Mumbai - The Maximum City?

The plane touched down at the plane station at 5am. We were unable to check in to our hotel until noon. This presented us with the ideal opportunity to wander round like boggled-eyed tourists in a new city.  We quickly found out that Mumbai has little in the way of tourist sights and is very much a business city. By 7.30am we'd pretty much done the three or four sights of note in a 45 minute amble and then went to the park.

Plates 1 & 2: Gateway of India at dawn.

I had read much about the extremes of poverty and wealth in Mumbai and how it shocks newcomers; how the oppressive heat sapped the energy of the all but the most insane and how Mumbai had been named "The Maximum City" (taken from Suketu Mehta's book of the same name, which shows the city in a brutal, frank light rather than anything sentimental or positive as the title suggests to me - I haven't read it to my detriment). I had also heard of the Indian's love for cricket, but nothing really prepared me the Oval maidan at 8am on a Wednesday morning. Dozens of games were in progress, with wickets every couple of yards. In places there were 3 fielders stood within two meters of each other, each playing in a different game. Balls (tennis balls, rather than the traditional) were flying all over the park and it was virtually impossible to keep a track of any one game or player as my eyes had to be alert to the possibility of 5 other balls landing on me. And yet everyone was having a grand old time and managing to to play happily in their own games. Balls got lost, or thrown back to the wrong game, or even disappeared out of the park on to the highway. Admittedly, some of the wickets were a touch lumpy, and some of the bowling actions were perhaps borderline legal (the run ups were fine...) but the spectacle was great. Some order was retained thanks to the teams having coloured strips to wear.

Unlike the on the Azal maidan, where all the teams chose to wear whites. This was too much for my tiny, tired mind to comprehend and we slinked off back to the hotel to see if we could force an early entry to our room.We couldn't, so we camped out in the reception - read: an internal room with three metal chairs. We got in at 11am and duly slept through to the next day, pretty much.

Plate 3: Oval Maidan at about 8am.
The cricket is all down the other end.

Plate 4: More cricket.
Not Big Ben in the background.

Mumbai was to be home for the next few days. Home of Bollywood, apparently home of some of the finest street food in India, home to a slum with an economy worth 700 million pounds per year (there's no pound sign on this keyboard), and home to 18 million people. In truth, it was a touch boring. As a result we made plans to head to Goa - where Graham's mate Rich has a villa - fairly quickly. Unfortunately, the Indian train system being what it is (it employs 1.6 million people, read it and weep defunct British Rail), we couldn't get a bed-seat til the day after we wanted to leave. Which turned out (for one of us) to be a jolly good thing indeed.

I woke one morning to vivid greens, bright yellows and the sound of trickling water. Unfortunately not the hotel decor (best described as "seen better days"), but actually what was coming out of my arse. For the next 26 hours I was confined to bed and bog.  Having sampled plenty of streetfood and restaurant food, my cockiness was soon replaced with a stupor as I was knocked for 6. Still, it got it out of the way.

I really have very little to recommend in Mumbai, should you find yourself there. It seemed all a bit tame if I'm honest. Maybe I wasn't looking in the right places, or being roomed at the far end of the city on a peninsula left little chance to get out in to the city proper. Yeah, we wandered the streets for a few hours, found ourselves lost, happened across winding alleys and hidden temples, but for some reason I just didn't click with it.

Plates 5 & 6: Mumbai streetshots.

One night, following some football and beer, we were walking back to the hotel and came across a closed door, beyond which loud music was emanating. Several gents on the door said we could go, we established it wasn't a clip joint and that the beers were expensive but not exorbitantly so, and wandered in. I think we were both hoping for something...interesting. And it was. In a way. We walked in to a small room, with a tiny bar at one end and a small stage down one side of the room. On the stage were several members of a band, a singer and three lasses looking positively bored. We immediately assumed it to be a lapdance club, and ordered beers. There were others in there, all Indian. Two large security fellas manned the door, one with hands like shovels, looking as though they'd walked straight from a villains lair on the set of a Roger Moore-era Bond film - ill-fitting black suits, black ties, white shirts - and several waiters making themselves busy.

We only observed. Honest.

