a number of Swiss couples and plenty of other Europeans. An older Swiss guy was saving his money by fighting off a postcard seller. Obviously he was also saving on a hairdresser and razor blades. An Austrian tourist was delivering his travel adventures with a nasal voice to his fellow passengers. Someone applied sunscreen, head to toe.
The ship started its journey to the East. Eventually it would slow down and drop local people onto other ferries in the harbor. I was sitting the head of the ship, looking for photo opportunities. Ships big and small would make their appearance in the hazy smog stretching over the surface of the water. A seagull was picking on a dead fish. Every now and then a shoe floated by in the murky water. - A shoe? Finally something much bigger distilled on the horizon: Elephanta Island, home to Hindu temple caves, some 1400 years old.
We climbed ashore on a quai wall that protruded out from the coast for about 200 meters. A miniature train stood ready for the tourist to bring them to the island. Almost everyone else got on, so I thought it's part of the ferry ticket. It turned out it cost 10 Rupees, which I hastily paid, and it moved at walking speed. Well, maybe still a tiny bit faster than I would have walked with my injury. The engine of the train had the old fashioned steam barrel bonnet but contained a tiny combustion engine that ripped the silence of the surroundings with a hammering rattle. We passed some food sellers, followed by a gate for 5 Rupee of tax fee of some sort, followed by a handicraft bazaar that would lead up along the steps all the way to the temple site. Me and my fellow tourists didn't get harassed once. - That would follow on the way down.
The notion that an entire columned hall including all ornaments could be chiseled out of a mountain was mind-boggling. A sacred but open minded atmosphere filled the cave. There were several niches with religious scenes depicting Shiva, about 3 to 4 times life size. All the (mostly quite well preserved) statues were wonderfully dynamic and elegant. Their faces showed subtle but very readable expressions, having their eyes closed at all times. It was as though they tried to be expressionless but couldn't help showing their emotions. In the center of the back wall there stood the majestic three-headed portrait sculpture of Shiva, as creator, preserver (with the curious attribute of a lime) and as destroyer. - I had prepared myself with some basic knowledge about the mythology and decided to encounter the artwork only visually at first before eavesdropping in on one or the other guided tour.
Along a generous path around the mountain followed a handful of other caves, but each was less and less elaborate, the final one being a mere crack in the mountain. "Cannon Hill" read a sign. An older couple was selling fairly cold beverages and trying to make a buck by having the woman's picture taken. "What's on Cannon Hill?" I asked. "Cannon!" Oh, silly me. I went on, walking the now narrow path through the woodland carefully slow. I was wearing the fake Nike sandal on my left foot, and the much hated, even cheaper toe-worn flip flop on my right foot since this was the only shoe that would accommodate the foot in bandage. The strap was starting a blister on the back of the foot.
It turned out there weren't just two 30 foot cannons mounted on huge carousels on the hill, but also an excessive amount of tourist litter, mainly water bottles. Simply careless. - An an artificial elevation on the very top of the hill must have been the lookout. Climbing down from that bump I got some pebbles in my fake Nike sandal. When I tried to shake them out the sole came off. Not just partly, but the entire piece of plastic, without warning. The hot midday sun must have molten the glue. Rats, I had just bought it two days ago! So much for shoes being thrown in the ocean. I would dispose of this one properly though. - I was just at the very beginning of my descent, but it turned out that walking without that sole wasn't too hard as long as I avoided the pointy pebbles.
The path led out of the wood onto what I discovered was the top of the second cave. The sun was burning down and close to a dozen of eagles were circling the hot air above. It was amazing! I dropped my bag and took my camera, shooting like a WWI air defense until I was dizzy. Further along the way, in fact back at the top of the stairs some monkeys were occupying a tree, being at war with birds and dogs. The latter didn't care much about the primates though. Eventually the monkeys would take a break from the fighting for a little coitus.
Back in Mumbai I got myself some anti-diarrhea antibiotic, just in case (a steal at 100 Rupees anyway). Travellers diarrhea is defined as "3 watery bowel movements within 24 hours in addition with one of the other symptoms such as fever, vomit etc." I didn't have shivers earlier in the day, but short "drop outs" in my hearing. Although... is that maybe related to the cool AC at night? Am I not infected just adapting to the new diet? In any case I would drink all I could in order to keep things going. I noticed that the climate this time of year was very dry. Things dried quickly, which was of course convenient when it came wet bathroom floors and laundry that laundry that I washed in the shower.
A pair of Bata sandals were horrendously expensive at 750 Rupees (25 Francs), but would hopefully last until the end of the trip. Most of all I could almost walk normally in them, what a great feeling of rebirth!
Monday, November 26, 2007
The spell is broken
I don't feel a jetlag, at least not so far. Maybe it's due to the layover in Singapore? Ok, I woke up two times at night, using the occasions for treating my foot with cream. But I had a good night's sleep and woke up eager for new adventures. I was very happy to find that my foot was much better and hardly presented any difficuties when walking at a moderate pace!
I still had in mind to go for a boat ride from the Gateway of India. A ride to Elephanta Island is a must, they say, but I had learned that it's closed on Monday. Therefore I dug out my other plan: Getting a better bag. I started the day slow, allowing for the shops along Crawford market to open, and I was lucky. By the time I got there exactly one store had started with the arrangement of their goods. After a pretty extensive search I finally found a shoulder bag I liked: Good zippers and big enough for everything along the way plus some eventual purchases. However, the strap was way too short, and the guys promised to extend it if I just waited 20 minutes. I showed them precisely and repeatedly how long I wanted the strap, just a bit longer than I needed it, and when I thought they finally understood I waited in the bar across the street where I ordered all sorts of fruit juices (after being assured they're all fruit and no water that is). Sure enough, the bag dangled around my knees when I hung it on my shoulder. "It's adjustable" the seller smiled. I finally made him open the seam and shorten the strap again... 1 hour gone. At 11 I eventually found a seat at the only internet place in the neighborhood and typed away for about 2 hours. After a meal I returned to my room. It was getting close to 2... What to do?
