View Larger Map
Tuesday, January 28th – Mumbai
I have had the most wonderful night's sleep. I really needed it. I wake to the honking and shouting that is common fare on the streets of India. It is so exciting to be in Mumbai as close to the end of my endless trip. It is hard to believe I have made it this far. I am the first one in the shower as Frank is still only half awake.
We go for breakfast at the Leopold Restaurant in the neighbourhood. It is an interesting place, a good place to lounge and people watch. Besides the backpacker crowd, the restaurant is a popular place for Saudis and other Middle East types. The streets here remind me of New York but with less tension. There is a constant commotion, even at night, and so many things happening at once.
After breakfast, Frank and I walk to the jetty at the south end of Colaba Causeway and back up to Marine Drive at Back Bay. He wants to check Poste Restante at the main post office again and then tour the Prince of Wales Museum. I am in a mellow space and want to stay outside in the semi-fresh sea air, so I go my own way to keep walking.
I end up at the pier of the Gateway of India again, in front of the massive Taj Mahal Hotel. The pier is alive with activity. There are tourists and backpackers walking around and several merchants with their wares set up on the ground in front of them. It seems that everything is for sale here: soaps, clothing, tools, toys and books. I talk with a couple backpackers from England and the US. They tell me that most items here are counterfeit, including brand names like 'Camay'. The packaging has been carefully recreated but there is a good chance that the contents don't resemble the original. I sniff a bar of soap while the merchant regards me nervously. It should be perfumed but it isn't.
There was an article in an English newspaper I read at the restaurant this morning, about responses from foreigners solicited about products manufactured in India. The people interviewed had lots of reservations about Indian goods, saying that they cannot be depended upon. It is the quality that is the problem. With clothing, it is not the cloth but the thread that is the problem. I have learned this already. My lovely Rajasthan pants with colourful embroidery and pieces of mirror on the cuffs are already falling apart as the thread breaks. Also, often the dyes are not set and they run when washed. So I don't buy any clothing. I buy a novel instead, assuming I cannot go wrong with that.
I stop by one vendor who is chatting with a cute backpacker with a lovely, welcoming smile. I greet them both as soon learn the older man is not a vendor, but a sage of some sort. He has a spiritual, balanced energy that enthralls me. The cute backpacker moves on, which is fine because the sage has captured my interest. He asks me about my life in Canada and what I have learned from my travels. I answer him honestly that I am still to close to my experiences to analyze them yet, that I am still trying to figure that out. I love how his questions and responses seem so free of judgment. We chat about many things for as hour or so and I feel invigorated by our talk.
I thank him for his time and generosity and leave the pier. I walk through the Taj Mahal on the way back to my hotel. The main floor has mall with a wide variety of shops. I stop into a pharmacy to look for hair bleach. Again, as in Udaipur, I can only find small tubs of bleaching cream that Indian women use to bleach their mustaches. I buy a tub and take it back to my room.
My first attempt to beach my hair is not very satisfying. I left it on for 15 minutes but that isn't enough. The short hair on the sides of my head are now brown but the longer hair on top of my head has a disturbing burgundy tone and it's not very even in colour. I walk back to the pharmacy, more self-conscious than ever about my hair colour, and buy another tub. I want to complete a second bleaching before Frank returns.
The second bleaching evens out much of the colour, but the sides are now a dark blond, the back of my head (according to Frank) is now a light blond and the top of my head is now a medium brown with a hint of purple it in, just enough to look weird. I don't want to try again as my hair is already feeling fried. It looks better than the black, but definitely not natural.
Frank is kind enough to say it looks better, but I get the sense he is just trying to be unjustifiably nice. I can use a little of that now so I don't object. When the time comes we head out for dinner again, choosing a different restaurant this time, but one just as fine as last night. Mumbai is full of restaurants so it is hard to choose one. When we return to our room after dinner, I settle down to read the novel I purchased on the pier. It is a good one and I am quickly engrossed, but at page 29 it suddenly changes to a different story by some other author. I feel disappointed, because I have been duped again. I wouldn't care it was a second hand book, or one that has been copied, but obviously Indian counterfeiters have no interest in developing a repeat clientele.
PHOTO 1: Taj Mahal Palace Hotel
PHOTO 2: Bombay Municipal Building
No comments:
Post a Comment