Four hours to kill in Mumbai

Published in the Saturday Star travel supplement on 28 October 2006

The South African cricket team’s recent visit to Mumbai brought back memories of my visit earlier this year. I have a dread of large cities with their pickpockets, crowds, traffic, noise and pollution. Mumbai is not normally on visitors’ itinerary but having a few hours to kill before flying to Rajasthan, I went on a tour and discovered some strange curiosities.

On the edge of the Arabian Sea are seven islands, once part of the dowry of a Portuguese queen, now cramped with 17 million people. Mumbai was formerly known as Bombay and is India's foremost seaport, financial capital and home to Bollywood, the largest film industry in the world.

Arriving at Mumbai’s international airport at 3am, a limousine whisked me through narrow, dirt-choked streets, busy even at that time. Drivers appeared to ignore rules as they noisily raced through frenzied traffic like a real-life video game. Under bridges, fires gave warmth to the homeless, living in makeshift shelters.

Next day, after a disappointing breakfast-even the eggs are spicy-hot-a guide and a driver collected me and we whisked into town. Actually we crawled, one cannot ‘whisk’ in Mumbai fume-choked traffic. Crossing Mahin Creek I jealously watched cycle and auto-rickshaws as they dodged between overstuffed rattletrap buses, travelling at breakneck speed, barely avoiding pedestrians and cows.

“That’s what we need in SA’s big cities,” I thought. “And it would create lots of jobs.”

We stopped above Mahalaxmi train station, where we saw the dhobi gaht, traditional laundrymen, and unique to Mumbai.

“Dhobi’s inherit the occupation,” said guide Vaibhavi Jaywant, “call me Vickie.”

In this miniature city, dhobi-denizens scurry between rows of concrete wash pens where clothes soak in sudsy water, the dirt then thrashed out on flogging stones before being tossed into huge vats of boiling starch. Above the pens are billowing clothes, densely strung on lines hung out to dry. When dry the dhobi’s use charcoal irons, then pile the neatly pressed items into bundles. Somehow, the clothes are separated and delivered to the customer’s door that same evening, all for a pittance.

Passing the Gothic Chhatrapati Shivaji or Victoria Terminus – called VT by locals - looking more like a sumptuously decorated palace than something as ordinary as a transport depot. This conglomeration of carvings - monkeys, lions and peacocks, turrets, spires, buttresses, domes and stained-glass windows - is topped by the statue of Progress, and was completed in 1887. The railways are the lifeline of the city with 11 million people using public transport every day, something I found hard to believe with the traffic congestion! Travelling by vehicle is a nightmare with no room for expansion, although there are plans to build an eight-lane highway offshore, curving to deflect monsoon winds.

As we crawled through traffic, Vickie pointed to a man wearing a white cap and carrying unwieldy crates loaded with thousands of tiered canisters.

“He’s a dhaba wallah,” she said and then went on to tell me of a unique ‘happening’ that goes on every morning on suburban trains. The dhaba wallahs collect lunch in the canisters, which are filled with rice, dhal, chapatti etc, cooked by wives and sent to their husband's office in the city by train and cycle rickshaw. The amazing part is that hundreds of thousands of food containers, each one simply marked with coloured strings and delivered by uneducated people, arrive at their destiny with few mistakes. These are the true masters of modern logistics with each container finding its destination, and its way back in the afternoon.

Next stop, Mani Bhavan in a leafy lane, the house where Gandhi lived, now a museum retelling his story with the clever use of dioramas.

Thirsty work, so we stopped for a sugar cane drink, spiced with ginger and lime. We drank and watched men dip hands into vats of milk.

“Unhygienic isn’t it?” said Vickie seeing my puzzled look. “They’re testing the quality before buying.”

Our next stop was a beautiful Jain Temple, located in the prosperous area of Malabar Hill, home to diamond merchants and money. From the exterior the buildings look uninteresting but are stunning inside, according to Jackie. Outside the temple and under an ancient banyion tree, cows nibbled greenery donated by believers. Barefoot we entered the gaudy temple, the air permeated with sandalwood - ground on rocks to produce a paste, a dot on my forehead. The ladies who were cleaning the ornate idols, had their mouths covered, apparently to avoid passing on germs. Gifts of flowers, fruit and jewellery had been placed lovingly at the base of the idol.

Moving on, we walked through the Hanging Gardens, so-named because they were built above a reservoir where the water was contaminated by bones. The park is popular with Mumbai’s courting couples who are not normally allowed out in public. Across the road is the smaller Kamala Nehru Park, with good views of the Mumbai peninsula, immense harbour and Chowpatty Beach-a filthy place for a swim but apparently good in the evening. Nearby is Parsi's Tower of Silence. Parsi follow the ancient religion of Zoroastrianism. They believe in the purity of the four elements and are not allowed to bury or cremate their dead, instead they lay the body on top of the Parsi tower for the vultures to pick clean. We could see the towers but artful landscaping keeps out peeping tourists.

On the way to the harbour Vickie pointed out a number of interesting squares. Kala Ghoda is surrounded by museums and a wealth of colonial buildings. The statue of King Edward 1V astride a black horse once stood inside the square but was taken by the Brits and is now located in Victoria Gardens. At the centre of the business area is Flora Fountain, named after the Roman goddess of abundance and erected in 1869 to honour Sir Bartle Frere, the governor of Bombay who was responsible for shaping modern Mumbai.

Waiting patiently for traffic to move, I noticed a whitewashed mosque at the tip of a long causeway snaking into the Arabian Sea. It reminded me of childhood fairytales but contains the tomb of Haji Ali, a much-loved Muslim saint.

We drove to the harbour under dark clouds to see the city’s landmark rising from the water, the yellow basalt Gateway of India was built to welcome King George V in 1911. Across the road from the Gateway and overpowering it is the Tajmahal Hotel, an elaborate structure with charming cupolas and elaborate decoration. Jamshedji Tata, a leading Parsi industrialist, built the hotel in 1903, supposedly after he was refused entry to a European hotel on account of being ‘native’. George Witter designed the hotel from Britain without knowing the location of the site and the hotel was built facing the wrong way. Coincidentally, it worked out well because the swimming pool is at the back of the hotel.

Suddenly the heavens opened, accompanied by thunder and lightning. I felt like I’d been doused with a bucket of warm water. Vickie ran towards me with her brollie and a concerned look until she saw me laughing. I felt so alive. Here I was, able to write about this place and hopefully entice you to visit India with your Rands, as opposed to sheltering under a bridge along with so many of India’s homeless.

After nudging traffic and ear-wrenching hooters, I arrived at the hotel and went for a peaceful walk along Juhu Beach. Black clouds threatened but were no deterrent to joggers, walkers, lovers, swimmers and hawkers, the sand mysteriously marked with offerings of flowers and sweets.

Mumbai may not be one of India’s tourist hotspots but it’s a cosmopolitan place with a tradition of tolerance and is worthy of a stopover.

The author travelled as a guest of India Tourism.