I didn't feel like walking around the city again, especially with this foot of mine. I read something about a certain Gorai beach, clean and somewhat secluded. It didn't look too hard too reach though. A nice train ride, a quick taxi transfer, laying on the beach until sunset. Sounds relaxing! I grabbed a cab to the train station and lined up for a return ticket that turned out to be some ludicrous 18 Rupee. Trains would basically go either North or South, fast or slow. That was an easy one, too. Waiting on the track I noticed that the trains didn't have doors, just plain wide openings that would fill up people sticking their heads in the breeze. My train rolled in, and I was getting ready to get on. A guy I was talking to pointed out I had a second class ticket, and I was gonna ask him something, but he ran off and jumped on. Everyone else jumped on. Basically the whole train was second class, so there wasn't a problem finding the right car. I was a bit baffled though what the turmoil was all about. People in Mumbai walk at a steady pace, they never run. They maybe get a bit pushy in traffic but in a cool kind of way. It turned out that a train stop in India is like a super sized musical chairs game! I didn't even think about getting a seat. I thought it was exciting to remain standing near the doorless entrance of the train, enjoying a bit of a blind passenger feeling. The train ride shouldn't take too long anyway. Before long however the train stopped again and another stampede broke out. All the seats were taken already and still people ran and pushed and stumbled. A tiny man next to me who had sat down and leaned against the wall (probably in order not to get everyone's elbows in his eyes) was told to get up already. And after a few more stops there came a station with another battalion people squeezed in. Some pushed into the crowd with huge bags. It was absurd. Finally my station arrived and I had to pretend I was was a salmon, flapping my fins hard and swimming against the current of people wanting to get on the train. The station was extremely crowded. Beggars asked for baksheesh, commuters flooded the overpass, in the middle of it all a couple leaned against a pillar, sleeping.
I made my way out and immediately found a few taxi drivers readily waiting. I opened my map again, trying to guess the distance in order to be get an idea what would be a fair fixed price. One of the drivers approached me and inquired about my destination, and whether I want to go by road or by ship. I was a bit confused by the question since my map indicated a street, straight as an arrow, heading West from the train station directly to Gorai beach, crossing an inlet of marshland by what I figured must be a bridge. The ferry must be further South, that would be a detour. Let's take the road! The driver, I'm gonna call him Saddam (he was Arab and had the features of the tyrant including the mustache), sat me in his car and explained he would bring me there using the meter but charge me the return fare, too. He would show me which bus to take for the way back. I agreed and we started the trip. - Something wasn't quite right. There were a lot of bends and telling by the position of the sun we were going North instead of West. I realized that we were going to encircle the inlet for some reason. The rush hour traffic was crazy, so I didn't dare to distract Saddam from squeezing between colorfully painted trucks and racing alongside with motorcycles. Finally there were less and less vehicles, the landscape and the street turned more rustic. I asked him about the direct connection. As I suspected by this point, the answer was "that's the boat"! - Crappy map. Soon we would find ourselves on a pothole stricken road meandering through a jungle in the light of the late afternoon. Every now and then a few huts along the street, a lonesome truck that seemed have lost its pack. Motorcycle boys doubling their brides came the other way. We reached a more populated village. The street was running between walls and suddenly opened to the beach. Saddam parked the car on the sand and turned to me with a conversion table that indicated the ride was 600 Rupee. - Less than I feared. It was 4:30. "Hmmm", i said, "since you are gonna ask the return fare anyway, how much would you ask to wait an hour so I could get back with you?" 200 Rupee and hour he replied. Sounded fair to me! I handed him 1200 Rupee. He stuck the money quickly in the glove box and said "This is finished now. When you return after an hour you give me 200 and then we use the meter for the way back." "Pardon me?" I made sure I understood right, then told him to his face that this was fraud! "You're gonna charge me the return fare twice!" In the end he reduced his claim to an overall 500, that meant half the return fare. I wasn't impressed with that kind of behavior, but I needed someone to watch over my bag, which wasn't only brand new but also filled with my valuables, so I agreed... There would simply be no tips for this guy.
I headed for the water. It was low tide and the beach very shallow, so I crossed a long stretch of wet, very regularly rippled sand. There were a few other people strewn across the beach or wading in the water, but at a fair distance. They all appeared to be local. So, in order not to offend the Indians I decided to wear my shorts, not just the speedo that I also wore underneath. I entered the warm water and kept wading until it was deep enough to swim. I kneeled down in it, and it was as if the water washed away my concerns. Enormous palm trees lined the horizon behind me, dark silhouettes of fisher boats rested off shore to the left. No combustion engines. As a part of nature I felt vulnerable and free. No worries about my attire, about 300 Rupees, about my bag. I was simply - here.
After a slow and relaxed swim I walked back across the beach. Standing for an hour in the train had caused the swelling of the ankle to slide down into the body of the foot and gave it babylike appearance. It slightly wobbled with every step. Back at the car I grabbed my camera and took some pictures of the scenery. Dogs. Boats. Birds looking for what was hiding in the sand until the sea would rise again. I approached a guy holding a horse. "Nice horsey" he said. "Ride?". "I'm sorry, I have to go." "Nice horsey" he said. I didn't want to stretch my time limit of an hour. But then Saddam came and lent me 50 Rupees for a quick stroll. - My first horsey ride!
On the way back I asked Saddam: "How long have you been driving a taxi?" - "25 years". - "How many cars?" - "Just one car. Is good." - "Ever had an accident?" - "No accident!" Wow, I thought to myself, 25 years of riding bumper cars without a contact! He turned the subject on religion, explaining he was Muslim. He was proud to tell me he held two apartments with one wife each. No wonder he wanted to charge me twice. But hey, I guess I'm lucky... He's allowed up to four spouses!
Dusk fell as we drew closer to the city. Before long we were in the middle of the honking and stinking traffic again. Our street would merge with the national highway to Delhi - without traffic lights. Saddam was slowly pushing into the stream coming from the right hand side. Finally there seemed to be an opportunity. Saddam went for it, and that's when, suddenly appearing from behind the car beside us, another taxi cut our way - Crash!
