Trains, Markets, and Temples—Sunday, August 5, 2007

After indulging in a home-brewed cup of Ethiopian Yirgachefe (thank you, Milagro!), I grabbed an auto (rickshaw) and headed over to Bandra Station where I met up with Mike, and his visitor, Jen. We planned to spend the day exploring Mumbai. We agreed to head down to VT (Victoria Terminus/Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus) Station not too far from the Fort area of Mumbai and the Gateway of India so we could begin the day admiring Mumbai’s traditional architecture. My Lonely Planet guide describes VT as “The city’s most exuberant Gothic building (which) looks more like a lavishly decorated palace or cathedral than something as mundane as a transport depot…Designed by Frederick Stevens, it was completed in 1887…”(2005, p.699). Mike and I have frequently ridden on the trains here, but I have always traveled via the Churchgate route. We didn’t have to stand in line because Mike had a book of tickets he had already purchased. We always travel second class which is only INR 6 each way. He tore off coupons worth INR 2 and INR 4 and distributed them to each of us. We then inserted the ticket into a machine which automatically date-stamped each one. I stuffed mine away, prepared to them pull out for any random inspections. Then, we winded up the stairs, across a walkway that led to various platforms. Above each platform entrance hung electronic placards announcing the next train’s arrival: “C 09:40 F…” and “ST 09:45 S” etc. The first letters designate the final stop’s destination; next, the departure time; finally, whether it is a F=fast or S=slow train. There didn’t seem to be any fast trains headed our direction, so we took a slow train to the ST (Shivaji Terminus). Though I often travel in the ladies’ car, as it was Sunday and not too crowded, we all traveled together in a mixed car. It was slightly full to begin with, so while I was able to sit, Mike and Jen stood. After a couple of stops, the car began to clear out and they found seats beside me. Though it was a slow train, it only took about 30 minutes to reach VT.

After admiring the clock, the stained glass windows, the arches, and other architectural elements, we exited the building and headed north. I was pleased to discover J & J Academy of Art on one side of the street and the Himalaya art supply store on the opposite side. I have been told that is where I can replenish my artist materials and get some canvas. Unfortunately, it was closed since it was Sunday, but at least I now know where it is, so I will return soon. We continued heading north and arrived at Crawford Market, a fruit and vegetable market. After identifying such delicacies as apple custard and mango (lol!), we continued on our way. We wandered through a small Muslim neighborhood. On one corner, a man and a boy were entertaining a small crowd with a magic show. We continued walking and came to the Mumbadevi Temple. Outside the temple, dozens of stalls were lined up at the sides of the road where trinkets of Hindu gods, prayer beads, and incense burners, among other items were being sold. A holy man grabbed each of our arms in turn and wound an orange, yellow, and white cotton band around our wrists, marked us with a tilak (forehead mark), and then asked for a INR 100 donation. We did give him a handful of coins, but this disappointed him as we didn’t offer the tourist rate.

Our foreheads clearly marked with Hindu blessings, we continued on our path to Chor Bazaar, smack dab in the middle of a Muslim neighborhood. When we approached a mosque, we wondered whether we should, perhaps, erase the marks on our foreheads, but no one seemed perturbed, so we left them on. As we got closer to the mosque, we became surrounded by throngs of people dressed in beautiful garb. We discovered that 421 couples were being married in a ceremony that afternoon! We passed quite easily through the celebrants, many of whom smiled at us and greeted us, and arrived in the bazaar.

While Jen and Mike checked out the wooden, hand-carved furniture, antiques, and other odds and ends in the shops, I sat beside the road on a chair offered up to me by one of the owners of a shop who sat beside another man who was feeding his young daughter. Across the narrow street, a little boy emerged from the shop opposite. His grandfather scooped him up in his arms. Above each of the shops, the owners live. So, it being Sunday, many of the children hung around the shops. Meanwhile, traffic navigated the potholes, pedestrians, and displays set up by the shop owners at the sides of the road. Goats ambled lazily down the lane as well. At one point, the father ran inside and came out with the business card of one of our principals, lol. He and his wife must have bought a few substantial pieces from them! Jen did buy a couple of knick-knacks, but none of us were enticed into bigger spending. I was a bit tired from all the exploring. Plus, I was a bit hungry. It was time for lunch.

