Mumbai: A city of contrasts

I visited Mumbai, India, the first week of February. Here's what happened...

Day One: Touring with the locals

Before setting off for the day, my dad and I have (ridiculously overpriced) drinks at the Taj Mahal — the hotel, not the mausoleum. Once hydrated, we stroll over to meet my mom at the Gateway of India, the enormous stone castle-looking archway built in 1911 to welcome King George V and Queen Mary and later used as a landing place for other ruling Brits.




The Gate is the meeting spot for the Local Tour, led by “Mumbai Magic” tour company. When I hear the word “tour” I imagine a horde of sweaty fannypackers. I am pleasantly surprised. Our tour is only the three of us — plus two guides — young freshmen women at a local university. Following their lead, we traverse the city core, gawping at old churches, hotels, police stations and schools — many built during the endless British rule.

We also see Gandhi’s crash-pad-turned-museum. Gandhi lived at this house (which belonged to his friend) whenever he was in Mumbai, between the years of 1917 and 1934. The Great Soul (that’s what Gandhi’s first name, Mahatma, means) even staged a four-day fast at this house. The fast was an attempt to restore peace to the city.

I learn a lot about the famous big-eared Indian while reading blurbs and looking at pictures and dioramas of his life. I also pick up some great advice: “Be truthful, gentle and fearless.” Thanks, Gandhi, I’ll try!




Outside Gandhi’s house I’m harassed by a lady trying to force on me a fistful of brightly colored, mirrored purses. Thanks, but no thanks, lady. Later, while strolling down a trinket street, I am accosted by several men who shove small boxes under my nose while exclaiming, “saffron.”




The liveliest sight of the tour is Dhobi Ghats, the sprawling outdoor laundromat for Mumbai’s dirty linens (and other materials). Somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000 (what’s 5,000 give or take) men beat, rub and scrub the dirt from these clothes for a daily wage of $2 or $3. That’s a wage we often hear throughout our stay. These men also live at the ramshackle laundromat, another of the city’s slums.

We see all these sights by foot, taxi, bus and train. Sprinting across the chaotic, honk-filled streets gets my blood pumping, but the train proves even livelier. As people cram into the compartment like cattle into a slaughterhouse, our guides simply tell us to “push!” I stand rigid and clutch my purse, trying to avoid relaxing into the bumps and lumps of the surrounding bodies molded to me like clay.




After escaping the non-free-range slaughterhouse that is the train, one of our guides turns to me and says, “The train wasn’t very crowded today.”




Despite the crowds, we’re lucky to avoid being victimized by the urchins who throw rocks at people visible from the train doors. Supposedly (according to an article in a Mumbai newspaper) the rocks are aimed at hands, and are attempts to knock cell phones to the ground. But, of course the urchins don’t always have the best aim. During our stay, we read about a lady who is hit in the face by one of these errant rocks.

Day Two: Slumming it

(Sorry, not allowed to take pictures)

Today we’re booked for a slum tour, led by Reality Tours. Despite yesterday’s stellar tour experience, I can’t help but dread the horde of fannypackers. Surely they’re out there, and surely they’ll be crammed into a minivan with us while we roar through Dharavi, our (and Hollywood’s) slum of choice.

But I’m again pleasantly surprised. No fannypackers — at least not the obnoxious kind — and no minivan. Instead, there are five of us seated comfortably in a smallish SUV. And we don’t roar through the slums. We walk through their dark, winding alleyways, following closely behind our Indian tour guide. This guide talks to the slumdwellers and receives permission to gape at their homes. No pictures are allowed.

We don’t actually see inside anyone’s home, but the narrow, narrow, narrow alleys just outside the doorways give us an idea of the size of these dwellings. The dimensions, our guide tells us, are about the size of a SUV. My mom says she spotted TVs, and, judging from the wires that dangle like vines from the stone walls, some of the homes have electricity, some of the time.

Although we don’t see inside any of the homes, we see much of the inner workings of Dharavi, which is pretty much a self-sufficient country. As we scramble through the alleyways, ducking under electrical wires and scuttling over crumbling concrete and trash, we bop in and out of many rooms and climb rickety ladders to the rooftops. Some of the sights:

• Men and women spinning perfect clay pots on hand-spun wheels. Women transport the dried (assumedly heavy as hell) clay pots atop their heads. And not just one pot at a time, either.

• Men sewing sequins on intricately patterned dress shirts.

• A man dunking fabric in muddy brown liquid (henna) to make batiked apparel. Several sheets swirling with his detailed designs hang from the rooftops far above him.