The impact had immediately stopped the passing lightweight car. The drivers got out of their vehicles and commenced a high energy dispute. The baffled face of a taxi client showed up in the window of the dented car door. Luckily nobody got injured or hurt, I for instance just bumped my head on the low car roof. Saddam opened the door to get some documents. "Not my fault" he claimed, as if I cared. I just found it amusing to watch on as the traffic grew even more impenetrable as it circled around the two cars blocking the intersection. - Finally they had exchanged their information, picked up some lost car parts from the street and got back into their vehicles. For the rest of the way to the train station I was somewhat unnerved... The car ballet had lost its magic, there was physical evidence that accidents do happen.
A fast train to Mumbai was already waiting on the track for me. There were no seats left for that matter. But after a few stops the seats were basically empty, so I even got to stick my boo boo foot up on the opposite chair. Once we reached the terminal station however, a wave of people flooded the car...
I still had in mind to go for a boat ride from the Gateway of India. A ride to Elephanta Island is a must, they say, but I had learned that it's closed on Monday. Therefore I dug out my other plan: Getting a better bag. I started the day slow, allowing for the shops along Crawford market to open, and I was lucky. By the time I got there exactly one store had started with the arrangement of their goods. After a pretty extensive search I finally found a shoulder bag I liked: Good zippers and big enough for everything along the way plus some eventual purchases. However, the strap was way too short, and the guys promised to extend it if I just waited 20 minutes. I showed them precisely and repeatedly how long I wanted the strap, just a bit longer than I needed it, and when I thought they finally understood I waited in the bar across the street where I ordered all sorts of fruit juices (after being assured they're all fruit and no water that is). Sure enough, the bag dangled around my knees when I hung it on my shoulder. "It's adjustable" the seller smiled. I finally made him open the seam and shorten the strap again... 1 hour gone. At 11 I eventually found a seat at the only internet place in the neighborhood and typed away for about 2 hours. After a meal I returned to my room. It was getting close to 2... What to do?
I didn't feel like walking around the city again, especially with this foot of mine. I read something about a certain Gorai beach, clean and somewhat secluded. It didn't look too hard too reach though. A nice train ride, a quick taxi transfer, laying on the beach until sunset. Sounds relaxing! I grabbed a cab to the train station and lined up for a return ticket that turned out to be some ludicrous 18 Rupee. Trains would basically go either North or South, fast or slow. That was an easy one, too. Waiting on the track I noticed that the trains didn't have doors, just plain wide openings that would fill up people sticking their heads in the breeze. My train rolled in, and I was getting ready to get on. A guy I was talking to pointed out I had a second class ticket, and I was gonna ask him something, but he ran off and jumped on. Everyone else jumped on. Basically the whole train was second class, so there wasn't a problem finding the right car. I was a bit baffled though what the turmoil was all about. People in Mumbai walk at a steady pace, they never run. They maybe get a bit pushy in traffic but in a cool kind of way. It turned out that a train stop in India is like a super sized musical chairs game! I didn't even think about getting a seat. I thought it was exciting to remain standing near the doorless entrance of the train, enjoying a bit of a blind passenger feeling. The train ride shouldn't take too long anyway. Before long however the train stopped again and another stampede broke out. All the seats were taken already and still people ran and pushed and stumbled. A tiny man next to me who had sat down and leaned against the wall (probably in order not to get everyone's elbows in his eyes) was told to get up already. And after a few more stops there came a station with another battalion people squeezed in. Some pushed into the crowd with huge bags. It was absurd. Finally my station arrived and I had to pretend I was was a salmon, flapping my fins hard and swimming against the current of people wanting to get on the train. The station was extremely crowded. Beggars asked for baksheesh, commuters flooded the overpass, in the middle of it all a couple leaned against a pillar, sleeping.
I made my way out and immediately found a few taxi drivers readily waiting. I opened my map again, trying to guess the distance in order to be get an idea what would be a fair fixed price. One of the drivers approached me and inquired about my destination, and whether I want to go by road or by ship. I was a bit confused by the question since my map indicated a street, straight as an arrow, heading West from the train station directly to Gorai beach, crossing an inlet of marshland by what I figured must be a bridge. The ferry must be further South, that would be a detour. Let's take the road! The driver, I'm gonna call him Saddam (he was Arab and had the features of the tyrant including the mustache), sat me in his car and explained he would bring me there using the meter but charge me the return fare, too. He would show me which bus to take for the way back. I agreed and we started the trip. - Something wasn't quite right. There were a lot of bends and telling by the position of the sun we were going North instead of West. I realized that we were going to encircle the inlet for some reason. The rush hour traffic was crazy, so I didn't dare to distract Saddam from squeezing between colorfully painted trucks and racing alongside with motorcycles. Finally there were less and less vehicles, the landscape and the street turned more rustic. I asked him about the direct connection. As I suspected by this point, the answer was "that's the boat"! - Crappy map. Soon we would find ourselves on a pothole stricken road meandering through a jungle in the light of the late afternoon. Every now and then a few huts along the street, a lonesome truck that seemed have lost its pack. Motorcycle boys doubling their brides came the other way. We reached a more populated village. The street was running between walls and suddenly opened to the beach. Saddam parked the car on the sand and turned to me with a conversion table that indicated the ride was 600 Rupee. - Less than I feared. It was 4:30. "Hmmm", i said, "since you are gonna ask the return fare anyway, how much would you ask to wait an hour so I could get back with you?" 200 Rupee and hour he replied. Sounded fair to me! I handed him 1200 Rupee. He stuck the money quickly in the glove box and said "This is finished now. When you return after an hour you give me 200 and then we use the meter for the way back." "Pardon me?" I made sure I understood right, then told him to his face that this was fraud! "You're gonna charge me the return fare twice!" In the end he reduced his claim to an overall 500, that meant half the return fare. I wasn't impressed with that kind of behavior, but I needed someone to watch over my bag, which wasn't only brand new but also filled with my valuables, so I agreed... There would simply be no tips for this guy.
