So long Bombay - New Delhi, Dec. 26, 2009

Log margin notes:
"Frenzy" best describes it. There is occassionally an order to it, but the idea is that a person has to fight for scraps from dinner.

There are hazards at every turn. Traffic, pollution, constant car horns, men spitting tobacco, shoving commuters, a lack of street signs or addresses all make getting around exhausting. Like any large city, people are friendly if the order is not disturbed. Foreigners are made to feel very welcome, until they start asking funny questions (as reporters do.) Then the friendly attitude toward guests unfortunately gives way to a terror-inspired and often unreasonable over-cautiousness.

Still, once the dangers have subsided, what you've got in Mumbai is a true 24-hour city. You'll want for nothing. Snack stands run well past working hours and there is always a crowd of men standing around a cart with its bubbling pot of Rs. 5 masala tea. The sharp gingered stuff is served in a dixie cup-sized glass which is returned to the vendor to be scrubbed out with wash water and a finger.

The small cup of tea leaves an American to be very American; in need of a larger portion and frustrated over English language abilities of others. I can't pronounce "tea." The signs are all in English so I feel sort of invited to use it. As I was able to pick up... "tea" is best pronounced with the tongue against the teeth, such as: "dtee." This all sounds very similar to me, but I'm not a tea vendor answering calls for thousands of cups of "dtee" or "tea."

Things work there only for the initiated. It's a hard lesson before you find your way. The city frequently lacks that European sense and appreciation for order which you find in the U.S. A crook in the States may be quick to forget about any laws prohibiting the many kinds of fraud and theft, but he'll stop at a red light. It's just how it's done. Those rules of law and order seem a little more flexible in Mumbai. Still, it is very possible that just one month is not enough time to chart all of the currents and learn their patterns.

There are some patterns of ebb and flow... contradictions which are even comforting. They are after all a pattern and illustrate familiar dilemmas. There is an obsession, or at least a fad in glamour. Dreams of singing, dancing and acting in Bollywood seem to far outstrip the desire of the average American to make it in Hollywood or on Broadway. Skin whitening creams are sold constantly to both men and women. Tummy tucks and miracle diets are advertized everywhere.

Conversely, the impression Americans carry that the average vegetarian diet here is health gets crushed everyday by different shapes of fried, doughy and overly sugared snacks and beverages at all times of the day.

Elsewhere, the culture is very oriented towards marriange and family, which is fine. It's also fine that men feel comfortable walking arm in arm or holding hand. It doesn't fit American sensibilites, but it's not bothering anyone... unless they're walking slowly in front of you. On top of that (for lack of a better description) is the "kissie sound." The lip squeaking is used, predominantly by men, to get people's attention, the way an American would shout: "Hey!" Finally, it is also common for men (not as acceptable for women) to stare at the white boy as he walks down the street or eats in a restaurant. The combination of the above took some getting used to and wasn't helped by the clearly transvestite prostitutes who walk the trains and insist on touching anyone who does not meet their eyes in order to get rid of them. I tried the ostrich school of problem avoidance, but had to resort to the angry glare and stern "no" school.

As for contradictions, there is also the booming wealth and the flat-busted poverty. It's tough to deal with when you've grown up with the Western standards. You tell yourself, you can't solve the whole problem alone. If I wanted, I could martyr myself in a fit of populism and give away everything I have; nothing would change. The real answer is that it's a societal problem and a society has to find an answer, not one person. It's bigger than that.

It was easy to hide behind things like "society's problem" and the fact that no one around me seemed to be pouring over the situation as the maimed beggars trooped the lines at the train station ticket windows. You'd tell yourself: it's just some racket, like in Slumdog Millionaire. They take their collections for the day to some mafia boss. That's how it's done... I'm on to you.

Respites from the frenzy were available as time allowed and always welcome. When the weather topped 90F, Kingfisher beer was often the only really cold drink that was sold and always came in the 650 ml (20 oz) bottle. There was so much to learn, understand and process. The times spent talking with friends or just drinking coffee were completely necessary. I had to transcribe the imprints on my brain, like wringing out a sponge in preparation for the next chore. It was satisfying even though the work was never over; and I was glad for that. I'd hate to be a dried sponge ready for the waste heap.

I took a few days in Pune to give the old stinking sponge a good wringing before pushing north. My neighbor from New York, Kaveri, and her generous family were nice enough to accommodate, humor me and show me around. We saw temples, forts and markets, but most importantly we just hung around a bit in parks, cafes and coffee shops. It was just what I needed.

The next waypoint approaches...