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April 22, 2007
The
Third Day
I
did, indeed sleep well that first night, but for
less than five hours. We’d gone to bed at 6 AM
and Kabir and Nashaud were to pick us up at
noon, check out time. I got up and had a shower
and at 11:30 woke DJ. No easy task. No only
can the man eat for two he can sleep the dead.
We took our bags downstairs and elected to just
cab it to Kabir’s apartment and save them the
trip. Cab riding is one of the few things, it
would turn out, that is cheap in Mumbai.
Rickshaws are even cheaper and easier to find –
in fact, impossible to miss.
From
it’s exterior, Kabir’s apartment looks very much
like the worst slum apartment you would find in
Bedford Stye but inside the place is luxurious –
high ceilings, marble floors and expansive views
of the city. We hung out there for a few hours
and I attempted to get some work done but
getting on the internet was difficult at best
and I wasn’t as productive as I would have liked
to be.
Kabir
has two servants living in the apartment with
him – a young married couple. She looks about
eighteen and her husband might be twenty two.
He does all the cooking and let me tell you,
this kid can cook. The meals we’ve had have
been flawless, one and all! Most of the dishes
are vegetarian. I never thought I’d hear myself
say it but I don’t mind.
From
there we grabbed our first rickshaw and Kabir
took us to a market area. No one could ever
forget their first rickshaw ride in rush hour
traffic in Mumbai. The result of three of us
crowding into one was that the two guys sitting
on the outside were literally hanging outside.
I honestly feared for my wellbeing. I would say
80% of the traffic in Mumbai is composed of the
yellow and black rickshaws. They weave and flow
along the streets like high speed ants. They
dart between gaps I wouldn’t try on bike. They
speed along as fast as they can go and hammer
their breaks only when absolutely necessary.
They are never more than a few inches away on
any side from the other vehicles.
The
trip to the market was about forty five minutes
(everything is 30-50 minutes away) and this
particular rickshaw was having some mechanical
issues. He was stalling out occasionally when
he stopped. Whenever this happened the horns
reminding him to unstall were deafening. At
about the half way mark he managed to find a
hundred meters of free road and he cranked that
little thing to top speed – maybe 50K an hour –
and failed to see the speed bump stretching
across the road. The Indian name for the speed
bump is “speed breaker” and the label turned out
to be prophetic. The rickshaw caught some air,
DJ and I slammed out heads into the roof and the
vehicle bounced it’s way a few more meters
before coming to it’s final stop. This time it
would not restart. The river of traffic flowed
around us as the drive jumped out and pushed us
to the side of the road. I’m ashamed to tell
you that not once did I consider getting out of
that thing to help. I’d promised my mother I’d
be safe over here and that would have made a
liar out of me.
Another rickshaw instantly pulled over. I
thought he was there to help his buddy out of a
clear mess but no, he was just there to see if
we wanted to carry on. We did and twenty
minutes later we were at the market. We walked
the streets looking in a few stores and even saw
a body building supplement store. You could
purchase anything there.
It
was hear that it really began to hit me – shit
is expensive in this city. Naushad would later
tell me that Mumbai is one of the most expensive
cities in the world – second only to Hong Kong.
A regular little two bedroom apartment that
would go for $950 in Victoria can run you as
high as $5,000 in Mumbai and the exterior will
inevitably look like that of a condemned
building. It’s no wonder the workers here
making $300 a month are forced to sleep in the
slums.
I
didn’t buy anything except to replace some hair
product I’d lost to customs. Kabir assured us
the shopping would be much better in Goa. The
return trip to Kabir’s apartment was much less
eventful.
That
evening Swapnil returned with his friend
Santana. Santana’s father was a big fan of
Woodstock and in particular the great guitar
player. Santana told us his name was something
of a pain as few Indians could pronounce it. He
was an interesting guy – a stockbroker who
traded his time between the Middle East and
Mumbai. The conversation turned to the suicide
bombers and the state of Iraq. It’s interesting
to talk with people who are so much more
intimate with the situation there than those of
us back home. Everyone in the room agreed that
Bush was a bullying moron who had created grief
that would be felt for generations. No one felt
Hussein deserved any sympathy but in his twisted
cruel way he essentially kept peace in that bees
nest of an area. Oh well.
We
finished our beer and conversation close to two
in the morning and Naushad took us over to our
new apartment. As we entered the building,
which was surrounded by bamboo scaffolding, he
told us that they still needed to do a little
work but it would be completed in the next few
days. I didn’t care as long as it had some
beds.
The
apartment needed some work alright but it did
have beds, albeit no blankets. When it’s 32
degrees at night you don’t really need them
though. A large cockroach was there to greet
us. It scurried with lightening speed across
the beautiful marble floor. DJ didn’t care for
that. He hadn’t seen one before. I’d lived for
six years in LA and had seen plenty.
I
laid down on my bed and passed out immediately
despite the fact that the honking horns from the
Mumbai traffic never let up - ever. Kabir had
promised me that the following day he would take
me to a gym for a workout. It was a happy
thought. |