I headed for the water. It was low tide and the beach very shallow, so I crossed a long stretch of wet, very regularly rippled sand. There were a few other people strewn across the beach or wading in the water, but at a fair distance. They all appeared to be local. So, in order not to offend the Indians I decided to wear my shorts, not just the speedo that I also wore underneath. I entered the warm water and kept wading until it was deep enough to swim. I kneeled down in it, and it was as if the water washed away my concerns. Enormous palm trees lined the horizon behind me, dark silhouettes of fisher boats rested off shore to the left. No combustion engines. As a part of nature I felt vulnerable and free. No worries about my attire, about 300 Rupees, about my bag. I was simply - here.
After a slow and relaxed swim I walked back across the beach. Standing for an hour in the train had caused the swelling of the ankle to slide down into the body of the foot and gave it babylike appearance. It slightly wobbled with every step. Back at the car I grabbed my camera and took some pictures of the scenery. Dogs. Boats. Birds looking for what was hiding in the sand until the sea would rise again. I approached a guy holding a horse. "Nice horsey" he said. "Ride?". "I'm sorry, I have to go." "Nice horsey" he said. I didn't want to stretch my time limit of an hour. But then Saddam came and lent me 50 Rupees for a quick stroll. - My first horsey ride!
On the way back I asked Saddam: "How long have you been driving a taxi?" - "25 years". - "How many cars?" - "Just one car. Is good." - "Ever had an accident?" - "No accident!" Wow, I thought to myself, 25 years of riding bumper cars without a contact! He turned the subject on religion, explaining he was Muslim. He was proud to tell me he held two apartments with one wife each. No wonder he wanted to charge me twice. But hey, I guess I'm lucky... He's allowed up to four spouses!
Dusk fell as we drew closer to the city. Before long we were in the middle of the honking and stinking traffic again. Our street would merge with the national highway to Delhi - without traffic lights. Saddam was slowly pushing into the stream coming from the right hand side. Finally there seemed to be an opportunity. Saddam went for it, and that's when, suddenly appearing from behind the car beside us, another taxi cut our way - Crash!
The impact had immediately stopped the passing lightweight car. The drivers got out of their vehicles and commenced a high energy dispute. The baffled face of a taxi client showed up in the window of the dented car door. Luckily nobody got injured or hurt, I for instance just bumped my head on the low car roof. Saddam opened the door to get some documents. "Not my fault" he claimed, as if I cared. I just found it amusing to watch on as the traffic grew even more impenetrable as it circled around the two cars blocking the intersection. - Finally they had exchanged their information, picked up some lost car parts from the street and got back into their vehicles. For the rest of the way to the train station I was somewhat unnerved... The car ballet had lost its magic, there was physical evidence that accidents do happen.
A fast train to Mumbai was already waiting on the track for me. There were no seats left for that matter. But after a few stops the seats were basically empty, so I even got to stick my boo boo foot up on the opposite chair. Once we reached the terminal station however, a wave of people flooded the car...
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Sightseeing with a twist
There's something about Mumbai... It gives you hot feet. Even though temperatures are comparable to those of Switzerland or Canada's Summer never before did I experience that my feet were throbbing, just from walking a few meters in the street! - No wonder the entire nation is strolling around in flip flops.
I woke up early and was ready for breakfast long before 7:30. That's when the place next door finally opened. I stirred up three sleepy looking boys and a moth that had slept underneath the table I picked and was soon put to eternal rest by one of the boys. My breakfast was very... yellowish-green. It consisted of a banana, a hard boiled egg and some sort of cereal, looking like polenta but being sweet like porridge.
In the pursuit of getting a better bag I headed for the bazaar beyond the marketplace that I had visited the day before but soon realized it was too early in the day and that all the stores would still be closed. I went on, feeding my camera with pictures of the awakening city in the morning light. Being the absolutely only tourist around I was more conspicuous than a giraffe on stilts and drew everyone's attention. Finally I reached a place that bustled with life: The temple. There was no way to get inside, at least not within a reasonable time frame, for the line stretched for hundreds of meters. I walked down an alley that featured a market of all sorts of religious items and was harassed immediately. Preschool girls kept tapping my arm notoriously, imploring me with low voices, while a fragile old lady with an unbelievably powerful grip clutched my other arm. Being very persistent
they probably tried to make up for the uselessness of the stuff they were trying to get rid of. A guy with red-yellow string didn't hesitate and simply wrapped it around my wrist, knotted it up and cut it, and regardless of my verbal defense applied red dots on my front and neck, asking 50 Rupees. I gave him 10, and everybody around laughed.
My Lonely Planet tourist guide considered it a rewarding experience to take a ferry ride at the national monument, the Gateway Of India, so I thought I would just walk down to the edge of the Colaba district and get a feeling of the town, just like that and without planning a specific route along tourist sites. - I would do that some other day. Soon I discovered the huge Victoria train station, a former palace, not far form my hotel I. In an underpass I got myself some fake Nike sandals and considered bringing my hiking shoe and sandals back to my room but instead carried on with a stupidly heavy bag, its other ingredients being the formerly mentioned LP tourist guide (a book of epic proportions), my big camera and 1 liter water which I had proudly purified myself. Thus I headed South venturing into the mazelike Bora Bazaar. I took my time and looked around a lot, eventually having lunch in one of the few restaurants. I asked the personnel to point out our location on my map, and after a minute of dispute they came up with a guess that was definitely off. - It is to be said though that orientation is hard as there are basically no street name signs in the city. One reason for that could be that every new prime minister would change the name for places and roads to his or her liking. - I told one guy about my plan to walk to Cobala. He just laughed, as if I just made a fantastic joke. However, it turned out that it wouldn't take me more than 15 minutes to reach the area, where finally I blended in with a fair amount of other tourists. I headed for the Gateway of India. Before long a guy tried to win me for a 3 hour car tour, telling me all the details about it while walking alongside. When I told him about my waterborne trip plans he suggested I chartered a boat for 2200 Rupees, that's around 60 CHF (I'm funding this trip with my Swiss savings, so I'm doing my calculations in that currency). It seemed quite a lot, after all the guide mentioned ferry rides for 30 Rupees and there was plenty of boat action going on in the harbor. He explained these were incoming boats from the islands and that there wouldn't be any outgoing ferries until the next day. There would also be the possibility to wait for a charter to fill up, but that might take a while. I was suspicious, but after asking plenty of questions it all seemed reasonable and true. The car ride he mentioned in the first place would only cost me 1500, and I was intrigued by the possibility of being relieved from my bag by leaving it in the car while looking around. I would be the only customer, so I could actually pace the trip and take my time for my photographs, (and I usually take a long time), without being urged back into the car with a group. Great!
