Arrived to Mumbai International aka Chhatrapati Shivaji International Aiport, with the now especially unfortunate code (BOM), and took a taxi through the vast surrounding slums of North Mumbai, on our way to the swankier neighborhood of Colaba to the Hotel Suba Palace. Once past the slums, Bombay is the city I can identify with most readily. Bombay has rules in place and enforcement to go along with them which keeps the financial center and tourist spots much nicer than most. The roads are paved, the drivers honk less, people beg less, public urination, spitting (and worse) are greatly diminished. I sense the ghost of European colonialism in the familiar order of things, the older Victorian buildings and the city’s arrangement along the water’s edge. It’s in this area, on the bay’s edge in Colaba, where the recent terrorist attacks took place. Clearly they chose the most western influenced spots to hit. Oberoi Hotel:
I am glad to be here because it feels more familiar, it’s cleaner, and I like the idea of coming to visit despite the vicious actions of stupid, ignorant, angry scum. I felt good about offering solidarity in some small way, just by showing up, and in doing so, also offering up a big FU to terrorists. The Indians refer to this day as 26/11 (in colonized-by-the Euro style, date comes before month) and it is very much their 9/11.
The Hotel Suba Palace where I’m staying is not quite a palace like the Hotel Taj Mahal; it’s quite puny actually, but we are only there for two days and its location is nearly perfect. We are near the waterfront where the boats will launch to go to our next destination, and also near the big fancy hotels and restaurants (where all that awfulness took place), and near the cooler tourist spots, which is fine with me. I am on an adventure down-swing, and I welcome the idea of menus in English and paying for comfort, ease and beer. One of the most popular tourist hangouts in the Colaba area of Bombay is Cafe Leopold. We went there twice. You can still see remnants of 26/11 there:
But life goes on.
My mission for Mumbai (or at least on of them): a tailor-made suit. A suit you ask? And your confusion is of course, entirely justified, but here’s my thinking: While I may not have much need for a business suit at present, working from home and all, I can actually afford to have a skilled tailor make me a suit here, and it will fit. Plus it just seems so cool. It’s something I couldn’t likely afford at home, and when am I going to be in India again? Who knows? I could have a meeting someday, or get an actual job that doesn’t allow pajamas in the work place, so I think it’s a wise and practical decision. I chose the tailor after much online research and because he is not listed in the Lonely Planet (again, if you’re heading to India and want the tailor’s name and address, email me and I’ll share. The suit came out really nice).
Chander, our point man in the tailor shop is very good, as is the ever silent Muslim tailor. I never realized picking out materials and styles for such a thing would be so difficult (I think it would have been good to have a well thought out plan and some photos. That way I could’ve shown Chander what I meant by more Sarah Palin, less Margaret Thatcher—next time), there are so many options. Oh the burdens of the wealthy, I had no idea.
After the first fittings, and being oh-so-glamorous as I am, we went to the beach resort town of Murud for a few days while the clothes were being refined. I am a happy person when I swim. Getting into the Indian Ocean was a necessity.
Bombay to Murud was a long journey by boat, bus, and taxi. The Murud area is more tropical and humid and lush than the other areas of India we visited, and I was happy to see this side of the country. I could tell that we had barely scratched the surface of the India still, and now I could see that places in the South resembled some of my romantic India fantasies more closely. But I could also tell that if this is Southern India in winter, I would have a really hard time in the summer. The weather must be unbearable for a sahib chick like me in the hot season. Even in winter it was 85 degrees and humid. And the locals must not have thought it was the least bit warm, nobody was on the beaches or swimming.
In fact, the whole three warm days the beach was all ours, except for an English couple from our resort. Strange how empty the beach was, but I am not one to question a secluded, clean beach on a hot day in India. Sure, there were warning signs about rip currents and such, but Kahn, the resort manager, informed that those were meant for non-swimmers. I assured him I was a pro, and I didn’t let Tim’s warnings of some razor-backed, toe-snapping, deadly Indian sea floor bastard mystery fish deter me either. It is hot. I see ocean. I get in.
The place we stayed was called the Prakruti Resort, just outside Murud on Kashid Beach. It’s a weekend getaway for Bombay people who can afford it. Perfectly manicured grounds, really good swimming pool, nobody else swimming, nice big room, balcony overlooking pool. I loved the place.
But as is the case with such all buffet, all the time, all-inclusive places, it was hard to escape. And I am not such a fan of the buffet. Too much food, already visited, picked over and rejected by strangers. This is just not my thing. We got a car to take us into the town for dinner at a seafood restaurant. The car costs about ten times as much as the dinner and the resort staff is baffled by our desire to leave the grounds and skip the included buffet. They keep asking us if we want something less spicy. What we do want is seafood, which they don’t seem to serve even though we are right on the beach, and there are fishermen all over the place. I have the feeling that seafood is poor man’s food here and the resort is catering to the yuppity Bombayites, so maybe they just skip it. Who can say? (We say that a lot with our bad Indian accents as well; it is befitting of pretty much every confusing situation.)
Incidentally, they appear to be adding some sort of disco/conference center that seems out of place (I should talk), but still kind of cool:
No matter. I am swimming daily and getting sun, and not being pestered in any way, except by mosquitoes. I think warm weather and humidity bring them out, so if I’m going to get the malaria, it will be here. I don’t care. They can’t get me so long as I swim.
Three days of sun and swimming is very good for a Hawaiian Californian attempting India. I think we did a pretty good job of alternating cities with peaceful, chill places overall. It always seemed like the serenity came just in time. Locals seem to have a way of keeping mellow regardless.
These lovely ladies spent the entire day scrubbing the bricks in front of that new disco-y building at the Prakruti Resort. I don’t know if it’s the huge population in need of work that prevents them from seeking better tools, but I’d be bitching for a power washer at this point.
Next time, from Murud back to Bombay, then home, via Dubai it turns out (have told Jet Airways to suck achar, and will come home on Emirates instead–I may have already told you about that since I’m skipping around some).
Further ramblings;
-So what do you think? Decent or expert?:
-I forgot the tacks for my friggin’ mosquito net. I have been eaten alive in the south. Remind me to take the malaria pills for two weeks after I get back.
-People carry stuff on their heads a lot. I think the weight pressing down on them eventually makes them bow-legged.
-Chickoo juice is good.
-That clothes-pinned nose, high-pitched singing style that exemplifies every female Indian singer is fine in small doses, but now it’s starting to get to me. They could use an alto, perhaps some Hindigo girls?
-It’s not a vacation– it’s a trip, a journey, an opportunity, a gift, and many lessons. Lesson number one: lucky me, lucky you.
Love & Phir milenge…