We hailed a taxi to take us to Indigo, a restaurant near the Gateway of India. We could barely enter its doors due to people waiting for a table. The host took our names, Mike’s phone number, and told us he would call us (meaning on his mobile!) when our table was ready. Jen wanted to buy a few more items before heading back to the States that night, so we killed time by going to the Government Sponsored Shopping Centre across the street. The shop must have taken a whole block of space. Items from all regions of India were displayed: jewelry boxes, small statues, incense and oils, clothing and handbags, furniture, saris, dolls, and more were all for sale.

After about twenty minutes, our table was ready. It took a long time to get served, but the food was delicious. I laughed at myself midway through the meal when I realized I was chowing down on a beef burger, my wrist still marked by the Hindu prayer. How hypocritical was that?

We finished the afternoon excursion by stopping off at Mani Bhavan, Gandhi’s house where, according to the brochure I picked up during my visit, he “lived and conversed with his colleagues, moulded (sic) the nation in the image of his cherished ideals of Truth and Non-violence and inspired his followers and devotees who went forth from here in the world charged with a sense of service and sacrifice.” Upon entering the house, I immediately felt inspired and over-awed: to be in the house where Gandhiji delivered his speeches, met with dignitaries, spun cloth was incredible. I was also impressed by the displays throughout the house. On one floor, there is a picture gallery in which hang dozens of photographs of his life. On another floor, a series of dioramas depict Gandiji’s life. There is a room on the second floor which has been preserved in its original setting and displays the spinning wheel and white cushion he used. Overall, it was a very worthwhile experience. Nevertheless, I must say I was a bit taken aback by one overly friendly Indian man who followed me through the picture gallery. Initially, he merely introduced himself, asked my name, asked me how long I was in India and what I did here. I wasn’t really in the mood to converse, but, it being Gandhiji’s house, I felt compelled to maintain an open attitude. When he repeatedly asked me for my telephone number, however, I was forced to straight out tell him, no, I do not give my number out to strangers. I inched myself closer to Mike and Jen until we made our way upstairs and, I sighed a breath of relief when I noticed that he did not follow me.

It was late afternoon by the time we had finished exploring Mani Bhavan. We decided to take a taxi back up to Bandra as Mike and Jen had packages to carry, we were all tired, and the traffic was relatively light. Halfway to Bandra, I got a message from some of my new colleagues inquiring whether I wanted to go downtown that evening! At first, I thought, no way was I going to turn around and head back into town. Still, we reached Bandra by 5:00. So, I changed my mind. I went home, freshened up, and headed back out the door. Soon, I found myself back at Bandra Station, beginning the trip all over again. The new teachers wanted to check out VT station, so, after getting tickets, stamping them, locating the correct platform, and sorting out which car we each would embark, we headed down south. I stuck with Russell as it was his first train trip. Initially, the mixed car was packed and I almost regretted not being in the ladies car. After only a couple of stops, however, it cleared out and we sat down. Our ride down was uneventful. I was a bit proud of myself for successfully navigating, having only been there once previously—that very morning.

We lucked out in having a friend, Zia, pick us up in her car at the station. She drove us over to Leopold’s Café for dinner. Leopold’s has been made famous by the book Shantaram. It is a must do event for anyone who visits Mumbai, but—having now been there once—I don’t feel a great desire to return. Though the food was tasty, it has become overrun with tourists. The atmosphere described in the book no longer exists.

After dinner, we ambled over to the other side of the street to grab some chai. We didn’t realize we had stumbled into a very conservative Muslim establishment. We were not received all that well. We sat down, ordered chai, and then realized that everyone was staring, or more accurately, glaring at us. We weren’t sure if having one of the ladies in our party wearing a sleeveless shirt had anything to do with their hostility or if it was simply that many of us were American, but once our tea arrived, we quickly downed it and moved on.

While most of our party were ready to head over to Not Just Jazz by the Bay, a bar off Marine Drive, Zia and I were knackered. She dropped them off so they could enjoy some karaoke, and we headed back up north. It had been a really long day!

