Tourism 1, Journalism 0 - Mumbai, India Nov. 23, 2009

Log margin notes:

Today was my first full day of journalisting; and it ended my streak of early successes. The last entry noted that I was able to settle in to my new environs pretty quickly and with generally little static. Still, once I got down to work, I turned off the highway and into some of the infamous Mumbai traffic.

My goal for the day was to set up an interview with a police official who might enlighten me about some of the security precautions taken and not taken since the 26/11 attacks. That's 11/26 to US Americans, so it makes it a pretty timely story and I was anxious to get on it quickly.

My first problem was a common one when traveling in foreign lands. I couldn't get my cell phone to call landline numbers and I knew I needed some additional phone code to dial, but no one could tell me what it was. Dhara, my contact who gave me some numbers in the police department left her phone home and could not help until later in the day.
I eventually gave in to using the heavily trafficked pay phones which are seen all over the city at snack/smoke stands and other xerox and communications shops. Many of the phones have coin slots, but others are just timed by the storekeepers who charge Rs. 1 or 2 per local call.

I stood on the loud street corners attempting to speak to deputy police commissioners and others with fancy titles. The assistants I spoke to did not understand "freelance" journalist and insisted on knowing what paper I worked for. (This is a sore point which came up frequently back home.) After sorting out who I did or didn't work for, the commissioner was always "in a meeting" and I was told to call back in 30 minutes.

I even went to see one of the commissioners at police headquarters. I was asked for my press ID. (This is another sore point which also came up frequently back home. I decided then and there that it will be worth my trouble to create my own ID badge. And if no one has ever heard of the "Earth Times" then they don't know what they're missing. It's a fine publication.) Neverminding all that, the guy at the security desk sent me to a crude-looking metal detector, my cameras were turned on and thoroughly inspected. The desk officer said I could go in to meet one of the commissioners, but I would have to leave my camera bag there. I almost did it, but after one second's consideration, I couldn't.

I kept on trying my calls from the pay phones, but no luck. "Call back, half hour." In the meantime, I saw some of the touristy things and had a decent time at it. I walked through the famous Crawford market filled with fruit and vegetable vendors. I saw the jewelry district where cows were being fed by passersby, a religious rite. I got plenty more pictures (more than the blog will allow me to post), including some of school kids, beginning with the little girl pictured. She insisted that I take her picture and was not satisfied until I used the flash. Others joined in and all actually thanked me.

Daylight was getting short and I called it a day. My first losing effort... it had to happen sooner or later. I found my way to a train at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, the Grand Central Station of Mumbai. My train quickly filled and slowly emptied while sitting at the platform. A solid citizen, Ashandar (I didn't ask him how to spell it), asked where I was going. He said he was headed to my own suburb of Bandra... really his Bandra. The tracks had been changed and he directed me to the proper train. We found a seat and he told me about growing up in Bandra. He said it was the area where British soldiers were traditionally quartered, which is exactly what I pictured. He asked me what I was doing here and I told him I am here to write until I take a "government job" in Morocco.

Upon hearing the word "Morocco" a wild-eyed man on the opposite row of seats asked me in feverish broken-English why I wanted to go to Morocco. I told him it was for a job. He carried on and on: "Why get a job in Morocco? It is a poor country! I've been to Casablanca! You don't go there! ...Your government can't give you a job in your country?! Your country is rich!" Well, my new friend told him, in Marathi, to settle down and everyone started to ignore him like any other crazy man on a train. He kept on talking at me, but I was unconcerned. Finally an Indian Railway official came on the train and asked if I had a problem. Naturally, I figured that he thought "the outsider" was causing problems. It was actually the opposite. Some other solid citizens on the train saw what happened and went to the authorities. Following the railway man on the train was a pretty female police officer in an issue brown dress who gave the crazy dude a sharp dressing-down. She (apparently) asked him to leave and escorted him out.

The white boy (that's me) was even more a spectacle than usual after that and everyone left on the train seemed concerned for me and my opinion of India (which would obviously represent the entire West's opinion of India.) I was fine. I've dealt with train lunacy before.

The rest of the day was uneventful other than a little more help in the area of cell phone use from, Dhara, who gave me the police phone numbers.

I'll beat down the walls again tomorrow.