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Day 7, Arriving in Calangute, 100 miles South of Mumbai, India
Five forty-five is the start of a new day for me. The last hour on the bus up to now has felt as long as the entire journey. I’ve been psychologically babbled by the bus driver swinging the bus around corners, slamming on the brakes and pulling up alongside other buses. Every time he did this I thought this must be the end, but alas, no, it was just one more opportunity for the local children to sell us things through the bus windows.
Another screech as we round a corner, another slamming on of the brakes, another woosh from the dump valve, but this time the mighty diesel engine splutters to a halt and we can get out of the bus.
Jen and Dan are first of our group to get out of the bus, followed by Justin and Destanny, then me. We leave Thomas to moan about moving his delicate self. Odd, I would have thought he’d been keen to get off the bus that made him violently sick. Maybe he likes being ill or more probably, he’s worried about what might be out there on the streets.
Jen is chatting to a local taxi driver, bartering down the best deal to get us to the seaside resort. Ten minutes of bartering gets us no further. My offer to pay the full cost for all of us to get wherever we want to go via taxi regardless of the cost goes down as well as putting diesel in a Formula 1 racing car.
Time passes, nothing is resolved and then another issue comes up: Where are we going? On the verge of an explosion between Dan and Justin, Jen again takes control and decides on Calangute.
Six of us. Two times three seat taxis. Many rules. Dan and Jen want to go together, Justin and Destanny want to go together, Destanny wants to go with Thomas, but Dan doesn’t want to go with me.
What’s the answer? I haven’t a clue, but this is politics and as Jen’s in charge she bundles me in with her and Dan. I sit in the front and shut up. Rolling out of the bus depot I have a civil and friendly chat with Dan and I realise that I am not the problem after all! I have obviously made up the fact that Dan hated me in my head. An avalanche of tension is released from my body as they tell me how they can’t stand Destanny.
•
Our arrival in Calangute is just as chaotic. We waste our time running between three hotels to secure the optimum balance of cleanliness, location and price that my friends, who stop me from being lonely, require.
Calangute was famed in the 1980’s for dreadlocked hippies lying naked on the sand! We are looking for that perfect cultural mix of authenticity and amenities, but this town is more like Ibiza on a come down. Our group splits again when we arrive at the hotel; the three Americans share a room whilst I’m made to pay Dutch and share a bed with Destanny and Thomas.
After we are comfortably settled in, we all walk down the tourist ridden high street of this dusty town. We sit on plastic chairs amongst decorated palm trees and order from laminated menus.
After this mornings breakfast I make my excuses and find some time for myself. I walk off to discover a road that meanders downhill under coconut trees. Looking down at my dusty shoes, noticing another cut in my foot, I try to avoid the damp patches in the gravel for fear of catching a water-borne infection.
•
My gut tells me that time is passing and everyone will be collecting back at the hotel and…I ought to be turning back? But as this happens I look up and read a hair saloon sign: ‘Haircuts for one-hundred-rupees’. That’s a pound! Perfect! And quite a revelation that I am even considering a hair cut because three years ago I stopped going to hairdressers – I resented their idle chit chat and have been cutting my own hair ever since. Admittedly the first time took me an hour, but now I have it down to twenty minutes. All it takes is the kitchen scissors, a mirror and someone else to tidy up the last remaining hairs. Ok, so it’s never perfect immediately, but once a week has passed all the clumps I have cut out by mistake have grown out and it’s acceptable again.
This must be the purpose of my walk. Fate!
The chipper barber signals me to take to the chair but before I sit I check the unbelievable price with him - he reassures me it is right and so I sit and relax.
“Your hair is done, would sir like a head massage?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.” I say, thinking that it’ll only be pennies after all.
Another question soon follows. “A skin massage?”
“Yes please.” as if he had to ask.
“Here smell this face pack, isn’t it natural and cleansing, would you like to try this?” he says with passion.
“Yes please.” I say, aware of how often I say ‘Yes’ now.
“How about this special lotion too?” he continues.
“Hmm, Yes.” I say, feeling fantastic.
“Sir, look. You look so much better, and look at all this grime I have taken off your fresh skin.” he shows me the muck on his blade and flannel.
