Portfolio

being in Bombay

Where do I start? Bombay is so massive, I should really give you my first impression if I want to do justice to it.

I arrived at 12:50 a.m. on a Monday morning. Sheba, who was meant to pick me up, got the times wrong, so yours truly rang her from a grubby public phone, manned by an attendant who couldn't speak English. Two very kind men helped me find out the charges for the public phone, which I paid to the attendant directly. No such thing as coin slots here.

Bombay airport was nowhere near the nightmare others paint it to be. It was very low key, reminiscent of Ilopango Airport in El Salvador twenty odd years ago, but in a larger scale.

Thankfully, I had nothing to declare, so I could just wander out into the arrivals lounge, which deposited you straight onto the street. As soon as I walked out, taxi drivers accosted me.

My dear sister Lucrecia's advice came in handy here. With a brisk "friends are picking me up" I deflected all taxi drivers and touts, hardly even looking at them. This technique was, of course, developed and perfected in San Chamba, home of the guanaco capitalino, able to survive in all circumstances.

I pushed my trolley around purposefully looking for Sheba, to no avail. After 5 minutes, I decided she wasn't there, so I approached the public phone guy I described earlier.

The lounge was covered in that well worn layer of dust, oil, car fumes, and soot peculiar to all developing countries. The difference was, there were only few women sitting there. The majority of the people waiting were men, dressed alternatively in salwar kameez or button up shirts with trousers. Some of these men stared, some ignored me.

The first sense assaulted by Bombay was smell. I recognised that peculiar aroma of urine, faeces, and garbage, instantly.

This was definitely E. S. on steroids, as Lucrecia had described it, with a few differences. In E.S., my cousins would be there to pick me up and I would understand every word of the language. Also, I would not stand out. I would most definitely belong.

Here, in India, I am white. That is most definitely news to me. In Australia, I have often been "Other" in the tick boxes, before the Aussie government discovered that particular monniker the U.S. invented: Hispanic. A wonderful catch-all that describes all Latin Americans, it overlooks issues of race, or ethnic origin and looks only at geography.

In India, however, I am resolutely Australian. So, this little Aussie battler waited sitting on her luggage, after speaking to Sheba, to be picked up.

After 10 or 15 minutes, the confident figure of Sheba made itself present. Tagging along was her trusty sidekick, S.P. Till this day, I haven't found out his real name. Everyone calls him S.P. A portly, tall lad, he drove Sheba's mom's car with elan and attitude.

They both decided right there and then, that as I had just arrived in India, I should see the Gateway to India. So off we went, at approximately 2 in the morning, to see the first monument to colonialism in this country.

Bombay by night is a quiet place, with almost no traffic. The side of the road is littered with bodies. Fear not, they are only sleeping. The taxis also served as bedding for taxi drivers. Rickshaw drivers use their vehicles as homes as well. Quite a confronting sight at 2 a.m.

We drove past the Queen's Necklace, a semi-circular arrangement of lamposts on a peninsula jutting out near Chowpatty beach. S.P. held forth at this point on the huge value of the real estate around the beach. Alas, the exteriors were so lowkey, it was impossible to imagine millionaires residing here. Especially since all buildings in India over 30 years of age are covered in faeces, soot, pollution and some urine. The ironwork on all the balconies is intricate, but rusty.

It all has the look of Chinatown in Kuala Lumpur circa 1995. The architecture is as hodgepodge as you can get. Italianate, mock Victorian, modernist 70s, and this Islamic influence mixed with Hindu temple look on the cupolas is enough to confuse the eye. At first sight, Bombay is almost impossible to digest.

posted by Red Yoga @ 4:48 AM