India - Mumbai (Bombay) - Day 1

The Longest Day 

WARSAW, Feb 24, 2006 - The first leg of my February 2006 'round the world trip was my first "passage to India."  And what an experience it turned out to be...  I came to within an inch of my life (well, a slight exaggeration, but within a writer's poetic license) J, only to bounce back thanks to four wonderful Indian doctors. 

I left Phoenix on Feb 16, and arrived in Mumbai (Bombay) in the early hours of the morning of Feb 18, after about a 30-hour three-flight trip.  What happened to Feb 17, you're wondering?  I lost it.  But such is the fate of a global traveler.  He loses a day of his life which he is given back only when he returns home.  Talk about traveling "on borrowed time." J 

There was nothing funny about my arrival in India, however.  We landed in Mumbai just after 1AM local time.  The airport and the streets around it were swarming with people as if it were noon, not past midnight.  "People here must be nocturnal because of the heat," I remember making a mental note as I was looking for a taxi stand.

When I finally found it, I was shocked by the look of the taxis.  They all looked like the Trabant, a tiny two-cylinder East German-made abortion of a car that I saw in Eastern Europe after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 (here are three of them...)

"Wow," I said to myself.  "What a time warp."  As it turned out, they were Indian-made cars under a license from FIAT.  The communists evidently didn't bother with just details as getting a license.  They just stole the Italian design, just as they did with the German Opel (Moskvich in the former Soviet Union).

When I tried to get into one, I was told that I must first get a ticket.  "A ticket?" I asked, wondering why a passenger should be fined before even starting a ride. J 

"Yes, a prepaid ticket," a young man explained.  His accent was so heavy that I barely made out what he was saying.  And he was the only one who could speak English in a crowd of some 20 men around me.  

"Hm..." I made another mental note.  "And here I thought (thanks to the centuries of the British colonial rule) that everybody in India speaks English."

"And where do I get one of those?" I asked out loud.

The young man pointed to a booth some 100 yards away.  So back to the terminal I trekked, dragging my two bags behind me.  I told the man behind the counter that I needed a ride to the Taj Mahal Palace hotel.  He took about five minutes making copious notes in some logbook, and eventually produced a piece of paper that looked like a large bank receipt.  

I was supposed to give that to the driver whom the taxi company evidently doesn't trust to handle the cash.  But how do you find out which one among the hundreds of taxi cabs that were jammed into a crowded parking lot?

The helpful young man saw me coming back looking perplexed.  "I'll show you," he said, volunteering to drag one of my bags.  I was grateful.  Because I wasn't feeling very well.  Ever since about an hour or so before we landed, I felt  a nearly constant urge to urinate.  Yet when I tried to do it, only a trickle would come out.  I was hoping that it had something to do with being at a high altitude for so long (about 30 hours), and that now that I was on the ground, things would return back to normal.

Another Indian, evidently a friend of the young man who who was helping me, joined us when we got to the taxi cab.  The two of them loaded one of my bags into the trunk and put the other on the back seat of the car.  Then both of them outstretched their hands expecting a tip.  Unlike the panhandlers in the West, who can be quite obnoxious while expecting charity, both of them wore the sweetest smiles.  I smiled back and gave them each about a $5-tip.  Later on, I was to understand that that was quite a bit of money for the poor Indians.

I opened the back door of the cab and tried getting in.  I could not.  The darn thing was so tiny that there was no space to fit in my legs behind the driver's seat (they drive on the left in India, which means the driver sits on the right side of the car).  

After struggling for about a minute or so, I gave up.  "I'll sit in the front," I said to the driver.  He nodded.  That was a challenge, too.  But somehow I managed to fit in my knees against the dashboard, almost having to tuck them under my chin.  Since the position did not do much for my swollen bladder, I asked the driver how long a ride it would be. 

He had trouble understanding me.  I had trouble understanding his answer.  Finally, I made out that he was saying "20 minutes."

"Okay, I can probably hold it for that long," I said to myself.

I tried to distract myself from my physical discomfort by watching the scenes along the city streets as my driver weaved and bobbed through the surprisingly busy traffic given the hour of the day (just before 2AM), honking the horn all the time.  And what scenes they were... bodies everywhere... on sidewalks, in the road medians, against the walls of houses.  I was hoping these people were alive and just sleeping.  

There were also tons of loose dogs, with an occasional cow also sharing the sidewalk with everybody.  A pungent stench filled the air.  Later on, a seasoned traveler to this vast country would tell me that it was the "smell of India."  "It's unique and unmistakably India," he said.  "I recognize it every time I arrive in this country."

I looked at my watch.  More than 20 minutes had elapsed.  I realized I would have to relieve myself.  Or bust.  

"How much longer to the hotel?" I asked the driver.  "20 minutes," he replied.  It was evidently his standard answer to all such questions.  I broke out in cold sweat.  I had no idea how many 20-minute segments it would take to the hotel.  I tried to tell the driver that I wanted him to stop so I could do my business.  Non comprendo.  Then I switched from English to hand signs.  He finally got it and pulled over.  It was on the side of a well lit street.  I didn't care.  When you gotta go, you gotta go.

I did what I had to do against a tree, like a dog.  I wasn't even embarrassed.  Not in a place like this.  The relief wasn't much but it helped.  We carried on...

Finally, after two more 20-minute segments, we arrived at Taj Mahal Palace.  I looked at my watch.  It was nearly 3AM.  The ride took over an hour.  The hotel entrance was a swarming with people, just like the airport.  But these people were mostly young and well dressed.

"What's going on?" I asked the porter.  "How come there are so many people around at 3AM?"

"Clubbing," he replied enigmatically.  "There are lots of nightclubs around here."

The 1903 Taj Mahal Palace was a beautiful example of British colonial (Victorian) architecture, inside and out...

At the moment, however, I was more interested in finding a bathroom and checking into my room.  I was taken to a plush, ornately paneled private lounge, away from the hustle and the bustle of the main lobby, where evidently "special guests" check in.  A charming young woman wearing a pretty Indian robe greeted me behind a beautifully carved wooden desk.

"Please have a seat, Sir," she pointed to an elegant red leather armchair.

I did.  Carefully.

"So you're name is Natasha?" I said, looking at her name badge.

"Yes, it is," she smiled.

"You don't look Russian," I said.

"I am not.  My parents just liked the name."  She smiled appreciaively.

As she was doing the paperwork, I described how long my cab ride took.

"Oh, Sir, but we had sent a private car for you to the airport," Natasha said.

"You did?  I didn't know.  I never saw anyone with my name on a plaque" (as the limo drivers usually identify their customers).

Natasha got on the phone to tell the driver at the airport to come back.  It was only the next day that I realized what a difference that harrowing airport ride could have been.  Instead of riding in this...

...I rode in this...

Oh, well.  "At least it gave me some story fodder," I consoled myself.

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