Ninety pleasurable minutes have passed, but it seems ominous that a crowd has developed around me, especially as some of them are Westerners. I’m guessing that the audience is looking up to me as a man of stature, great choice and decision, because I have obviously chosen the greatest barber in the land.
“That’ll be seven hundred and fifty Rupees.” he says as he holds out the mirror for the final time.
“Woah!” I say immediately. I must be the Emperor with his new clothes.
Seven-hundred-and-fifty-rupees is a great day’s wage for an Indian! I turn and stare at him, he doesn’t flinch; I stand up from the chair, place my hand on his shoulder and direct him away from the crowd to the back of his shop. My confusion is short lived, he explains that the haircut was one-hundred rupees, the head massage two-hundred rupees, the shave one-hundred rupees, the face pack one-hundred rupees and the special face massage lotion a further one-hundred-and-fifty rupees. Unsure if I’ve been conned or if I am an arrogant arsehole I do what any polite British person would do…I pay up and convince myself that it is worth it by relating it to UK prices. Then I feel wonderful for indulging myself in this way.
•
On the walk back to my penny-pinching friends, I promise myself that I won’t tell them how much I paid, I know they wouldn’t understand. As soon as I get back, I tell them: the women think it’s fantastic, whilst the men think it’s a waste of money.
Day 6, Mumbai, India
Engulfed in the timeless respite of moving on and consumed with guilt for forcing my travelling self on these Americans. I can justify the fact that I am now travelling with them, it’s not too much of a hardship for them to bare, in comparison, to the much needed sense of security that they provide me.
I’m heading South with five other travellers from the ‘Sea Shore Hotel’ to the sunny beach delights of Goa, just a few hundred miles South of here by bus.
Every individual in our group of six is like a magnet to me, it’s just that some are positively charged and others are negatively charged. I wonder if I should make a real effort to follow their leader or inflict myself on them and take charge of the group? Taking control could unbalance everyone and kick me out in to the cold. No, I don’t want that, I’ll choose to play the joker and lighten the air that way.
Sitting around in the hotel room before departure I am with Dan (negatively charged), our leader, who has been dating Jen (positively charged) an angel, for all of two years, who seems to be flirting with me and teasing me with the idea of jumping on the back of a motorbike and riding across India with me. This leads to a communal moment, Dan gets irate, Jen feels powerful and I fall in love.
Tensions are dissipated as Justin (positively charged) enters the hotel room. As Dan’s best friend, the two guys are on a trip of a lifetime together - a six month voyage around the world together, except that Dan brought Jen along for the first month. The two American guys have set up vlogabond.com to pioneer video travel blogging, an impressive idea and they even have a sponsor in the travel guide company: ‘Lonely Planet’. But it seems, only in hundreds of ‘Lonely Planet’ branded condoms! (Jen gives me one). To complete our six we also have to Dutch travellers that we picked up in Mumbai.
•
This is how it happened: on Day 3 I had met Justin at the ‘Sea Shore Hotel’ in Mumbai and we’d clicked when we spent the day together as extra’s on the set of the Bollywood movie (whilst Dan and Jen spent the day editing video footage of Mumbai for their videoblog).
After the Bollywood filming, Justin and I had followed the crowd of extras in to an American themed sports bar where the fifteen of us were led up some steps, through a corridor dimly lit by a plasma screen and into the back bar to be served Budweiser. I had found out quite quickly that Justin was infatuated with a Dutch extra – a mysterious creature that sat quietly amongst the geeks in the corner of our group.
Justin was besotted with her and I had to help him.
I walked over to chat to her and upon closer inspection I noticed that her dark black hair was offset eloquently by the colourful throws of her garments. She had been around all day, but it was only Justin’s new passion for her that meant that I was really noticing her now. I could now see what he saw, and then I glanced at Justin to check once more for myself that what I was thinking was really true, and it was: she was completely out of his league.
