20 years ago today – Day 346

Wednesday, February 12th – arriving in Mumbai, 17,394 km

The bus rolls into the Long Distance Bus Terminal at 7 am. It has been a rough night, as rough as the ride to Panaji, only two hours longer. The morning is grey and uncertain. I just want to get to bed but I have no place to sleep yet. I collect my bike and bags, make my way south to Back Bay and I follow the boulevard around to Colaba Causeway. The Carlton Hotel Frank I used two weeks ago has no rooms available. I walk my bike along the street until I get to the Salvation Army Hostel, which says it has space available.

The woman at the reception desk is a mousey little middle-aged woman. She asks me to wait when I ask about a room. She looks around nervously, waiting for others to leave the reception area. She turns to me, speaking in a whisper, asking if I am a good Christian. I avoid a direct answer by saying I was born a Christian. That seems to satisfy her. She smiles at me warmly and tells me, still in a whisper, that she rents rooms in her building for half the price. If I can wait until she is off at 3 pm she would take me there. It is four blocks away. The prices at this hostel are considerably higher than the Carlton's, which is probably why there are available rooms. I am sure Sally Ann is using the extra monies to campaign against human rights for gay people around the world. Sure, I tell her, I will come back at three.

There aren't many places I can go to pass the time. I sit for a while in the mull of peoples stirring around the Gateway of India, but my fatigue makes dealing with commotion more difficult. I remember the beautiful gardens in front of the Prince of Wales Museum two blocks away and I relocate. Here there is no one to bother me and the cool shaded grass is refreshing. The distant sounds of horns and traffic seem to melt away while I lie with my head on one of my bike bags.

Three o'clock finally arrives and I return to the Salvation Army to meet Mrs. Khalsa, the receptionist. She wears a guilty, triumphant smile as she leads me to her building. She doesn't speak to me when we walk and is not receptive to my polite questions. My 'room' turns out to be a cordoned off area of her family's living space with four mattresses tossed in the corners and no other furniture. The living space has 12 foot high ceilings but the walls of the rental room are only eight feet high. The space is grungy and there are no windows, only the light that comes over the top of the walls, along with the noises from her family on the other side. No licensing office would ever approve this space but it is cheap and I am almost out of money. I am dead tired too. I just hope I don't get fleas or bed bug bites.

I wake two hours later. There is another man in the room, another traveler who nods at me when I sit up. His name is Sam. He's an American. We are whispering so not to disturb the family that is in their kitchen a few feet away. He asks if I want to go for dinner somewhere and we slip out the door and down to the street. He has just arrived in Mumbai and has found that most hotels in the area, except for the more expensive ones, are full. It's best to look first thing in the morning, I tell him. He says he will, as he is not comfortable in this slum-like accommodation. I agree. I'd never stay here a second night.

We grab sandwiches from a street kiosk and hang around the mall inside the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel until it closes. We return to our room and retire to our sleeping bags and mattresses, since there is no lamp in the room.