Bombay Merry Hai!

By request: Anouska's mother asked for more pictures of Anouska and less of gourmet dog. So here it is. A nice big one of Anouska wearing some of her new clothes. (Mumbai)

To begin with, I would just like to make a few comments regarding this blog. Firstly, the reason that there are no photographs for the first few paragraphs is because our camera had an unfortunate encounter with some water in Hoi An and no longer works. So we bought a new camera that we hope we survive the rest of our journey. Secondly, Anouska and I purchased fake wedding bands and pretend we are a married so we don't get hassled in conservative countries, like India. Now to the blog...

After three weeks in Vietnam, it was time to depart and continue with our journey. There are some things I will sorely miss in Vietnam. For instance, Bia Hoi (Draught Beer) places, where you can get a tall, cool, home-made beer for anything between 30 cents and 2 dollars. Oh, and who could forget Vietnamese coffee. Filtered through a French style drip, this coffee is added with condensed milk and it is absolutely lovely. Anouska tells me she will have separation anxieties over the absence of mango juices, but then I remind her that Indian’s a very fond of a fruit lassi as well. Not only the drinks, obviously, but the fantastic food and the atmosphere of the place has made it a great first destination. With our bags noticeably heavier after our splurge in Hoi An, we headed off to the airport, not knowing when we will see this country again.

Sometimes in life, you avoid your fears. Other times, your fears avoid you. I think the latter can be said to my approach to flying. I have flown several times before this trip, all without any trepidation whatsoever. But now, for reasons unbeknownst to myself, I have a great anxiety that every flight I take will simulate a disaster movie I have seen. But it’s illogical isn’t it? Flying is very safe. You’re more likely to have a car accident or fall over and crack your head open walking down the street. So, why are my palms sweaty and my heart racing every time the plane lifts into the air? I cannot answer that. Maybe I’ve seen Flying High too many times. At least I know not to order the fish.

We touched down in Mumbai (Bombay) late Friday evening and we were immediately hit with the hot, sticky weather that is common-place in India. Actually, this is the most ideal time of year to come, because it’s in between the monsoon and very hot season, but after a few hours walking the streets, I can feel the energy sapped from my body. Walking out of the International Airport was an experience in itself, as we were met with thousands of people outside all waiting for people to arrive. We located our driver in a sea a brown faces and swam through the crowd to find the car. The trip to the hotel was a little frightful, even after Hanoi, when the driver proceeded to speed through a busy intersection, wheels squealing, with only a lengthy toot of his horn (Indians are more fond of the horn then the Vietnamese). But we arrived safely, if a little shell shocked.

The hotel we are staying at is called “The Hotel New Bengal” and it’s situated roughly a kilometre from the Fort and Colaba regions in Mumbai. One of the hotel managers is an Indian version of Basil Fawlty. He seemed to get frustrated by everything and he even looks like him. I wish I could get a photograph. On our first night we stayed in the Deluxe Room, which was $60, but then we opted for the cheaper, $20 room. Let me tell you something – big mistake. Not only was the room the size of a toilet cubicle, but with the heat (the other room had A/C) and the noise of car horns make it almost impossible to sleep. On top of that a shared, squatting toilet makes a Westerner constipated just looking at it. So after our sleepless night we went back to the deluxe room, paid the extra Rupees and looked forward to visiting the Western-style toilet, equipped with flush.

Contemplative man in Crawford Markets, near where we were staying.

Getting around Mumbai is fairly easy. If you are situated around the city centre, it’s pretty easy to walk to most locations, though I wouldn’t necessary recommend it. As Anouska and I found when we decided to walk a few kilometres to a restaurant on the beach, being white and away from the tourist centre is a bad dichotomy. We unexpectedly found ourselves near a market where about a hundred thousand Indians decided to go that Saturday night. If we didn’t know Mumbai was the most densely populated place on the face of the planet, we soon discovered it. We were approached by hundreds of people selling everything from neon-spin-wheels to hash. People stared at us like we were from another planet, groped us and asked for money. Like Dorothy discovered, we weren’t in our native home anymore, we were in a bizarre and colourful world - we were in the heart of Mumbai. Learning from that lesson, we have been taking taxis ever since. The black and yellow cabs are one of the most iconic things about the city – they are everywhere. The look like something out of the 1950’s and handle like a bouncing, metal drum. But I have to give credit to the drivers. How they can manage to drive so quickly without hitting each other and pedestrians crossing the street is a testament to their profession. And the fares range from anything from 80 cents to a few dollars, so it makes it an affordable way to get around, plus to get to see a lot of the city while you’re at it.

