Deet Petite

20 March 2006 – Day 1

It’s evening now, I’m in a western hotel room, and everything is calm. The peace is only disturbed by a dim hub-bub of the street outside and planes coming into land at the nearby airport. I have a full belly and a soft bed. I could be at home. I’m actually in India.

We made it. I’m pleased that one miserable night out in Islington 18 months ago has ultimately lead us here. My vital senses are still in England so it’s a dreamy, sedated mood in which I write this. We left, checked in, took off, landed, taxied and arrived in less than 12 hours.

Yesterday’s series of farewells and subsequent journey were far more smooth and slick than we would of imagined. Craig, thank you for getting us into the Terraces Lounge and World Travel Plus on the plane, it made everything very comfortable indeed. James and I were prepared for ambush when we landed, however. We didn’t even step off the plane without covering ourselves in Deet, Sun Block., long trousers, long sleeve shirts, mosquito wristbands and sunglasses. In my chinos, khaki shirt and smart shoes (donned to get into the posh lounge in Heathrow) I felt like an ex-colonial naïve cracker. Fortunately I wasn’t treated like one.

Although the airport was dilapidated and undergoing refurbishment everything was efficient; baggage collection, security checks were quick and the hotel courtesy driver was waiting to collect us as planned. The heat was tolerable even though we were wearing silly clothes. It didn’t take long for our first authentic Indian experience. I asked the courtesy driver to help me buy a ticket for Thursday down to Cochin. We struggled with language between us for a while, but immediately the other taxi-wallahs stepped in to help translate and the keenness of the locals to help out revealed itself. As we made our way towards the kiosk, child beggars approached us. I was thrown off balance as I tried to negotiate a train ticket, mind my bag, hand out money and decide what was a reasonably generous sum. I’ve not been in the situation where a hierarchy was assembled beneath me before, and it was quite a shock. I kept walking to the back of the queue for a ticket, everytime I did so the courtesy driver would grab my arm and pull me back to front of a pushing queue, first for a paper ticket application and then to pay. I looked to see the effect it had, but the locals seemed happy, or at least resigned to letting me through. Flustered and losing my cool, I let myself be cajoled into pushing in, whilst I was chided for giving to the child beggars. I don’t know whether this was to do with colonial aftermath, caste systems, kindness or different measure of each. At 882 rupees for two tickets, our total travel to Cochin will cost James and I little over 5 pound each. I can’t get to Reading from Slough for that amount.

Sweating and stinking of deet, I felt something of a novelty as James and I sat in the back of the courtesy SUV, despite coming from an international airport. With wide eyes we drove through school children, traders, beggars in the slums surrounding the airport. Crude observations filled my head, mainly the scale of the poverty and the diminutive build of the residents. There are few or no lanes at all on Indian roads, even on major routes. Auto-rickshaws and pick-ups swerve around each other with alarming indifference and danger. Though the general speed of travel is slow I think the mortality rate on Mumbai’s roads must be huge. Once we pulled off a major road and into Prabhat Colony, we were moving into another working class but far less poverty-stricken area. On arriving at our hotel, we dithered over tips, politely made our way to our rooms and crashed out.
A few hours later we were revived and refreshed enough to check out the local vicinity. The hotel clerk seemed to be neither pleased nor bothered to answer my questions on Prabhat and Santa Cruz station.

It seems a couple of white boys make a novel sight, at least to some. Mainly wise-cracking local kids. Auto-rickshaws whiz around the narrow streets of Prabhat colony as fast as anywhere else, and James and I had some close shaves! After making it to the train station we crossed into the market area and India arrived. Streets thronged with traders and merchants variously selling fruit, veg, Indian tea, electronic repair services and clothes. My nostrils were filled with redolent smells and the variety of local people surpassed all expectations I had. We wandered past the Female Indian Railway Worker’s crèche and the municipal co-op and onto more streets full of deals and energy. Jim stood staring at something, so I turned and saw a guy on an elephant walking down the main thoroughfare with bikes, tuk-tuks and cars buzzing around it; the elephant seemed unfazed. We scarpered back to the hotel for some dinner. The number of beggars here were relatively few, but there are many stray dogs that lie prostrate on the road unperturbed by the tuk tuks, not even flinching when they drive straight past their heads. We ordered food, a very pleasant Veg. Biriyani and roti from room service for about 1 pound. After tipping the porter another bloke came in and mopped the floor on his hands and knees with a wet rag. This hugely embarrassed me, but it is impossible to stop employees doing their job. After we gave this chap a tip, he eagerly shook both our hands. Strangely, all the security guards salute us as we enter and leave the hotel. Tomorrow we see down-town Mumbai and no doubt get scammed whilst learning to haggle.