Cherry Bombs in Bombay, a Night Train to Goa

« Return to India

In the province of Maharashtra, which includes India’s biggest city Bombay (population 20 million), Ganesh is all the rage. He’s the god with the elephant head, and is known for wisdom and good fortune. I happened to arrive the day before his major festival, in which hundreds of thousands pack the streets with Ganesh idols, banging drums and detonating cherry bombs, dancing in ecstasy as they make their way to the beach to submerge the idols. The city was covered in lights, and processions of revelers were causing a royal ruckus. I spent two hours in a cab making my to Powai to meet Sandhya, a screenwriter for Indian TV and a contact I got from one my readers (thanks Joyce!) The taxi driver promptly got lost, often stopping in the middle of the street to ask everyone for directions, twelve times in case the last guy lied, which he probably did. I didn’t mind the least, peering out the window, utterly captivated by the action around me. We drove through stinky slums and over backlogged bridges, pathetic beggars tapping on the window. Begging in India is a profession, not a social condition, and the only way I could get by was to avoid eye contact and ignore them. Several times I saw people making Number Twos on the streets, which are absolutely blanketed in advertising in both English and Sanskrit. Suneet, a professional photographer, later explained how corruption is a way of life, and the only way anything ever gets done. Roads take a decade to get fixed, and building rot as landlords bicker over tenant rights and squatters. Things do happen for the right price, and for those who can afford it. “We have people in India who are living in 2005, and we have people who are still living one hundred, two hundred, even a thousand years ago.” Slowly, the gap is narrowing as foreign investment pours in, the stock market continues to boom and a middle class grows. Everyone I spoke to felt positive about the future of India. More and more Fortune 500 companies are outsourcing manpower – from IT support to call centers - to India. Today, there are over a hundred schools offering internationally recognized certifications. A decade ago, there were three.

I had been in India for less than a day, but it was time to see a doctor. Actually, a dentist. I remember way back in Peru meeting a girl who had to fly home for gingivitis. Just because you travel, doesn’t mean you don’t take care of your teeth! Here I am, six months later getting laser treatment because my flossing is non-existent and it’s possible I haven’t been getting my vitamin C and B12. Sanjay the dentist is all smiles in his cramped office, where patients walk in to say hello while he’s holding a laser to my gums, burning out the baddies. It cost a fraction of the price as it would in Canada, and I’m back on the road, my pearls glowing. I take to the streets to see some of the Ganesh madness, although I confess that facing half a million people, drunk on the beach was more than I could handle on my second day. Instead I explored the cricket grounds where dozens of games were being played simultaneously. Balls were flying everywhere, with the higher league players dressed in spiffy whites, surrounded by lower leagues made up of ragged slum dwellers. Cricket is another religion in India, because according to Suneet, it is the only sport that India can compete internationally. Cricket, the gentleman’s game, as being passionately played by illiterate street kids.

Back at the hotel, I was disappointed to hear that I missed some producers looking for white faces to appear in a commercial. Marcus from Canberra got paid10 000 rupees (about $250) to hang out for a few hours with some pretty NGO volunteers. White skin still goes a long way here in India; part of what Piroj calls the “colonial hangover.” It struck me as odd to see so many billboards with white faces peddling product to brown consumers. Lighter skinned Indians seem to enjoy a higher status too, much like lighter skinned Brazilians did in Brazil. I stroll into the Taj Mahal to use the toilet (oh the luxury!) and even in my filthiest backpacker-ware, the big Sikh at the door smiles big and addressed me as “Sir.” That night, Marcus and I ate veg curry and I overtipped. “Why not hand the money to some of the people on the street,” he asked, which made sense. So we wandered about looking for worthy victims of a random act of kindness, placing 10 rupee notes (25c) under their sleeping bodies. The beggars saw us and chased us all the way back to the hotel. Without the doorman, they would have chased us right into our rooms.

As the monsoon season draws to a close, it was still overcast, hot and humid. I was originally supposed to land in Delhi, but after the consulate shenanigans in Dubai, I was forced to re-route to Bombay. I took the opportunity to explore Goa in the process. A Portuguese colony until as late as 1960, Goa is the beach paradise of India, for decades popular with hippies, lately with Israeli trance freaks and UK package tours. I booked the night-train ticket at the special tourist office at the grand Victoria Station, happy to avoid massive line-ups of masses and spend as little time as possible in the station. There were parts, and people, that smelt worse than the worst toilet in Scotland. Sleeper second class was cheap (about $8 for a 12 hour journey) and the Railways are thoughtful enough to put the tourists together. There are no cabins, no locks, and every two minutes someone walks by screaming “Cha-eee!” I meet some German guys, French girls, an Italian and Slovenian couple, and we cling together like an island in an unchartered sea. My seat is by the window, and during the night I become familiar with smells that could crumble the walls of Jericho. Apparently it will take a week or two to get used to the unique smells of India. There are several beach towns in Goa, so I followed the group to Arambol. It is still low season and the masses hadn’t arrived yet, so I found a quiet, clean yet rustic room for $3 and ate a perfectly grilled slab of fresh king fish for another 3 bucks. The price is always right in India! I am instantly reminded of Jericoacoara in Brazil. The same type of rugged beauty, the same kind of weather, and the same kind of people. Just like Jeri, there are large groups of Israelis, happy to be meeting non-Israelis. “There are parts of India that could be somewhere in Israel,” Roy tells me. Hebrew signs, Israeli menus - it’s a flashback to South America after months of European travel. Meanwhile in Arambol, leathered hippies are smoking pot in the cafes to chillout music, herds of free cows roam the beach with their doggy friends, some kite-boarders are zipping over heavy waves, fishermen are Number Two-ing on the beach, and it takes one evening before I know most of the travellers hanging about. Nobody is in awful hurry to leave, even to check out the next town, south along the coast. The food, as it was in Bombay, is incredible. I’ve always loved Indian food, and every dish I order is a rave for my taste buds. Although the Israelis assure me the meat is safe, I am going to stick to vegetarian, no uncooked food and no eggs. I have yet to meet a traveller who has not got sick, and my clock is ticking.

So, India. Not the hellhole I thought it would be at all. In fact, there is so much here to inspire, to write about. Bolivia, Brazil and Albania were ample preparation for the culture shock. The more I read about the Hinduism, the more I understand how people with nothing can live like they have everything. The longer I stay here, the more grateful I am for the opportunity.

Ave Maria Hotel
Arambol, Goa

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