Taking the Train….

I am ready for my first train ride to Colaba; the downtown of Old Mumbai. 

Darren and Mike, two expat veterans on their second year in Mumbai have agreed to show the first year rookies the way.  Malad, the closest rail station is not far, but isn’t within walking distance so a three wheel auto rickshaw is the first step to get downtown.  The rickshaw, a three wheel vehicle with a black body and yellow/orange stripe looks a bit like a bumble bee.  The round but narrow body is well adapted to quick maneuvers on narrow streets.  In a tight space or in heavy traffic it can turn 180 degrees on a dime and is ideally suited to the traffic on the way to Malad.

It is Saturday, the streets are busy, and the station is packed.  It looks pretty crowded to me but Darren says that, because of the Independence Day weekend, it is soft day for crowds.  I want to be able to do this myself so I will pay attention to:                                                                                                                  

Ticket line protocol….first class can go to the front of the line but doing so seems pretty rude so we pass. Ticket choices….first class is 250 rupees round trip                                                                          Platform location….downtown is on the west side of the tracks so we must use the track walkover                                     

First class location…. Roman numeral   I   not  II                                                                                         Car entry protocol… there isn’t any so fight your  way in as fast as possible!

The car is a tight pack of humans.  At first I am hanging on to the overhead handle or bars but realize it isn’t really necessary.  This package of humans is so tight I can flow with the crowd and can’t fall over into a space that does not really exist.  Early on, I see nothing but heads, but as time passes the tight crowd releases itself and I manage to become one of the men who are hanging onto a bar and leaning out the door.  The wind is refreshing, the view is authentic, and I am hanging out on an Indian train coming into Churchgate station in downtown Mumbai.

I tried really hard to pay attention to the walking route we took from the station to a downtown expat hangout called Leopold’s.  The first five blocks were a straight line from the station past the 18^th century architectural of Victoria’s station.   Each building we pass is a monolith of English architecture that was a marvel in the past.  Though crumbling from India’s monsoon climate they still exude the splendor of the times from British colonial empire.

The first right turn from this major street is important and is noted by the position of a black and white cow eating a pile of grass and chewing cud.  Will that cow be there for me next time I look for this same right turn?  Not likely, and so I will be lost.  I need a better landmark.

Leopold’s, the hang out and meeting place was a feature bar in “Shantaram”, a book by Gregory David Roberts.  It was a good read a few years ago and at the time of the reading I had no idea I would be sitting in the same bar in the future.   “Shantaram” was about the dark seedy slum and underworld of Mumbai in the 80’s.  The bar helped the book and the book helped the bar as expats from all over the world still sit and drink their beer amongst the dated murals and pictures from a 70’s retro time.  Leo’s became an expat target for terrorists in 2008 as they attacked western places like the Taj Mahal Hotel, the Oberoi Hotel, and Leopold’s bar.  The bullet holes are still in the ceiling and the walls.  The event was probably good for more tourism as expats sit and drink  their  Kingfisher beer from “towers” that hold up to two gallons in a device that looks like a gumball machine with a tap. 

The goal of an afternoon downtown is not beer consumption so we head out by cab to Crawford market.  This sprawling street market originated in a beautiful colonial mall with a tower and grand entry.  But that was the 1880’s.  Gravity, rain, and tropical humidity are not friendly to old buildings.  Mortar crumbles, mold grows, and towers eventually will fall.  Crawford needs some serious infrastructure restoration. The rusty brown tin that shelters the addition to the mall also shelter 000’s of stalls selling cheap plastic, cheap clothes, and cheap food.

This market is not my destination so we agree to meet at the gate in an hour.  Walking a main street, by myself now, away from Crawford takes me deeper into an area where I hope to find bric brak and junkshops that sell antiques at a reasonable price.  The shops I seek are always “over there” or “that way” so I hop into a rickshaw to a place the locals are calling the Chor Bazaar.

And so I find junk.  Old TV’s, radios, speakers without cases, 8 track tapes, and other junk from  the past is not what I have in mind but as the clock moves toward 3:15 the stage changes and brass and copper shops began to appear.  No time for more than a teaser though and the traffic is heavy so getting back to the façade at Crawford will not be easy before 3:30.  At 3:30  I am still stuck in gridlock so it’s time to get out in the middle of stopped traffic and walk the last two  blocks back to the expats who are waiting for me and are ready to go.

Back to downtown by cab, another bar, a chance to relax after the heat and humidity of the street. Maneuvering the streets of Mumbai is hot and thirsty work.

The walk back to the train station for the return to our suburb of Malad is much easier than the walk past the cow.  This time we followed a street parallel to a large grassy commons and soccer pitch.  Some fine old building sits on the perimeter and I can’t help but think that the architect of the commons and the building was thinking of a park in London. 

Before getting on board for an hour it seemed wise to go to the toilet.  A man in the next urinal seemed intent on watching me urinate as he had probably never seen such a pale white circumcision.  I considered moving my thumb aside so he could get a better show but, being a shy person, I hesitate to embarrass my race and uncover for the next stall’s  voyeur.  He continued to look anyway. 

The return train was quite empty at Churchgate, the first stop on the return to the Northern suburbs.  A seat next to my friends felt good, we relaxed.  Darren exits at a different stop than ours but that was ok. Getting home shouldn’t be hard, but then if things should be easy they probably won’t be.

There were at least twenty five empty rickshaws at the Malad station but every driver refused us the service of his taxi.  Drivers, in general, are not very friendly and they seemed particularly crabby tonight.  No one will explain why we can’t ride with them, and the diagonal Indian head wag gesture is neither a yes nor a no, so we are a bit confused.  Everyone knows that people with glasses speak English so we ask a young woman how we can get a ride.  She tells us that we must cross the tracks on the foot path  bridge.  We do so.  We find ourselves on a wonderful street full of street vendors selling neatly stacked piles of eggplants, okra, and other uncommon and colorful vegetables.  There are many rickshaws, but once again no one wants to give us a ride.  This is beginning to get annoying as we cannot walk home.  We need a ride.  Another person with glasses is stopped for advice and direction.  These intelligent four eyes tell us that we are on the wrong side of the tracks and that we must cross over the other side…. again.  I begin to  wonder how smart people with glasses really are.  I wear mine constantly and if glasses make me an example of intelligence than perhaps I need a new IQ measurement device.  This time we walk further afield from the original place on the west side.  The first rickshaw stops, we get in, and the journey is over.

Why was the last part of the trip so difficult?  I have no idea, but next time I will know how to take a train downtown and where to stand to find a taxi on the last leg home.

The junkshops are there, I know they are, and I will be back….. Later.