What an excitement – what a challenge this would be! Tongue in cheek, I encourage Justin to go chat to her, knowing he wouldn’t. I stood up as eager to please as Tom Cruise with a new girlfriend, pulled my arms behind his back and pulled him over to her, where she looked on as if this was normal behaviour, but then he shamefully scurried back to his original position. This was ‘Justin’s Game’, but he wasn’t hitting the balls, so I moved him to the sidelines and served on his behalf.
“What kind of music do you like?” I asked the Dutch girl.
She spoke non-stop for a minute! I didn’t listen much but picked up one name I recognised Bob Marley and that was enough to kick-off the second part of my plan to unite Justin with his Destanny.
Removing myself from her music chat I bounced over to Justin where he was delighted when he realised I was not actually moving in on her myself.
“I’ve told her that you know everything about Bob Marley, you’ll answer any question she has.” I told him. He nodded. I returned to his Destanny shortly before beckoning him over to discuss music with her, where he managed to convincingly make up answers to all of her Bob Marley questions up until she asked how tall he was, something that he got wrong but she didn’t seem to mind, which was proof enough that I was no longer required.
•
Our bus group has: American Dan, American Jen and American Justin, Dutch Destanny and Dutch Thomas (negatively charged), the male friend that she’s travelling with.
The five of us board the bus and I’m to share with Thomas, “Stop. Don’t talk. I don’t like to do small talk, it’s a waste of time.” Thomas, my overnight bus trip bed-partner told me.
Pause. Think. Where is he? Whoosh, window is open, and blurgh there it is, pizza, perhaps pepperoni. Regurgitates from his mouth and flows from out of the window. Bliss, a double bed all to my own, until he moans for self-pity. Begrudging thoughts fill my head and I lack patience. Stop, count. One, two, three. A head appears at my bedside. Biting my lip to the jolt of the bus, too hard. Clawing at his bag for life’s necessity. Water. Clutching at life’s luxury, an iPod blaring Britney. I want that! Selfish. Transported through the night, we hit a mesmerising silence on board. Badum, badum. Badum, badum. The sound of the lullaby machine rocks me. Gear change, jolt. Content like a girl with chocolate. Pounding noise but constant rhythm battering out a motion-filled tune, making my imagination run wild every time with a jerk of the breaks. James Bond escape: had the driver hit them because we are about to verve off a cliff? puncture? Hiss. Gear change. Crying baby. When will we stop for the toilet next? Tick tock tick tock. Shall I drink some water to loose this headache? But then I’ll need the toilet. And when is that stop? Magazine distracts my weariness. Words. I read about a man who rode a motorbike around the world in twenty six days. Lusting over a dream. Drink more, piss more. Stop drinking. Toilet nightmares. Diarrhoea- will it be solid? Or Squelch? Will there be toilets, toilet paper, fleas, ants, time? Padlock. Will my luggage get stolen from atop of the truck? When will I next be able to get more water? Hiss, gear change. What food have I got? If I eat the biscuits now, when will I get a replacement pack? Why does that Israeli continue to listen to his iPod with his music blaring. Selfish. Gear Change. Break. Stop. Arrive.
Day 5, Slums of Mumbai, India
I wait outside the hostel feeling confused, wondering who I should be spending time with now that I’ve made friends with a bunch of Americans from the Bollywood movie.
Babu arrives and we head off together. Like old friends we have a routine. He flags down a taxi. He opens the door and lets me get in first. He tells the driver where to go. I daydream out of the window and on arrival I pay, whilst Babu opens the door for me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t turn up yesterday,” I say in the taxi.
“That’s ok Mr. Will, I was worried if you were OK or not,” he replies.
“Yes, I was fine. So, where are we going today?” I say without giving an explanation.
“Here is your money back, Mr. Will. It is no good. There is no hope. I need another one-thousand-eight-hundred rupees for a licence and uniform,” he says as he hands me back the money.
“Babu, yesterday I had a lot of time to think about what you told me on the phone and I want to give you the further money,” I say, amazed at how easy it is to give twice as much money after I have already made the big decision to give in the first place.
“Really?” he pauses, “Thank you,” he says sincerely.
“So, where are we going?” I ask to change the subject because I can see that he is about to break down in tears.