Return to Bandra 7-25-07 to 8-03-07

I set out for El Paso International Airport in the wee hours of the morning, July 25, 2007. This time ‘round, both my mother and sister, Donna, accompanied me. While Mom parked the car, Donna helped drag my luggage inside to the check-in counter. Along with the usual mess of clothes (most of which I never used since, in the relaxed society of fellow Americans, I repeatedly wore my favorite jeans and sleeveless shirts), shoes (Okay 8 pairs for a 7 week trip might be a bit excessive, but in my defense I had picked up 3 pairs while in the States!), and cosmetics (Do you know how much space an 8-month supply of tampons takes up?!), I had also crammed in ‘essentials’ like pecans, Nestle semi-sweet chocolate chip morsels, Life cereal, Annie’s mac ‘n cheese, and canned Hatch green chiles. Each of my three pieces of luggage pushed the 50 lb. weight limit allotted me. In addition to all the food, I had shoved in over a dozen books on teaching, graphic design, and even learning French. I was well-prepared for my second year of living in Mumbai, India.

Unencumbered by my check-in luggage, I swung my camera bag over my shoulder, grabbed my carry-on (with wheels, thank God!) with one hand and “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” in the other. Originally, it had seemed like a great idea to bring Harry along to read on the 28 hour journey. However, by the time I boarded the first plane, I only had 200 pages left to read and a bulky book to lug around with me. My mother and sister walked me to security where they dutifully stood until I disappeared in the maze of security lines. I was greeted by a woman whose job was to ensure that everyone’s liquid containers met the 3 oz. limit. It comforted me to know that the extra bucks tacked on to my ticket in the guise of “enhanced security costs” were dedicated to this task. As a seasoned traveler, I had carefully packed my contact lense solution bottle in a clear Ziploc baggie. Her announcement prompted me to shove it further into my carry-on when I discovered that my bottle was 4 oz. This tactic worked surprisingly well. I took my computer out of my bag, removed my shoes, and stepped up to the conveyer belt where I dumped all of my belongings in a grey plastic box, followed by my carry-on. I stepped through the magic door and, poof! no bells or whistles or demands to explain a complete video-entertainment center and a year’s supply of medication in one bag. (I was slightly disappointed that I didn’t get the opportunity to be felt up by a fine, sexy male officer. Ah, well. Better luck next time.) I came out the other side unscathed, my belongings dumped out in a neat pile at the other end of the belt. Before getting run over by other half-awake, frazzled passengers, I quickly put my shoes on, grabbed my personal items and hurried on to the gate. It was now 6:05 AM and the words, “Caffeine, caffeine, I need some caffeine” screamed inside my head. Sadly, I had no time to take care of my addiction, as the plane was already boarding.

As I embarked, one of the plane’s pilots stood alongside a flight attendant and greeted the passengers. He asked me where I was headed for the day and I replied, “Mumbai.” He was a bit taken aback. I guess, not too many other passengers regularly traveled my route. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, I found my seat, buckled in, and fell asleep until the coffee was served. It wasn’t Milagro, but it satisfied the little voices in my head who had been berating me for not having indulged in a homemade brew before setting out at 4:30 AM. Despite the coffee, I managed to sleep until we landed.

I had been dreading my layover in Atlanta. The last time I was here, the place was a zoo — with insufficient seating and frequent last-minute gate changes— and the staff were extremely rude. This time, as soon as I disembarked I sought out a screen listing departures. I discovered that my flight was not yet listed since I had arrived five hours prior to boarding. I thought, “Oh, shit, now I have to go and find one of those nasty Delta people to ask.” Well, to my surprise, I easily found a rep standing behind a counter who greeted me and kindly volunteered the requested information. I walked down the corridor, took an escalator down to the next floor, waited a few seconds and boarded the shuttle to Terminal E. Moments later, I arrived at my destination. Immediately, I approached the information booth and asked where the currency exchange was, whether I could get wi-fi, and where a comfortable eating spot was. All my questions were answered in a most cordial way. In fact, she added that at Gate 12, I would find the strongest signal for an Internet connection. Wow! A very different — and much more pleasant — experience than last time. The currency exchange was a rip-off, but I had no choice. I had to get enough rupees to pay my housekeeper’s salary and keep me going for the weeks before my first paycheck. I sat down for a moment and called my sister to request that she look up the current rate-of-exchange (just so I would know exactly how much I was being screwed). After checking it out and confirming the exact amount I was getting ripped off by changing money at the airport, she then said, “Hey, have you looked in your bag?” I said, “Um, no, actually. Should I?” She replied, “Look in your bag and call me back. Maybe it will make up for the crummy exchange rate.” So, I hung up, opened my carry-on and was delighted to find a wonderful card wishing me a happy 40^th birthday and holding money inside! [The fact that she had managed to stuff the envelope in without my notice did remind me that the airport security had neglected to ask me whether I and no one else had packed my bags.] “Donna!” I called her back. “I can’t believe you! That is terrific! Thanks so much.” “Does it help?” she asked. Of course, it helps! What a great surprise, I thought. Plus, it was fantastic getting an unexpected hand-written note. My birthday wouldn’t be for another month, but I am really happy she didn’t make me wait to open that.

