It has been almost a week in the city of rickshaws,
And I am glad to report that the honeymoon phase is still in full swing.
It's no secret - I like to go fast. Mumbai's traffic simply has not yet been made aware of that fact.
Realistically, there is just too much work and catching up to do.
I have no time for formal complaints.
Save this: Mosquitoes.
The onslaught has come full force, and I am finding it quite unfortunate to be such an appetizing buffet. Perhaps the time has come to unpack one of the many bottles of Watkins Great Outdoors (30% Deet - 0% Messing Around) I carefully lugged halfway across the world.
Secondly, my attempts to find housing have been a lesson in Indian diplomacy.
Lesson acquired: Brokers, just say no.
My first rental visit introduced me to a retired couple, offering a king size bed, my own bathroom and balcony overlooking the district of Bandra, as well as an array of home cooked meals.
Sadly, I couldn't reconcile myself with the fact that the landlady would have walked through my room several times a day to perform her pujas (prayers).
Shall we say it was a semi-private sort of arrangement, one where the portrait of her husband would have auspiciously hung above my bed for the extent of my stay in the household.
But it was the chai, which finally broke the camels back. Burnt.
Never judge a woman by her chai you say? Oh, but I do.
Fun fact: I broke my bed. 4 days. That's all it took. I am a walking disaster.
My second attempt at housing began with a very hurried introduction as the owner of the apartment informed me, immediately upon arrival, that the fridge was hers. So were most of the cupboards, the television, and the pantry. She was certainly willing to make some space for my things here or there, however, and (wait for it)... I could pick whichever side of the bed I wished to sleep on. Ah, to rely on the kindness of strangers.
I bolted, straight out of there, like a hare caught in a fox run.
Unabated, I’ll be trying my luck again this weekend.
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I work Monday to Saturday.
Sunday being my only day off, I did what any good and proper Commonwealth lass would, when left to her own devices: I went to the races. Because, really, with a name like the Poonawalla Breeders' Multi-Million, it just seemed like too good to pass up.
Plus, I spend most of my time alone.
So why not add gambling to my list of vices?
That’s what lonely people do, no?
Religious fervour was an obvious next on the list.
So I moseyed on over to Haji Ali, a shrine with a pathway only accessible in low tide, to pay my respects and see where the Muslim population of Mumbai once began their pilgrimage to the Hajj (Mecca).
And onto the Gateway of India, a basalt archway 26 metres high, built during the British occupation. This part of Mumbai has beautifully intricate architecture, which admittedly is not always well kept up. Marvels to behold at every street corner nonetheless.
I met a nice Norwegian man, Kejtil, who shares my enthusiasm for beer. We spent the rest of the afternoon sightseeing together.
As a duo, it would appear that we embody a spectacle of tallness which the Indian masses, I think, have rarely seen. At least that is how I explain the numerous good tourists politely requesting photographs with their numerous children. "Oh look! White people," was perhaps on their mind.
Many queries were made about our place of origin. The North Pole was our most consistent answer. One police officer, who bullied me into taking a cab, took half a dozen mediocre photographs of us at arms length. It is my guess that I am to be the new girlfriend for the folks at the office.
We rode in a gilded chariot along Marine Drive; caught the sunset on Chowpatti Beach; shot a few rounds of pool at the Ghetto Pub, and called it a most interesting end to our week.