A phone call of the seller-guy made a car appear, and while he probably went searching for more clients I was left with the driver. He was a skinny young guy with a shiny, fingertip sized wart on his front, precisely where the red dot would go. We started chatting. His English was about average in terms of Mumbai English, so very basic indeed. He drove me to the Southeast tip of the city's half-island, where we watched men washing clothes for hotels and businesses all over town. Standing over cubicles filled with water they scrubbed the fabric in the plain sun while the towers of the Mumbai World Trade Center rose into the sky behind them. We continued on. Soon we reached the start of the Marine drive, a street along the water that would get accompanied by a beach further north, very much like English Bay in Vancouver, except that I would rather take a dip in diarrhea rather than getting in the water there. I hopped up on the sea wall and took pictures. The wall had two steps of around 15 inches each, and when I stepped down again, I twisted my right foot.
I remained seated on the lower step, wondering how it would feel once the initial pain dissipated and how it would affect the rest of my trip. During the contortion the strap of the sandal had caused a small cut the skin near my pinky toe, and a bit of blood showed. Seeing this my guide told me to remove the footwear and ran for the car for water. I took off the sandal and continued wondering. A boy with a vendor's tray smiled at me, probably realizing I wasn't much of a customer at the moment. I looked down again and saw that my ankle had grown a fist seized swelling within a minute in the midday sun! Seeing this the returning driver got nervous. Partly supported by his bony body I returned to the car, sticking my foot up on the dashboard. I told him I would like to have it checked out, because I did hear a crack when I twisted it. But first we would need to cool it. After driving a few meters I asked him to maybe get some ice at a nearby beverage stand, but the driver returned empty handed: There wasn't any ice. I sent him again to get a cool bottle of water, a bit pissed because it wouldn't occur to him to do at least that. The bottle brought relief. I just sat there quietly cooling my foot while the driver was almost panicking: "Calm down sir! Don't worry! I am here!" He was going at around twice the normal speed, while dialing and receiving about 2 phone calls a minute. While cars usually miss casually walking pedestrians by an inch, the people on the street now had to actually jump in order not to get hit. This wasn't how they practised their everyday stunt! After a few minutes we picked up "the boss", apparently he had connections to the hospital and would get us trough faster and cheaper. The hospital itself wasn't far either, and soon we entered the building. It has to be said that this wasn't a private hospital but run by the government. In other words, it was as impossible a place for health care as you could imagine. Dark and with an infrastructure that apparently hasn't been upgraded or maintained since its construction a century ago. It was basically vacant of equipment, personnel and patients. The amount of the latter may vary drastically, but at the time of our arrival the gym sized entrance hall held only a couple of waiters randomly strewn across a few chairs. The reception room to the left hosted three nurses two of which were in sort of a meeting with a relatively young doctor in casual clothes. Although the room had a quite generous layout they sat at a table that basically blocked the entrance, and people, injured or not, had to squeeze between the backrests of their chairs while the health care personnel watched on unimpressed. The doctor held a hunched over posture and was busy pressing a piece of cloth onto what must have been a cut or some sort on the back of his left hand. Eventually he would press the swelling of my foot, probing for pain. He sent us to X-ray. The walls of that room were tiled, but someone had put a coat of paint on top, and was peeling rigorously. Everything was gray except for a colorful poster of some saint. I repeated my request for ice while waiting for the X-ray guy, but nowhere in the entire hospital were cooling devices to be found. I was told that a friend was out getting some ice in the neighborhood. The doctor came, mute, not making eye contact. He arranged my foot on the rusty film container, acting quick and apparently a bit angry. Then he vanished behind the shielded controls in the corner of the room and ran the exposure without handing me a led apron or stripping me of my watch and metal items first. The driver, its boss and another friend were hanging out in the room too! I tried to tell the driver about dangerous "Gamma rays", but he though I was talking about the "camera" that we had left in the car. - It turned out there was no fracture. While waiting for the result a 10 lb ice cube eventually showed up and I could cool the swelling until I received a bandage, which I was surprised to see at this hospital at this point. I also received "medicine" (this word was spoken with a certain awe), two pain killer tablets. Back in the car I told the driver I'm not gonna take them, and he replied: "Why, you take, then everything good again!" Cost of the treatment (after insider discounts): 35 Rupee, 1 Franc.
For a moment we sat in the green backyard of the park and had tea. Apparently the the tour boss' friend who worked at the hospital lived in a hut under the trees. Chicken scratched up the soil. - The sightseeing tour was supposed to last 3 hours, about 1 of which was left. We used it to pick up sandals with a toe strap that would fit my foot and some sports injury cream (another cheap deal at 28 Rupee). I also got a ride up to the hanging gardens where shrubs in the shape of animals are "hanging"(?) out in a park like environment. From another park across the street you could get a panoramic view of the city. I couldn't believe it: There were really people wading in the water of Chowpatty Beach!
I checked out another restaurant in the vicinity of the hotel. Ordering "roast chicken" I hoped to get something that isn't covered in the ever same sauce, but crisp, maybe with a bit of skin? But no. And when I cut one of the chunks, it was still raw inside, so I returned it.
I woke up early and was ready for breakfast long before 7:30. That's when the place next door finally opened. I stirred up three sleepy looking boys and a moth that had slept underneath the table I picked and was soon put to eternal rest by one of the boys. My breakfast was very... yellowish-green. It consisted of a banana, a hard boiled egg and some sort of cereal, looking like polenta but being sweet like porridge.