After taking care of business, I headed over to the restaurant. As soon as I entered and sat down, the noise from the crowded airport disappeared. It was very relaxing. I opened the menu and was about to order when my phone rang. A friend called with whom I hadn’t spoken since he set out on a road trip nearly ten days earlier. The poor waitress had just approached me to take my order when I answered the call. I had to signal her to come back later. More than a half hour must have passed when I finally hung up. The waitress immediately returned to my table and I apologized for the delay. She just smiled and said it was no problem and there was absolutely no hurry. Again, an entirely new experience from the first time in Atlanta! My last meal in the USA was a beef hot dog with French fries. I almost ordered a beer, but frankly, I was “beer-ed” out after all those days at High Desert over the summer, lol! I took my time over lunch, treasuring the peace and quiet. Eventually, however, I left the restaurant, not wanting finish “Harry Potter” with so many more hours in transit. I had four more hours to kill before my next flight departed.

I wandered around the airport for a while, browsing the shops, checking my e-mail, and making farewell calls to friends and family. Finally, boarding commenced for the next leg of the journey. I was a bit annoyed to learn that the flight would stop in JFK. I thought it would be a direct flight from Atlanta. I will never go this route again! At any rate, the passengers all piled onto the plane, stuffed luggage wherever a space could be found, and buckled in. As latecomers trickled down the aisles, loudspeakers urged us to find our seats because “the pilot wishes to take off promptly.” All finally situated, we were eager to go. Then, we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Until the pilot got onto the p.a. and announced that he was extremely sorry to inform us that we were currently in line behind twenty planes, this was a very congested time for take-off, and he would let us know when we were actually going to take off. Yep. The fun had just begun.

Eventually, we did leave Atlanta and land at JFK. The layover was long enough for me to dash into Duty Free, buy a bottle of Jameson and Makers Mark, and return to the waiting area to, yes, wait. Again, our flight was delayed. I think we left JFK about 16 hours after I had set out from Las Cruces. I had another 16 hours to go. And, now, I was sitting beside the most irritating passenger I could be stuck beside. Firstly, he was quite a big fellow to be squeezed into the middle of the row. Secondly, he must have had ADHD because he constantly did a Fred Astaire tapping the toe dance at his seat. I swear, his leg did not stop shaking for the duration of the flight—except when he got up to go to the bathroom, which he usually chose to do as soon as I felt comfortable enough to nod off to sleep. He somehow managed to grab my ass a couple of times. I am not even sure how he did this with the armrest between us. I was really wigged out by his interest in my LCD screen. As I was watching a movie, I would glance over and notice his eyes boring into the seat in front of me. It was very spooky. I reminded myself about how Westerners and Indians perceive personal space differently. I realized, even for a Westerner, I guard my boundaries fiercely. So, for many hours, I tried to ignore the guy. When he lifted up the armrest between us, however, that was the last straw. I smiled at him, firmly grabbed the armrest, and put it down again. It didn’t prevent him from continuing to try to grab my ass, watch my screen, or tap his leg.

People have often asked me how I cope with such a long flight. I always find the time goes by relatively quickly. This time, I managed to not only finish “Harry Potter,” but also complete another novel I brought along, “Eat, Pray, and Love” (an excellent read!). I also got to see a movie, though it must not have been too impressive because I can’t remember what it was.

At last, we landed in Mumbai. To my extreme relief, all my bags arrived together and I floated through customs. Ashpak, a driver from school, awaited my arrival. He whisked my luggage and me away and, a few minutes after midnight, I arrived at my flat in Bandra.