He suggests Chai and I look at him expecting a little more. I suggest his mothers house and he looks at me shamefully because he’s embarrassed to take me there. In compromise, I suggest the place where his shoe shine-box is being made and he accepts.
Our taxi soon arrives at Mumbai’s largest train station. A little history on this. It was formerly known as ‘Victoria Terminus’ but renamed ‘Chhatrapati Shivaji’, after a Maratha king of the 17th century. It was modelled on London’s St. Pancras Station when it was built in 1888 for the princely sum of sixteen rupees.
Two million passengers flow through here everyday, which makes the Babu and Will story a one-in-a-million combination. We head north seven stops out of Mumbai, near the slum where Babu lives. On arrival we jump into a tut-tut and zoom off up the dusty street.
I can see that from the outside what I am doing seems really stupid. ‘Getting a taxi, a train and then a tut-tut with a penniless stranger, who has possibly already conned me, to an unknown destination in a slum outside Mumbai.’ But I accept what is happening for a few reasons: I am aware of the dangers but we are in public and if it came down to it, I know I could over-power the featherweight Babu in a fight. This inner confidence comes to an end as we jump out of the tut-tut and walk down the narrow streets of the slum away from the public crowds. Here it would only take Babu and one friend to over power me.
Alert to every smell, thought and movement, I know the exact position of every possession in both my traveller’s security belt and my day sack. I notice the height of the over head cables, the exit routes, the distance we have travelled from the main street, the open sewage systems we step over, the bright colours of the painted walls and the sounds of the individual scooters within the vicinity. I am Rambo!
Proud of myself for taking this risk, following my gut and foolhardy instincts I am risking it all. It reminds me of the last seconds before I did my one and only Bungee jump. I stood on the ledge preparing to leap out, knowing that I should do it, telling myself that if I didn’t then my life wasn’t a life worth living!
We arrive at a small opening in the slums, a mini courtyard, not large, say four metres across which has five exits at ground level and in one corner, a bamboo ladder that I am gently instructed to climb up. I give in and pass Babu my bag as I climb the ladder. If this is my fate, then this is my fate.
To my absolute delight the ladder leads to a room that is both the carpenter’s house and factory. From behind a bed sheet he pulls out and presents Babu with a brand new shoe-shine box. Babu goes quiet; he hugs his box and stands patiently whilst the carpenter’s family look on in admiration of this entrepreneurial young man.
“How many people live here?” I ask the carpenter.
He pauses and smiles broadly at me but says nothing.
“Eleven of us,” says his son.
“Wow.” I reply quietly, “Can I photograph some of you?”
40 second video in the slums and the photo I took
I get out my camera and take shots of members of the family going about their daily chores: the daughter cooking and the mum talking!
Always searching for an opportune handbag moment, I notice that Babu is chatting to the carpenter’s son, a tall, athletic mid-twenties fella named Monu who wears American-looking clothes. I interrupt; I have found my moment. I photograph Babu with both the contents of his shoe-shine box and his wallet.
He takes his wallet, gently positioning every scrap of paper, business card, prayer card, personal identification and photograph he owns on the floor in front of him. As I help him lay them out I wonder why he has so many leads and is still on the streets.
“These three pictures are my favourite possessions,” says Babu as he shows me images of Bollywood actresses, proving to me that what he treasures most is not business connections or the tools of his trade, but his dream of romance.
I am shocked when the wife of the carpenter holds out her hand and signals to me that I should pay them for taking the photos of the family. It seems rude and insensitive as I have given so much to Babu already and they are actually receiving a fair chunk of that for making the box in the first place. Backed into a corner by this materialistic request, I look in my wallet; I have a small note and one off ridiculously high value. It has always seemed impolite to ask for change when I give to charity but I suppose that is a trait of the English middle-class to give the smaller note because one don’t like to ask for change. I give the mother the money knowing full well that I will probably regret the decision to give her the smaller note for the rest of my life.
•
On the way back Babu, Monu and I avoid the overcrowded train and take a taxi to town. I wave them goodbye outside the State Offices where they are off to apply for Babu’s work permit and licence. What will become of him I do not know. What I do know is that our time together has transcended business and he has shown me the underbelly of life in India that I was desperately searching for.
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