India - Mumbai - The first day
After procrastinating for six months after the memorable trip to India in November 2008, I have finally decided to write a few words about it. The dust has settled, the small incidental details have faded away, but many memories of this remarkable city still remain.
Mumbai is truly an assault on the senses, especially for somebody who has gotten used to living in the quiet isolation of a German country town. Arriving in the wee hours of a warm Indian morning, we were taken to our hotel in a squeaky Tata-built taxi, with seat belts that had more slack than one's pants after a Jenny Craig weight loss program. We were greeted by trucks and autorickshaws on the highway that were strangely quiet - I was to never again experience traffic without constant tooting of horns again.
We slept from 6 to 10 a.m., waking up for the last serving of breakfast. It was different to the usual fare of museli, fried eggs, or ham and Semmel (South German for bread rolls) - it was quiet authentic Indian. This would be a gentle introduction to spicy Indian food - some very lightly spiced cooked vegetable dishes, a type of steamed bread, and some sauces. Omelettes were made to order after trading verbal and hand signals, as was the Chai (Indian for tea). With the freshly read tips of the Lonely Planet guide still in my mind, I was mindful about all that was uncooked. Was the drink sealed? Can I drink that milk?
After breakfast it was time to go outside. From the air-conditioned comfort of the hotel lobby, the assembled group of pale skined Germans and I swung open the hotel door and walked into the sweltering midday heat. This is Mumbai in late autumn - I don't want to imagine what summer would be like. Armed with a small map from the hotel, we proceeded towards the town centre of Ville Parle, ignoring the incessant calls from the autorickshaws to take us for a bargain price. With much difficulty we found an ATM that functioned, where we withdrew sinfully large figures of money - remembering of course, that one Euro is worth about 60 Rupees.
The township of Ville Parle is middle class and simple. Shops and small grocers lined every centimeter of the street side, while the streets themselves were filled with cars, buses, rickshaws, scooters and people going in all directions, amazingly missing each other by the narrowest of margins. If an automotive accident avoidance system would function here, it would function everywhere. To add to the chaos, child beggers followed the well dressed foreigners for hundreds of meters at a time, starring with their big cute eyes and disarming smile, holding out their little hands asking for money while their parent looked on from a distance. Again, Lonely Planet said that we should not give money, so we didn't.
After finding the train station, we decided that we needed a map. With us looking decidedly lost, a young man led us, out of his way, to a bookshop. He showed us the map that we should buy, shook hands, and then went further on his merry way. This genuine helpfulness was to repeat itself throughout my trip in India, albeit sporadically, between the episodes where the kindness has a monetary price at the end.
Our first meal was a brave step for us. We found a roadside restaurant with some large outdoor tables, and order some bottled Pepsi and food. Thorsten wanted his Tandoori chicken, while I pointed to something in the menu with more sauce. After cleaning our hands with disinfectant (one can't trust the tap water there, says Lonely Planet), I dug into the Naan and the chicken. It was very tasty, and also very hot. While I slowly devoured my lunch using no cutlery, I observed how the locals eat the curry and rice with their hands on the next table. I had much to learn before I can graduate to rice eating.
The day was still young but we were exhausted. Carrying our supply of bottled water (empty bottles lie all along road sides and in pits), we returned to the cooler comfort of our hotel and rested until our dinner at the "Green House". In the 35 deg C heat, 2 hours of city walking feels like a hike up 1000 m. Clearly catering for tourists staying close to the airport, the dinner cost at least ten times more than our street side lunch, although it was decidedly more luxuriously furnished than its cheaper counterpart. It was to become our regular evening hangout in Ville Parle.
Mumbai is truly an assault on the senses, especially for somebody who has gotten used to living in the quiet isolation of a German country town. Arriving in the wee hours of a warm Indian morning, we were taken to our hotel in a squeaky Tata-built taxi, with seat belts that had more slack than one's pants after a Jenny Craig weight loss program. We were greeted by trucks and autorickshaws on the highway that were strangely quiet - I was to never again experience traffic without constant tooting of horns again.We slept from 6 to 10 a.m., waking up for the last serving of breakfast. It was different to the usual fare of museli, fried eggs, or ham and Semmel (South German for bread rolls) - it was quiet authentic Indian. This would be a gentle introduction to spicy Indian food - some very lightly spiced cooked vegetable dishes, a type of steamed bread, and some sauces. Omelettes were made to order after trading verbal and hand signals, as was the Chai (Indian for tea). With the freshly read tips of the Lonely Planet guide still in my mind, I was mindful about all that was uncooked. Was the drink sealed? Can I drink that milk?
After breakfast it was time to go outside. From the air-conditioned comfort of the hotel lobby, the assembled group of pale skined Germans and I swung open the hotel door and walked into the sweltering midday heat. This is Mumbai in late autumn - I don't want to imagine what summer would be like. Armed with a small map from the hotel, we proceeded towards the town centre of Ville Parle, ignoring the incessant calls from the autorickshaws to take us for a bargain price. With much difficulty we found an ATM that functioned, where we withdrew sinfully large figures of money - remembering of course, that one Euro is worth about 60 Rupees.
The township of Ville Parle is middle class and simple. Shops and small grocers lined every centimeter of the street side, while the streets themselves were filled with cars, buses, rickshaws, scooters and people going in all directions, amazingly missing each other by the narrowest of margins. If an automotive accident avoidance system would function here, it would function everywhere. To add to the chaos, child beggers followed the well dressed foreigners for hundreds of meters at a time, starring with their big cute eyes and disarming smile, holding out their little hands asking for money while their parent looked on from a distance. Again, Lonely Planet said that we should not give money, so we didn't.
After finding the train station, we decided that we needed a map. With us looking decidedly lost, a young man led us, out of his way, to a bookshop. He showed us the map that we should buy, shook hands, and then went further on his merry way. This genuine helpfulness was to repeat itself throughout my trip in India, albeit sporadically, between the episodes where the kindness has a monetary price at the end.Our first meal was a brave step for us. We found a roadside restaurant with some large outdoor tables, and order some bottled Pepsi and food. Thorsten wanted his Tandoori chicken, while I pointed to something in the menu with more sauce. After cleaning our hands with disinfectant (one can't trust the tap water there, says Lonely Planet), I dug into the Naan and the chicken. It was very tasty, and also very hot. While I slowly devoured my lunch using no cutlery, I observed how the locals eat the curry and rice with their hands on the next table. I had much to learn before I can graduate to rice eating.
The day was still young but we were exhausted. Carrying our supply of bottled water (empty bottles lie all along road sides and in pits), we returned to the cooler comfort of our hotel and rested until our dinner at the "Green House". In the 35 deg C heat, 2 hours of city walking feels like a hike up 1000 m. Clearly catering for tourists staying close to the airport, the dinner cost at least ten times more than our street side lunch, although it was decidedly more luxuriously furnished than its cheaper counterpart. It was to become our regular evening hangout in Ville Parle.
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