Monica, my housekeeper, had done a wonderful job taking care of my flat while I was gone. Everything was sparkling clean. Two vases of flowers were filled. Later, she explained, she had bought a bouquet of pink roses for my homecoming which she thought was on Tuesday. When she realized her mistake and I was arriving on Wednesday, she bought a whole new bouquet of colorful flowers since the roses were already wilting. She had carefully placed my stuffed animals, fluffy cats, a frog, and an elephant, on my bed. My refrigerator was stocked with fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs, and milk. Still, returning to India was a very difficult transition for me.

Probably due to jetlag, lack of sleep, and, yes, a bit of the ole PMS, I soon found myself sprawled on the floor between my half unpacked luggage, bawling my eyes out like a baby. Loneliness descended on me. I had just spent weeks of complete leisure among family and friends, dedicating all my days to following my mantra of ‘beef, beer and bicycling’ and, now, I suddenly found myself with no family, no friends, and no beef, weak beer, and no bicycle. What does any nearly forty year old single woman do in times of crises such as these? Call her mother, of course! I reached for the phone, dialed her number and was relieved to hear her voice. “Karen,” even her refusal to call me KC didn’t bother me at the moment, “it’s great to hear your voice. So glad you got in all right. I’m with your sister. We’re great. Oh, and by the way, you’ll be happy to know Bank of America called and gave you a $105 credit.” What?! I wanted to scream. I am falling apart here and you want to talk about my credit card company? Instead I said, “Oh, yeah. I am here. At my flat. Safe and sound. All my bags are here. Yep. Uh-huh. Yeah, I love you too. Bye.” So, that was that.

Actually, that wasn’t that. I ended up talking to my sister and my mother several times over the next couple of days. Once they realized how difficult I was taking being back, they were wonderfully supportive. I got some rest, checked in at work, and joined a gym. Friends began arriving back as well. So I wasn’t completely alone anymore. Soon, I recovered myself and stopped feeling sorry for myself. Okay, so I still am feeling a bit homesick, but things are looking up now.

The best decision I’ve made since returning is joining a fitness center. And it isn’t just any fitness center. It is at a 5-star hotel minutes away from school. The gym has top-of-the-line weight and cardiac equipment. The locker room is spacious and contains a Jacuzzi, a steam room, a sauna, and a few day-beds. There is also a pool, though I haven’t used it yet because it’s been raining non-stop since I’ve arrived here. I get discounts on food, beverages, and massages. I know it is so “elitist” of me, but damn, I don’t care! I love it. So, as I said, things ARE looking up now! I have been working out every day since being back and today I may just go and get a massage.

I visited the school the first day I was back even though I didn’t begin working till the following Monday. I needed to get my school computer and get on the Internet. (Getting Internet at home continues to be a nightmare this year, though I think I may have found a provider who might actually follow through on their promise of delivering service.) I was astonished to discover that every single floor of the school was torn apart and occupied by construction workers. This is not an exaggeration. The business office has been temporarily relocated to the fourth floor teachers’ work room, the administrators are occupying the counseling office, and the handful of teachers eager to set up their classrooms must contend with lack of A/C and detrimental paint fumes. I came back early to test new students for ESOL placement. The new families come to the school and have to pick their way through the debris as they are escorted up to the counseling office where I conduct the testing. I think each parent must wonder, “What am I doing to my child, uprooting him from his home and dropping him into this mayhem?!” Hah!

On a more positive note, everyone I work with has been most welcoming. They first ask me how my break was, then they ask after my mom’s health, then they mention—still with smiles on their faces—they’ve been working in these conditions all summer long. Poor souls! The new teachers have all arrived and I’ve joined them for several dinners hosted by the school at various venues around town. There are now at least five native French speakers on staff, so I have plenty of people with whom to practice my language skills. Many of the new teachers come from the States (Chicago, New York, Montana, etc.); some come from nearby Thailand; others come from as far away as Chile. Tomorrow, I’ll join them on their downtown shopping excursion led by the elementary principal’s wife who is an expert tour guide. Sunday, I think I’ll join my friend, Mike, and his guest visiting from the States to explore a different side of downtown. We want to see the Haj Ali Mosque (it floats out in the Arabian Sea), go to Chor Bazaar, and maybe end up at the Gateway of India.