We thought we were spoiled with food in Vietnam, but the cuisine in India is nothing short of mouth-watering. People here sure know how to eat and judging from numerous obese people walking the street, it’s evident they like their food as well. We stopped consulting the Lonely Planet Guide for places to eat on the first day. The places they recommended were okay, but the best meals we have eaten were ones we found off the street. I think people treasure the Guide too much. I mean, it’s not the bible; it’s not going to give you all the answers. Travelling is much more enjoyable without that literary leash. I think Anouska and I can both agree that the best food is Muslim food. We have been to several Muslim eateries and we have not been disappointed. However, eating at a Muslim place does have its drawbacks. Firstly, Anouska got some strange looks, owing to their beliefs about women. Secondly, and this is true of most Indian places, they tend to forgo the use of utensils and eat with their hands. This was problematic for myself, as I am left-handed and not using my dominant limb was a difficult task. I would have to concentrate very hard not to use it and then occasionally my concentration would lapse and I would find myself eating with my dirty hand. They must have thought I was a savage. We have found that when you go to places were actual Indians eat themselves, you find that the food is not only more authentic, but tastier. Too tasty in fact, as I discovered when I could not resist the different types of bread, despite being a celiac. As a consequence, I gave a great performance of ‘Whitey vomits onto Indian street’. I think now I will curb my intake of fantastic Indian breads.

I appear happy enough eating my wheat-based dinner, but little did I know that I would be soon imitating John Hurt in "Alien".

Of course, the one thing you must do while in India is see a Bollywood film. There was just as much entertainment before the film started as we sat in our seats when an announcement appeared saying (and I am paraphrasing) “If there is an explosion, please offer help to the victims”. A little disconcerting, yes, but not so much as being asked to rise for the Indian National Anthem when you’re the only non-Indians in the cinema. After all that, the lights dimmed and the film started. Although we didn’t understand every word of “Hello”, as it was mostly in Hindi, with some English, it was a pretty basic plot. A group of people working in a call centre (Yes, those people who call you when you are eating dinner) all experience loss and love and sing about it as well. It was a very well made film. The songs were entertaining and it was quite humorous in parts. Also, they made fun of Americans a lot, which appealed to us as well as the Indian audience. This was a particularly funny excerpt (paraphrasing again):

Teacher: 35 = 10. This is a very important equation. It means that the average 35 year old American has the mind of a 10 year old Indian.

On a side note, being an extra in a Bollywood film seems to be easy. Anouska and I were approached three times by people to be Bollywood film. I couldn’t say if all the requests were authentic, just like a strange Indian fellow who wanted to have a cup of tea or dinner with us.

Mumbai is a very complex place and even if I were to live here for the next ten years, I doubt I would be much closer to understanding it. The architecture is a hybrid of Indo-Saracen, with some very noticeable English influences. The city, if not the entire country is a huge melting pot of different religions including; Islamic, Hinduism, Buddhism and Christianity. And the polarisation between rich and poor is very evident. You can literally walk a few hundred metres and you’ve left a rich area, where people are well dressed and eating in well-to-do places to a slum area, where families are sleeping on the street and scavenging through the rubbish. It’s quite a shock to see a multitude of cripples, deformed persons and homeless families on the street begging for money and scavenging through the rubbish. It breaks my heart not only to see it, but to know there is nothing that can be done for these people. The experience definitely changes your perspective.

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We went to the Ghandi Museum. He kicked arse. Metaphorically, obviously.

Ha Long Bay, Sapa and Hoi An.

Post-modern irony.

My body is changing at a rate unparalleled since puberty. When you’re in a different climate zone, your body starts to rebel like the Confederate Army. If I am not suffering from Traveller’s Tummy and becoming well acquainted with the toilet bowl , then I am dealing with the copious amounts of ‘white stuff’ coming out of the pores on my nose. However, Anouska and I have both lost weight and toned up and our skin is looking great, but the means to this end is not worth it.

For the last week and a bit we have been travelling around Vietnam, which is my excuse for neglecting this blog. Our first stop was Hai Long Bay, which is a few hundred kilometres east of Hanoi. After a four hour bus ride with a less than enthusiastic tour guide, we boarded a very non-authentic Chinese junk and departed into the bay. The limestone rocks that tower over the bay are magnificent. If you sat on the deck and watched these colossus formations all day, it would be a day well spent. The thing I dislike most about tours, of course, is that tour companies are insistent on keeping to a detailed schedule. How I wish I could get the hour back I spent in that stupid cave. The tour guide, in broken English, told us that specific rock configurations represented certain animals like a turtle or a dragon. But you know what I saw? A bunch of shitty rocks, which pale in comparison to the ultra-wicked ones we have in Australia. And you know what else? A lot of stupid tourists lapped it up. I even heard one Canadian comment that one rock, “looks like a beaver’. Man, where is Freud when you need him? We slept on the junk that night and set off to Cat Ba Island the morning afterwards. Before checking in to a hotel on the Island, the tour ‘told us’ we have to cycle 14 kilometres and go for a hike. I’m supposed to be on holiday and I have to do all this exercise. NOT FAIR! Anouska was less impressed, especially considering she hasn’t ridden a bike since her mid-teens. After the arduous bike ride, a local guide, who was actually very good, despite the fact he did not speak any English, led us up part of Cat Ba Island, where he showed us, through a great game of charades, a cave used as a bomb shelter during the Vietnam-U.S.A war. The United States, the epitome of the free world, weren’t exactly into fair-play during this confrontation. They just bombed the Bejesus out of the entire country. And what did it achieve? Millions of civilian and military deaths and countless deformities and birth defects owning to Agent Orange and many other nasty weapons of human design. God Almighty, I love Democracy. Anyway, after the rigorous exercise we finally went to the hotel. Happy hour, like most places in Vietnam, goes from 6-10pm, and for three cocktails for $6, well, it’s not a very good place for someone suffering sunstroke. The proprietor of the bar, where we finally ended up, wanted me to get up and sing Karaoke with him, but even though it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, Anouska persuaded me not to (bless her and her sensibility). Besides which, even though the lyrics were in English, I never remember ‘Rain on the Roof’ having such cryptic lyrics. The next day we headed back to the harbour and had another four hour bus ride back into Hanoi.