• The many-faceted recycling productions: Workers breaking apart toys and other plastic scraps, sifting through plastic bits the size of confetti, washing out old oil and paint cans to sell back to the manufacturers, reassembling scrap metal into car machinery.

• Women rolling out dough for papadums and laying out the flattened dough to dry in the sun.

• Two schoolrooms where the young, young, young kids are learning English. The uniformed brown munchkins assail us with a chorus of “Hi”s, and scramble to shake our hands. They have been learning English since age 3. Their playground, and the playground of the surrounding slumdwellers, is a trash heap — literally.

• The public toilet I use is surprising clean. A squat toilet with ceramic footholders — fancy!

We soon see where the output from this public toilet goes — into a nearby ditch flowing with raw sewage. On a positive side, we later discover that contrary to what our tour guide tells us,
Mumbai’s sewage is treated before dumping into the surrounding waters.

After the sewage sightings, the tour’s over and we head to lunch. The spot? The famous Leopold Café, founded in 1871 and one of the sites besieged by gun and grenade explosions during Mumbai’s 2008 terrorist attacks.

Day Five: Tigers and lions and school boys!

Tigers and lions and grubby school boys, oh my! These are the sights my mom and I see during our safari at Sanjay Gandhi National Park. The tiger is a fancy white one, in a cage. The lions are two or three of the standard, maned variety, lounging just outside our bus.





Our bus’ course is not through grassy wilds, but over a concrete road that travels in a loop — a short loop. Despite the lack of excitement, the safari is inexpensive, and for a good cause (the continuation of non-exciting safaris?) It’s also fun cramming next to another breed of animals inside the bus — dirt-streaked school boys.

Buddha caves




Better known as the Kanheri Caves, these towering rock formations were carved from the first century BCE to the ninth century CE. The caves, many no more than shallow cells with flat rock beds, were inhabited by Buddhist monks. We see them by following behind our tour guide, who is insistent on speeding our progress onto bigger and better caves.




Lounging near the caves are several lovey dovey Indian couples, plus a pack of wild monkeys.

Day Seven: Juhu Beach




Juhu Beach, on the Arabian Sea, is the most famous beach in Mumbai. The stretch of beach is famous for its street food, including an assortment of fried Indian goodies, plus familiar American junk like cotton candy, corn on the cob and ice cream.

Contrary to our expectations, the beach isn’t crowded when we arrive at about 4 p.m. on Saturday, but the people start pouring onto the sands by the time we leave about an hour later. We see only a couple other groups of white people. This makes us prime targets for the beach’s many junk hawkers. Do we want pictures of people we don’t know having fun on the beach? No? How about bracelets or enormous neon yellow balloon clubs?




We are also prime targets for beggars. Baby-toting money-seeking women have been stalking my dad since we arrived. Leaving the beach, one woman-and-baby-duo chases his tall, red-headed figure down the street. Because he makes the mistake of making eye contact or even talking to the money grubbers, they hound him until he eventually outstrides them.

Although I don’t even look at the beggars, I am not immune to their hassles. At one point during our stay, a group of school kids trails me down the sidewalk, poking my back with a stick while demanding money. I don’t give them any money, but yell at them to scram, a command which they thankfully obey.

Back to Cambodia in a sardine can

My flight from Mumbai to Bangkok doesn’t leave until 2 a.m. Still, in true Jet Airways India fashion, a meal is served. I don’t stick around Bangkok this time, but hop a five-hour bus to the Cambodian border. Then it’s a 90-minute taxi ride from the border to my house.

Four people are sandwiched in the back of the small taxi, with two in front. One of the men in back with me is an Israeli here on vacation. “I feel like a sardine, not a person!” he exclaims. I tell him this carload is nothing, and that I have been in taxis with two or more people sitting in the driver’s seat.

As if on cue, the taxi stops and a man crunches in next to our driver. “I can’t believe this,” the Israeli says, mouth agape. “Never have I seen this…” I just laugh. I’m glad to be back in Cambodia, even though the increased humidity and dustiness is immediately apparent.

Cavorting about Mumbai and taking in its varied sights is fascinating, but it’s not a city in which I ever want to spend much time in. Too many people! And the stark contrast between rich and poor, mansions and slums is unsettling.

Still, my opinions of the city aren’t as poisoned as my dad’s. He declared Mumbai a “miserable place” that he never wants to see again. I’m not in a hurry to see Mumbai again, but the rest of India? Bring it on!


NOTE: The contents of this Web site are mine and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps. This blog is not an official publication of the Peace Corps or of the United States government.