In the pursuit of getting a better bag I headed for the bazaar beyond the marketplace that I had visited the day before but soon realized it was too early in the day and that all the stores would still be closed. I went on, feeding my camera with pictures of the awakening city in the morning light. Being the absolutely only tourist around I was more conspicuous than a giraffe on stilts and drew everyone's attention. Finally I reached a place that bustled with life: The temple. There was no way to get inside, at least not within a reasonable time frame, for the line stretched for hundreds of meters. I walked down an alley that featured a market of all sorts of religious items and was harassed immediately. Preschool girls kept tapping my arm notoriously, imploring me with low voices, while a fragile old lady with an unbelievably powerful grip clutched my other arm. Being very persistent
they probably tried to make up for the uselessness of the stuff they were trying to get rid of. A guy with red-yellow string didn't hesitate and simply wrapped it around my wrist, knotted it up and cut it, and regardless of my verbal defense applied red dots on my front and neck, asking 50 Rupees. I gave him 10, and everybody around laughed.
My Lonely Planet tourist guide considered it a rewarding experience to take a ferry ride at the national monument, the Gateway Of India, so I thought I would just walk down to the edge of the Colaba district and get a feeling of the town, just like that and without planning a specific route along tourist sites. - I would do that some other day. Soon I discovered the huge Victoria train station, a former palace, not far form my hotel I. In an underpass I got myself some fake Nike sandals and considered bringing my hiking shoe and sandals back to my room but instead carried on with a stupidly heavy bag, its other ingredients being the formerly mentioned LP tourist guide (a book of epic proportions), my big camera and 1 liter water which I had proudly purified myself. Thus I headed South venturing into the mazelike Bora Bazaar. I took my time and looked around a lot, eventually having lunch in one of the few restaurants. I asked the personnel to point out our location on my map, and after a minute of dispute they came up with a guess that was definitely off. - It is to be said though that orientation is hard as there are basically no street name signs in the city. One reason for that could be that every new prime minister would change the name for places and roads to his or her liking. - I told one guy about my plan to walk to Cobala. He just laughed, as if I just made a fantastic joke. However, it turned out that it wouldn't take me more than 15 minutes to reach the area, where finally I blended in with a fair amount of other tourists. I headed for the Gateway of India. Before long a guy tried to win me for a 3 hour car tour, telling me all the details about it while walking alongside. When I told him about my waterborne trip plans he suggested I chartered a boat for 2200 Rupees, that's around 60 CHF (I'm funding this trip with my Swiss savings, so I'm doing my calculations in that currency). It seemed quite a lot, after all the guide mentioned ferry rides for 30 Rupees and there was plenty of boat action going on in the harbor. He explained these were incoming boats from the islands and that there wouldn't be any outgoing ferries until the next day. There would also be the possibility to wait for a charter to fill up, but that might take a while. I was suspicious, but after asking plenty of questions it all seemed reasonable and true. The car ride he mentioned in the first place would only cost me 1500, and I was intrigued by the possibility of being relieved from my bag by leaving it in the car while looking around. I would be the only customer, so I could actually pace the trip and take my time for my photographs, (and I usually take a long time), without being urged back into the car with a group. Great!
A phone call of the seller-guy made a car appear, and while he probably went searching for more clients I was left with the driver. He was a skinny young guy with a shiny, fingertip sized wart on his front, precisely where the red dot would go. We started chatting. His English was about average in terms of Mumbai English, so very basic indeed. He drove me to the Southeast tip of the city's half-island, where we watched men washing clothes for hotels and businesses all over town. Standing over cubicles filled with water they scrubbed the fabric in the plain sun while the towers of the Mumbai World Trade Center rose into the sky behind them. We continued on. Soon we reached the start of the Marine drive, a street along the water that would get accompanied by a beach further north, very much like English Bay in Vancouver, except that I would rather take a dip in diarrhea rather than getting in the water there. I hopped up on the sea wall and took pictures. The wall had two steps of around 15 inches each, and when I stepped down again, I twisted my right foot.
I remained seated on the lower step, wondering how it would feel once the initial pain dissipated and how it would affect the rest of my trip. During the contortion the strap of the sandal had caused a small cut the skin near my pinky toe, and a bit of blood showed. Seeing this my guide told me to remove the footwear and ran for the car for water. I took off the sandal and continued wondering. A boy with a vendor's tray smiled at me, probably realizing I wasn't much of a customer at the moment. I looked down again and saw that my ankle had grown a fist seized swelling within a minute in the midday sun! Seeing this the returning driver got nervous. Partly supported by his bony body I returned to the car, sticking my foot up on the dashboard. I told him I would like to have it checked out, because I did hear a crack when I twisted it. But first we would need to cool it. After driving a few meters I asked him to maybe get some ice at a nearby beverage stand, but the driver returned empty handed: There wasn't any ice. I sent him again to get a cool bottle of water, a bit pissed because it wouldn't occur to him to do at least that. The bottle brought relief. I just sat there quietly cooling my foot while the driver was almost panicking: "Calm down sir! Don't worry! I am here!" He was going at around twice the normal speed, while dialing and receiving about 2 phone calls a minute. While cars usually miss casually walking pedestrians by an inch, the people on the street now had to actually jump in order not to get hit. This wasn't how they practised their everyday stunt! After a few minutes we picked up "the boss", apparently he had connections to the hospital and would get us trough faster and cheaper. The hospital itself wasn't far either, and soon we entered the building. It has to be said that this wasn't a private hospital but run by the government. In other words, it was as impossible a place for health care as you could imagine. Dark and with an infrastructure that apparently hasn't been upgraded or maintained since its construction a century ago. It was basically vacant of equipment, personnel and patients. The amount of the latter may vary drastically, but at the time of our arrival the gym sized entrance hall held only a couple of waiters randomly strewn across a few chairs. The reception room to the left hosted three nurses two of which were in sort of a meeting with a relatively young doctor in casual clothes. Although the room had a quite generous layout they sat at a table that basically blocked the entrance, and people, injured or not, had to squeeze between the backrests of their chairs while the health care personnel watched on unimpressed. The doctor held a hunched over posture and was busy pressing a piece of cloth onto what must have been a cut or some sort on the back of his left hand. Eventually he would press the swelling of my foot, probing for pain. He sent us to X-ray. The walls of that room were tiled, but someone had put a coat of paint on top, and was peeling rigorously. Everything was gray except for a colorful poster of some saint. I repeated my request for ice while waiting for the X-ray guy, but nowhere in the entire hospital were cooling devices to be found. I was told that a friend was out getting some ice in the neighborhood. The doctor came, mute, not making eye contact. He arranged my foot on the rusty film container, acting quick and apparently a bit angry. Then he vanished behind the shielded controls in the corner of the room and ran the exposure without handing me a led apron or stripping me of my watch and metal items first. The driver, its boss and another friend were hanging out in the room too! I tried to tell the driver about dangerous "Gamma rays", but he though I was talking about the "camera" that we had left in the car. - It turned out there was no fracture. While waiting for the result a 10 lb ice cube eventually showed up and I could cool the swelling until I received a bandage, which I was surprised to see at this hospital at this point. I also received "medicine" (this word was spoken with a certain awe), two pain killer tablets. Back in the car I told the driver I'm not gonna take them, and he replied: "Why, you take, then everything good again!" Cost of the treatment (after insider discounts): 35 Rupee, 1 Franc.
