Bombay bizarre

I arrived in Bombay at two in the morning. It was 1995 and the city
had yet to be re-named. A wave of heat accosted me as I left the plane.
No expense wasted on unnecessary luxury such as air-conditioning or
fans in that international airport. I felt tired and uncomfortable and
my stomach had started to make odd gurgling noises more associated with
dodgy plumbing. I was so proud of myself for having booked a hotel in
advance. It was so unlike me and I felt as if I was beginning a new
life as a keen and organised individual. I congratulated myself
heartily. The fact that I was meeting a small group of friends from
Britain for a two-week beach holiday seemed inconsequential. I was on
the road, an adventurer- mistress of my own destiny!

The airport was fairly quiet by the time I had collected my luggage. I
pre-paid for an ambassador taxi to take me to the "Madison Hotel"
Although it was very dark, as we travelled I could make out the glint
of human pupils amidst amorphous forms as we rattled through the
shadowy streets. My driver was silent and I felt that I could relax in
the absorption of my new surroundings.
My first time in India. I had been expecting more noise and uproar. As
we left one part of the city for the next island it seemed as if we
were driving along a causeway, ranked on either side by the inky
blackness of the Arabian Sea. It took us about fifteen minutes to reach
the Colaba district, the tip of the southernmost "Ghat" of the city. I
had done my research before leaving Hong Kong and was pleased to
recognise the fruits of my uncharacteristic labours.

"The Gateway of India"-( a huge basalt arch built to commemorate
British Colonialism in 1924,the system which in this case had only
twenty four years left) was lit up by a rank of lurid spotlights and
presided over by an even huger monument- the Taj Mahal Hotel. A legend
in its own right, this Mumbai institution was built in 1903 by JN Tata,
one of the city's great Parsi benefactors, supposedly after he was
refused entry to one of the city's European hotels on account of being
'a native'. I was very much in favour of anyone who put two fingers up
to the establishment and had I only been a few million rupees richer, I
would have loved to have patronised that grand establishment. Whether
or not I would have been refused me entry is a question which sadly
remained unanswered.

I arrived at the Madison Hotel somewhat sweaty and definitely ready
for a cold shower. The hotel staff were somewhat chilly- perhaps
disapproving of an unmarried female travelling alone? I was slightly
surprised about having to hand in my passport and didn't quite know
whether to feel offended by this indirect suggestion that I could be a
potential runaway. I couldn't be bothered to show my reluctance so did
as I was asked. I was pleased to close and lock the door. My stomach
was by then ready for immediate evacuation and I experienced my first-
I hesitate to used the word "taste"-of the infamous "Delhi Belly".
Exhausted, I crept onto the huge double bed and although slightly
terrified by the enormous creaking and shuddering fan which laboured
above me, I fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke at six the next morning. Dressing quickly, I stumbled to the
balcony which overlooked Sasoon Dock
The sky was a bizarre mix of, navy, filtering to dark aquamarine and
then a deep rich orange around the glowing bulb of the sun on the
horizon. I felt suddenly lonely- a strange sensation of witnessing
something of such unique beauty and fascination that it seemed a waste
not to share it with someone. I took a couple of photographs of the
aesthetically beautiful effect of gross pollution. The streets seemed
empty but I could detect the sweeping of a pathway and the chattering
of birds in the dusty treetops. Feeling overcome by a sudden tiredness-
my departure from Hong Kong the previous evening had been one of
debauched drunkenness- I fell back onto my bed and closed my
eyes.

The world to which I awoke was very different. The sun had now risen to
a point in the sky where its rays passed over the shutters of my
window. I could hardly prise my eyes open from their protective squint.
The heat was uncomfortable, my throat was dry and looking at my watch,
I had massively overslept.

According to my "Bible", The Lonely Planet's Guide To India, the Goan
state buses ran at two O'clock daily. The catamaran did not sail over
the Christmas holidays as its destination, Goa was a Catholic enclave.
To miss the bus was unthinkable. I still had two hours but my previous
plan to find the bus company, then purchase the ticket and return to
the hotel for my ludicrously over-packed rucksack now seemed
unfeasible. I threw together the few belongings I had scattered around
the room, stuffed them into the already-straining side zips of my
baggage, went downstairs, paid my bill and left.

I was inundated with offers of "Hello Madam- taxi?" as soon as I
stepped out of the hotel grounds. Seeing the buildings down the street,
called PJ Pramachandani Marge, I was struck by the similarity between
these sunlit houses and those along the streets of Brighton- although
these structures were surrounded by palm trees and looked as though
they hadn't been re-painted since the British left.

When I arrived at my destination- a huge gate opening onto a cricket
green where hundred of mini- games were being played by Indian boys and
young men, wearing mostly taupe or beige slacks and white shirts, I was
momentarily confused as to where I should be going next. I pointed at
the place on my map I had been reliably informed I could buy the ticket
and my taxi-driver nodded voraciously and pointed straight ahead. All I
could see through the brown powdery air was a hubbub-hundreds of people
kicking up even more dust as they passed each other at a narrowing of
the road. I could see why my driver was reluctant to go any further. I
got out and paid.

As I started to walk towards the throng I inhaled the acrid smell of
urine. I turned to where the smell was strongest and I felt my own
bladder pressurise my lower abdomen. There was a public toilet to my
right and a barefooted woman with her sari skirt ballooned to a nappy
above her thighs was washing the brick-laid path towards it. I followed
the path of the furiously-spreading water. At the end of the path lay a
semi-naked man of around forty, his eyes and mouth covered in a buzzing
party of fat black flies. The water ran down towards his head and found
its way around his shoulders before sinking into the beige dust. I
looked around, waiting for someone to help him or wake him up, but the
crowds passed on seemingly unfazed. He was motionless and the flies
seemed unobstructed by any threat of breath. A gang of young boys ran
past, one leaping the body with a whoop of glee. Where was I? .