The three bored lasses swayed a little as the singer sang traditional Indian tunes and the band played. A portly Indian gent came in a changed 1000 rupees in to a stack of 10 rupee notes from the bar. I watched. He began waving the 10 rupee notes around (about 12.5p) and pointing to the bored girls, who accepted them and then went back on to the stage and swayed. Or checked their phones. More notes waved and accepted. More swaying and text messages. More notes given away. I tried to establish exactly when the lapdancing would commence, or when the rotund Indian would be lead upstairs. I waited. And waited further. I noticed shovel-hand security break in to a little song and wave of the hands - clearly enjoying the song being sung. Then finally, some sort of monetary level must have been reached and one of the three bored sirens sprung in to action! She started to dance. And dance. And dance. The corpulent Indian loved it, furnishing her with more 12.5p notes. It was all very nice dancing, in a traditional Indian fashion. Then it stopped. She was still fully clothed and went back to the stage and swayed.

Had I missed something here?

The Indian gent was very happy with the show and left shortly after, but not before all the waiting staff queued up for tips. It being late, and Graham and myself being thoroughly confused by what we'd just witnessed (or not witnessed) we opted to leave. In short, this was a lapdancing club, but lacking the lap bit. So just a dancing club. It just didn't make any sense. Why the security? Why the big double door with 4 men manning it? Why the seedy, after hours opening hours? In a tenuous fashion it summed up Mumbai for me. Promised so much, had all the right elements there to make it an interesting place, but it just didn't deliver.

Time for Goa was upon us. I'd read how the hippies had all but cleared off, chased off by Russians and the package holiday dollar/rupee; how the Government had imposed strict, early, closing hours on bars and how in short, Goa was not supposedly Goa anymore. The train ride was a 10 hour sleeper. We boarded the train and bedded down.

Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

Coming in to land at Istanbul, the headlights of the cars below were reflecting of the wet roads, much like those I spotted as we departed Manchester (it was 11am in Manc, but still as dark as night thanks to the grey). So much for sunnier climes. The weather throughout the two days was cold and damp, except for the final day, which was cold and sunny.

Plate 1: Turkey

We found the hostel and then found the football that was on - Man Utd v. Everton, followed by Galatasaray v. Medical Park Antalyaspor. A local match that me and Graham had somehow overlooked when plotting our 'round the world in 80 pitches' trip. Similarly, we had overlooked the beer price list when we entered The Port Shield in central Istanbul, and after 3 pints of local Efes we clocked we would be paying 13.50 Turkish Lira each. That's 6 quid. Per pint. It was a recurring theme throughout the two nights we were there.

Plate 2: Basilica Cistern, an underground reservoir in Istanbul.
Nowt to do with toilets. I think.

Plate 3: Spice Bazaar

Plate 4: Fishing.
That's Asia in the background, through the grey.

Istanbul is really very old. Everyone that's tried to either invade the Middle East from Europe (hello Crusades) or invade Europe from the Middle East (er...this lot from 300?) have passed through here and left a little of themselves. It's age is reflected in the warren-like alleys and lanes in the old city, particularly around the Grand Bazaar and Spice Bazaar. We happened across loads of little squares and yards, and it did reflect an Asian way of building and approach to commerce. Streets would sell the same products - one street specialised in lighting, another in safes and locks, and another in fabrics. So on and so forth.

Plate 5: Minaret & birds

Plate 6: Hagia Sophia. Possibly.
Otherwise it's the Blue Mosque.

We hooked up with an American chap called Ravi and Pascual the Chilean. Ravi had recently sold an internet start-up business which specialised in administration of University sports leagues (showing that not all internet businesses are staid and dull...); Pascual had been representing Chile in a debating competition in Antalya, and was eevrything you should hate about someone - good looking, intelligent, rich and privileged. Except he was a top fella. They were both, in fact, decent fellows and luckily entertained each other as we wandered the streets of Istanbul. Ravi - talking endlessly as Yanks do - insisted on taking all direction and recommendations from Lonely Planet, which resulted in us heading to "the King of Kebabs" in a taxi (8 quid) and spending 24 quid on kebabs. Each. For the hard of reading, that's TWENTY FOUR POUND STERLING. On KEBABS. EACH. Not a garlic or chilli sauce in sight neither. Shortly after that (well, during the 8 quid taxi ride back to the hostel actually) I decided not to listen to Ravi again during my time in Istanbul, or indeed ever, should we meet again. Which we won't.