For a moment we sat in the green backyard of the park and had tea. Apparently the the tour boss' friend who worked at the hospital lived in a hut under the trees. Chicken scratched up the soil. - The sightseeing tour was supposed to last 3 hours, about 1 of which was left. We used it to pick up sandals with a toe strap that would fit my foot and some sports injury cream (another cheap deal at 28 Rupee). I also got a ride up to the hanging gardens where shrubs in the shape of animals are "hanging"(?) out in a park like environment. From another park across the street you could get a panoramic view of the city. I couldn't believe it: There were really people wading in the water of Chowpatty Beach!
I checked out another restaurant in the vicinity of the hotel. Ordering "roast chicken" I hoped to get something that isn't covered in the ever same sauce, but crisp, maybe with a bit of skin? But no. And when I cut one of the chunks, it was still raw inside, so I returned it.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Arrival in Mumbai
When I brought the keys to my plantwatering neighbor Keith he kindly offered me to give me a lift to the airport. - Off to a good start!
We had a pretty shaky flight across the northern Pacific and an equally bumpy landing in Seoul, but regardless: It's gotta be said that Singapore Airlines have are masters in making the Economy class comfy. Great chairs, not too tightly stacked, with a personal screen and a remote for movies and games etc. You get a toothbrush, toothpaste and a couple of socks, there's moisturizing cream and even cologne in the bathroom. Alcoholic drinks are free, including a mean "Singapore Sling" cocktail.
I was a bit concerned about the nightly 7-hour layover in Singapore because I couldn't get a room in the transit hotel. It turned out that there's a freely accessible gym sized low light lounge for tired travelers. Besides of the foot massage machines that you find all over the airport they've got four deluxe massage chairs there, free of charge, so I didn't miss the chance to get myself all kneaded up. I liked the "Human Touch" function.
The final flight to Mumbai only lasted about 5 hours. - Peanuts. During a refreshing touch up on the plane toilet I noticed I had started looking like a castaway in the meantime. Good thing by the way I remembered to grab my Malaria pills out ot the suitcase in Vancouver, they checked it through. And indeed it found me again on the West coast of India.
Upon the first step out of the matchbox sized airport into the hot weather I attracted trabants like a cowpat draws flies. Very friendly and helpful people, everyone hoping to make a couple of Rupees with tips. My luggage boy and taxi organizer looked just a bit disappointed when I didn't have any Singapore Dollars to get rid of.
Zillions of tiny black yellow top Mumbai taxis, half a century old Fiat products, are dominating the streets. Other than that you find every means of transportation since the dawn of mankind: pushcarts, buses, cattle, bicycles, pedestrians and motorcycles with any number of passengers dangling from them. They interweave chaotically at constant speeds, just like a giant swarm of bats, but with honks of car horns instead echo sonar screams. Road markings are completely useless, a street has as many lanes as cars will fit, fender to fender. An elaborate stunt act they practice daily.
The entire scene is flooded with the most beautiful light, with dust and smog particles making for great depth. I sat in the back of the taxi peeking around at the rich and saturated action. It seemed as if I could take pictures at random out of the moving car and end up with wonderful images of strange happenings as every meter brought about an entirely different world and mood.
On second thought, I will continue my report in English in order to make it accessible to more people... If I get around to it I will translate the beginning, and hopefully there will be a selection of pictures, too!
I had been warned that I would be in for an awakening getting to Mumbai. But so far I found the whole thing merely amusing and absurd, observing it from the cabin of the taxi had been much like reading a colorful text by Salman Rushdie. Arriving at the hotel however was different. By stepping out of the taxi there somehow came the realization that now I would become a part of this chaos! I also forgot that - while generally settling for hotels in the mid-range section for the rest of the trip - I had booked a budget sized hotel for the matter that Mumbai is a pricey place and after all I would spend 8 nights here. Of course they never heard of my reservation although I had called them twice. But since they weren't booked and also offered a good cancellation policy I went ahead. The only difference between a cell in a bunker and the room I was offered consisted in a TV mounted to the wall at the foot end of the bed... No windows whatsoever. But after some communication I received a different "Single Executive Room", on the first floor, and with two tiny barred windows peeking out at the buildings around the courtyard out back. It was actually bigger, too. But hey, where's the shower in the attached bathroom? The baggage boy pointed at the shower head up on the wall between the toilet and the sink. Aha... The entire bathroom is the shower. And it worked! The tabs were new, the water warm and plentiful.
Refreshed I went out for some food. I realized later that I headed out in the wrong direction for that matter, turning my back on the restaurants on the other side of the hotel I approached the market place and soon was pulled in by a "guide". The short cross-eyed man pointed at a sign on the wall saying that visitors would need a guy like him in order to see the place, and backed it up by showing me some sort of id. I didn't resist, after all there was lots of food around. So, after buying some (strangely expensive) nuts and a couple of bananas I would actually have liked to take a bite, but he insisted in showing me more and dragged along and up to the second floor where I found myself being the only customer in some clothing business where 3 or 4 tailors suggested I should get myself a silk suit. Finally my guide brought me back to the neighboring restaurant. I enjoyed a delicious butter chicken.