I think this one looks like the melting heads
of obnoxious tourists.

No rest for the wicked. Seize the day. Don’t put off what you can do now. You name it. One day after we arrived back from Ha Long Bay and I spent most of the evening squirming around in my bed sick from sun stroke, we boarded the train for Sapa, which is a small mountain town located at the very north tip of Vietnam’s boarder. Since the trip is roughly 10 hours long, we organised a sleeper train at night. And it’s not half bad. The bed was well suited for vertically challenged people like myself. However, the one thing we learnt and I think Anouska could testify to this is do not drink anything several hours before embarking. You do not what to use the squatting toilet which hasn’t seen a bleach-based cleaning product since the late 80’s. All I can say is, good thing I am a man. So after getting a fairly decent amount of sleep, the train pulled into the station. Once again a tour company herded us off the train like the bleary eyed sheep we were and drove us up the mountain to Sapa. You only go to Sapa for one thing really. The view. If you’re not impressed by this awe-inspiring scenery, you should probably hop back on the train and go back to Hanoi and then from there, organise a flight to whatever hole you crawled out of, because the view is spectacular. We were there for three days and not once did I think “Oh, there’s the mountains and the valley far below, holding an abundance of rice paddies and streams. How ordinary”. As part of the tour we had do a great quantity of, you guessed it, grueling exercise. Anouska sub-consciously defied the tour company by ‘accidentally’ slipping over on the road literally 20 minutes after arriving and spraining her ankle, which left me to toil on my own, while she relaxed in hotel comfort. On an interesting tangent. Anouska hobbled her way to town where she purchased a number of items and was even offered opium by this kind old woman, which she politely declined, not wanting opium at that point in time. But I am glad I got to spend five hours a day walking, really, I am, because I got to see a lot of the beautiful countryside and the quaint villages where the embroiderers live. And it is essential for someone who resides in such a developed country such as Australia to see how people live in different places and also in alternative economic states. The village people live off agriculture and a small amount of revenue from tourism. It’s a very basic existence for these people, but they all group to ensure no one goes without. When you see people live under these conditions it makes all your first-world worries suddenly disappear.

I swear I didn't ask her to

pose.

I know this look. It means,

"please take a photograph of me".

Man burning rice husks.

I’m writing this blog in every-so-often increments, feeling more guilty as the days pass, because several people have requested another entry. To those individuals, I profusely apologise – no wait – what I really mean is, BE PATIENT, I’M ON HOLIDAY! So, at this point in time, which is the evening of Sunday the 11th, we have just arrived back from Hoi An, the City of Tailors (also the city of the indulgent excess of food and drink). It’s called a city, but it’s more just like a small town with about 200 clothes shops and half as many cafes and restaurants. But nonetheless, it’s a very cute town and getting around is very easy, especially on a scooter, as I did with Anouska on the back. What can I say about the place? Is it historically significant? Ok, perhaps it is. Does it give you a more significant understanding of Vietnamese culture? Not particularly. But can you get a bunch of clothes hand made at the fraction of the cost it would in Australia and get drunk on cheap, yet interesting adaptations of Western cocktails (the Long Black Russian, for example) all while eating as much as you want and not worrying about what you spend? Heck yes. It’s a great place. We stayed at a nice little hotel on the outskirts of town, where the baths never quite filled up and the electricity had a problem doing what it’s supposed to. But despite that, it had a very cool pool, which was even cooler when it rained, which it seemed to 90 per cent of the time. In fact, why did we need a pool when it rained so much the river burst its banks and turned half the town into an aquatic wonderland? The onslaught of rain might have washed out some of the more land faring tourists, but for us it just added to the sense of adventure. It may sound like a boring place to go for holiday, but I could easily spend a gluttonous week at this Vietnamese getaway.