And that was pretty much Istanbul. Expensive (needlessly pretty much), cool, and worth a visit should you fancy it. The following day we were off to Mumbai!

So long to Sheffield, the UK, everything.

OK, if you're reading this you know I've decided to give it a go overseas. If you've been overseas then you'll know that keyboards are laid out all weird and the keys sticky, partially functioning or simply missing, probably through years of backtwatters writing self-opining, full-of-themselves, twining blogs just like this. So you'll have to excuse any typos, lack of correct punctuation, stories which go nowhere and complaints about the quality of white sands in exotic places.

But I'll begin, briefly (...), before my departure. I was given a great send off from Harrisons by mates old and new in the rave cave at number 31. Cracking DJ sets from Paul & Chris (listen to their show on MyHouseYourHouse, Saturdays 6-8pm here), Carl & Nic (who are doing this event with Paul & Chris and it will be ace) and Patrick (have a Box Jams mix here). Some people I didn't know were there, but mostly everyone was there and it was a great ego massage. I'd done a bit of video work to get some visuals together - some querying the continued life of a certain Thatcher, some imploring people to have substances, some hardcore anal porn (each clip of those lasting precisely 0.13 seconds) plus some more general clubby stuff (a giant eye watching you, wireframe Star Wars arcade from the 80s, bit of Manga, some slow-mo stuff).  Thanks to those that made it, if you had half as much fun as I did then I trust you enjoyed it. I just wish I'd thought ahead and got some of you back to help me clear up the following day...

Anyway, that was that. Sheffield was 'done'. Mother and father journeyed to help me clear my stuff. Mum's car packed to the ginnels, Dad's containing a dining table and three boxes. And a rug that, after some persuading, did bend enough to get the boot closed.

Pretty much the majority of people, once I'd told them I was planning ultimately to go to Thailand to find teaching work, made the old wink and nudge gesture and with a sly look responded with "going to get a Thai bride eh?" fnarr fnarr, wahey, nudge nudge wink wink, say no more my son, say no more... **SLIGHT RANT WARNING** OK if you were one of those people, and I didn't respond as I am about to, please do read on. Now, I have been to Thailand before, I did some teaching work out there. I enjoyed it. The people were incredibly friendly, the food was great, the beer was cheap. It barely rained. It was very pleasant, enjoyable and relaxing (most of the time).  Why on earth then, when things had been pretty fucking miserable for me over the last 3- 4 months would I want to return there? Clearly so I can conform to some shit stereotype. Now, obviously I am going to Thailand, where the incidence of meeting and getting to know Thai people will inevitably be greater than being sat behind a bar in Sheffield (well, unless it was the Cremorne). Ergo, if I am to get romantically involved with a lass, the chances are heavily weighted in favour of her being Thai. But of course, these relationships are clearly only ever one way and pretty much abusive. I will clearly be falling in to the arms of the first lass to show any interest, not that it'll be 'true' interest because as I'm a white westerner, she will clearly be driven by monetary greed and an over-whelming desire to live in a grey, dank country far from her family where she can work for pittance and syphon money off me back to her family to keep them in white whiskey and ensure the water buffalo never fall ill.. Open your minds you silly people.

Glad that's out of the way now.

I had promised to pack light, initially hoping to go with a 20 litre backpack, mostly filled with gin. Reality hit when the mozzie net I had took up half the room. I explored other ways of reducing bulk (of my stuff, not me); could shampoo double up as bodywash - surely they're both soap? Could I survive for a week on three pairs of underkeks (inside & outside and then one for luck)? Could toothpaste improvise as a minty, refreshing factor 200 suncream? In the end I managed to reduce to 10kg in a large backpack and a few bits and bobs in a 'daypack'. So that was it then. Packed. The last week was spent writing an ever-increasing to do list, spending time with family and generally questioning whether I was doing the 'right' thing. I was, I concluded. On Sunday 10th February at 11.10am I flew out of rain-sodden Manchester (and indeed all of the UK) clutching a one way ticket to Mumbai, via Istanbul. Well, not clutching as such, because you can't nowadays get hold of an actual tangible ticket. I was metaphorically clutching an e-ticket on my phone. Or something. Anyway, I left.

Istanbul was wet too. And that's the next blog.