After a few hours of sleep a cab brought me for 50 Rupees to Colaba, the part of town where aging imperial buildings border the water. The plan was to venture out for night life. Before checking out a posh party place called "Insomnia" at the supreme Taj Mahal Palace and Tower hotel I was curious to see the retro disco "Polly Esther", since it would close around 1:30 and it was already close to 11. However, the bouncers there refused me access since I didn't bring a lady friend. I was thirsty and went to a nearby bar where I learned from a few guys that Insomnia had actually moved to the outskirts of the town, so I was advised to waste my money at "Tetsuma". On the way there I passed sleeping people on the sidewalk, rats vanished at my sight. The legs of a sleeping cab driver stuck out of his car.
The place featured a busy bar and an adjacent dance club, but again I would find admission there. It wasn't too late when a taxi took me back to the hotel. I asked the driver to turn on the meter as I was advised to, and the latter added up 300 Rupees. Obviously the driver insisted on the amount, disregarding the fact that he didn't know the place or the address and had to ask another taxi driver on the way. I suggested 50, and we settled for 100.
We had a pretty shaky flight across the northern Pacific and an equally bumpy landing in Seoul, but regardless: It's gotta be said that Singapore Airlines have are masters in making the Economy class comfy. Great chairs, not too tightly stacked, with a personal screen and a remote for movies and games etc. You get a toothbrush, toothpaste and a couple of socks, there's moisturizing cream and even cologne in the bathroom. Alcoholic drinks are free, including a mean "Singapore Sling" cocktail.
I was a bit concerned about the nightly 7-hour layover in Singapore because I couldn't get a room in the transit hotel. It turned out that there's a freely accessible gym sized low light lounge for tired travelers. Besides of the foot massage machines that you find all over the airport they've got four deluxe massage chairs there, free of charge, so I didn't miss the chance to get myself all kneaded up. I liked the "Human Touch" function.
The final flight to Mumbai only lasted about 5 hours. - Peanuts. During a refreshing touch up on the plane toilet I noticed I had started looking like a castaway in the meantime. Good thing by the way I remembered to grab my Malaria pills out ot the suitcase in Vancouver, they checked it through. And indeed it found me again on the West coast of India.
Upon the first step out of the matchbox sized airport into the hot weather I attracted trabants like a cowpat draws flies. Very friendly and helpful people, everyone hoping to make a couple of Rupees with tips. My luggage boy and taxi organizer looked just a bit disappointed when I didn't have any Singapore Dollars to get rid of.
Zillions of tiny black yellow top Mumbai taxis, half a century old Fiat products, are dominating the streets. Other than that you find every means of transportation since the dawn of mankind: pushcarts, buses, cattle, bicycles, pedestrians and motorcycles with any number of passengers dangling from them. They interweave chaotically at constant speeds, just like a giant swarm of bats, but with honks of car horns instead echo sonar screams. Road markings are completely useless, a street has as many lanes as cars will fit, fender to fender. An elaborate stunt act they practice daily.
The entire scene is flooded with the most beautiful light, with dust and smog particles making for great depth. I sat in the back of the taxi peeking around at the rich and saturated action. It seemed as if I could take pictures at random out of the moving car and end up with wonderful images of strange happenings as every meter brought about an entirely different world and mood.
On second thought, I will continue my report in English in order to make it accessible to more people... If I get around to it I will translate the beginning, and hopefully there will be a selection of pictures, too!
I had been warned that I would be in for an awakening getting to Mumbai. But so far I found the whole thing merely amusing and absurd, observing it from the cabin of the taxi had been much like reading a colorful text by Salman Rushdie. Arriving at the hotel however was different. By stepping out of the taxi there somehow came the realization that now I would become a part of this chaos! I also forgot that - while generally settling for hotels in the mid-range section for the rest of the trip - I had booked a budget sized hotel for the matter that Mumbai is a pricey place and after all I would spend 8 nights here. Of course they never heard of my reservation although I had called them twice. But since they weren't booked and also offered a good cancellation policy I went ahead. The only difference between a cell in a bunker and the room I was offered consisted in a TV mounted to the wall at the foot end of the bed... No windows whatsoever. But after some communication I received a different "Single Executive Room", on the first floor, and with two tiny barred windows peeking out at the buildings around the courtyard out back. It was actually bigger, too. But hey, where's the shower in the attached bathroom? The baggage boy pointed at the shower head up on the wall between the toilet and the sink. Aha... The entire bathroom is the shower. And it worked! The tabs were new, the water warm and plentiful.
Refreshed I went out for some food. I realized later that I headed out in the wrong direction for that matter, turning my back on the restaurants on the other side of the hotel I approached the market place and soon was pulled in by a "guide". The short cross-eyed man pointed at a sign on the wall saying that visitors would need a guy like him in order to see the place, and backed it up by showing me some sort of id. I didn't resist, after all there was lots of food around. So, after buying some (strangely expensive) nuts and a couple of bananas I would actually have liked to take a bite, but he insisted in showing me more and dragged along and up to the second floor where I found myself being the only customer in some clothing business where 3 or 4 tailors suggested I should get myself a silk suit. Finally my guide brought me back to the neighboring restaurant. I enjoyed a delicious butter chicken.
After a few hours of sleep a cab brought me for 50 Rupees to Colaba, the part of town where aging imperial buildings border the water. The plan was to venture out for night life. Before checking out a posh party place called "Insomnia" at the supreme Taj Mahal Palace and Tower hotel I was curious to see the retro disco "Polly Esther", since it would close around 1:30 and it was already close to 11. However, the bouncers there refused me access since I didn't bring a lady friend. I was thirsty and went to a nearby bar where I learned from a few guys that Insomnia had actually moved to the outskirts of the town, so I was advised to waste my money at "Tetsuma". On the way there I passed sleeping people on the sidewalk, rats vanished at my sight. The legs of a sleeping cab driver stuck out of his car.
The place featured a busy bar and an adjacent dance club, but again I would find admission there. It wasn't too late when a taxi took me back to the hotel. I asked the driver to turn on the meter as I was advised to, and the latter added up 300 Rupees. Obviously the driver insisted on the amount, disregarding the fact that he didn't know the place or the address and had to ask another taxi driver on the way. I suggested 50, and we settled for 100.
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