Rough rides, rags and riches in India
A sleeper bus is just that, a bus that travels up and down the country at night, within it, beds for people to sleep in. They are tiny and as there are always two next to each other you get to, like it or not, experience extremely close proximity to a complete stranger. These buses remind me of my Grandmother’s flat, last decorated in the 70s, they heavily feature all shades of orange, avocado green and brown, and it smells of home cooking. They are what you’d call dated. There are curtains.
I am standing outside though, heavy backpack on one shoulder, rucksack over the other, hands holding smaller rucksack number two, sleeping bag and my half eaten packet of crisps. It is getting dark, I don’t know where to go, what to do, where my next bus is, whom to ask, but by now I know that the one thing that gets you from A to B in this place is patience, and as always in India, somehow it all works out (without anyone really knowing when and how exactly it worked out) and after half an hour I find myself on the next bus en route to my final destination, Mumbai.
We stop in Mapusa, and here the luxury of two beds I had thus far enjoyed, ends. I am joined by Stefano from France who doesn’t speak English but seems a nice guy, so we chat away, not really understanding each other at all. It is absolutely freezing, much colder inside the bus than outside and I curse my more expensive air conditioned bus ticket. I am wearing my new woolly hat, made from yak, bought at a Tibetan stall earlier in the week (a costly purchase, Tibetans do not haggle, but I have never felt such irresistible softness) and am wrapped up in my sleeping bag. Stefano and me, packed closely side by side, ponder whether freezing your backside off in India is considered a luxury and a privilege to the few. We figure not everyone here can afford to be cold. We get shaken about as the ancient bus hobbles and jumps along, I wonder how all the potholes are held together by road, the journey seems to go on forever, sleep comes and goes sporadically.
A scheduled travel time of 12 hours turns into 17, and we reach the outskirts of Mumbai at last! It’s near impossible to capture the city in words, but there are images that begin to paint a picture. There’s the woman begging, still dressed in a beautiful, bright sari, pushing her baby towards you, next to the majestic 5 star ten storey Taj Mahal hotel framed by mighty palm trees, in front of which stop the most rickety taxis you have ever seen, seemingly held together by faith alone, but racing alongside pavements lined with stall after stall, selling everything and anything from travel adaptors to Saffron to dishwasher soap. At your feet an old and dirty man without legs holding out his hand for a few rupees, as the wealthy Indian tourists from Delhi stroll by without looking down, and sit down in the glitzy cocktail bar around the corner of the slums of two floor shacks made from cardboard. The shopping street where you find Guess, Levi, Diesel, United Colours of Benetton, outside of which there’s a vendor selling Onion Bhajis from a little cart, and a ridiculous amount of rubbish lying around everywhere, and always someone rummaging through it to see if there is something they can find to sell. Colours are brighter and the smells are stronger and sounds are louder, and the air feels hot and sticky. Hindi temples next to old Edwardian architecture, and crumbling buildings next to palaces, and above all, people! So many people everywhere!
For the first time in my life I get a whiff of what it must be like to be rich. Because that is what I am here, at least from a local perspective. “How can I help you sir? Would you like another size of that? Are the trousers too long, we can have them made shorter for you today! Is there anything else I can show you? Where are you staying? How do you like our city?” How do I like it? I love it. I immediately love this place of contrasts, colours and clashes!
After buying new jeans I head to Chowpatty beach, which is where the entire city congregates at sundowner time. I have a cocktail, the cost of which could probably feed a family here for a week. On the way back to my hostel I find the woman next to the Taj Mahal hotel and buy her baby some food.
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