The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER TWO -GOOD MORNING BOMBAY.

Stepping out of the hotel in to the heat made us realise that none of the clothing we had brought was going to be suitable, everything was going to feel too hot.
It was also clear that as short sleeveless dresses and shorts with strappy tops were a cultural no-no I was going to have some uncomfortable months ahead.

With the benefit of hindsight I could argue that Indians stare at Europeans regardless of what they are wearing, but we were concerned not to cause offence.
We realise now that any attempt at blending in or being inconspicuous was never a possibility.

I had read and re-read the guidebook section on where to go and what to see, but we were obsessed with finding a tailor. They were reported to be skilled workmen and very cheap.
Brian wanted some trousers and I had packed a suit that I wanted to have copied.
This obsession cost us dearly in time and money, and proved to be one of our biggest bloomers.

We walked the few hundred yards to the Arabian Sea and the promenade, Marine Drive, which had been described as "The Queen’s Necklace."
What a picture that conjured up in my imagination.

The reality was a mud-coloured murk of water stretching as far as the eye could see.
We climbed on to the sea wall to look at the majestic sweep of the bay - and then climbed down pretty quickly.
The stench of  urine baking on the rocks in the mid-day sun was worse than the drunks’ urinal to be found in multi-storey car parks at home.

And what of the necklace?
We guessed that it was the lonely line of cable that hung limply between the posts along the promenade, sporting the odd light bulb at intermittent intervals.
Perhaps it would look better at night.
It didn’t.

We did expect beggars to approach us, and they did. I suppose it depends on how callous or compassionate you are as to how much these approaches will affect you.
The begging children were dirty, urged on by the parents who sat on the pavement surrounded by their worldly goods. Sometimes they forcibly pushed their children towards us, but it was a minor annoyance. 

We saw many families asleep on the pavements at night, some areas resembling a huge outside dormitory. But as we travelled about India we could see that even if a family had a shelter or house, many still chose to sleep on the path outside.
It was not Europe, and therefore could not be judged by European standards.

The most over-whelming feeling we had about the beggars was that it was all a bit of a game, or even a job. It was the employment that many Indians awoke to each morning. They knew that any white person was generally a pushover. Indians have a number of misconceptions about westerners, the greatest being that we have access to a bottomless pit of wealth. Or, as it was later put to us, ‘’ You are walking wallets.’’

They also believe we are suckers for children, especially if they are dirty and have big imploring eyes, with one hand on their stomachs and the other outstretched for money. They know we are uncomfortable having attention drawn to us and would not be happy being followed down the street by a disabled man or a begging woman beseeching us for cash. And finally, Indians believe that eventually we give in to persistence.

If an Indian was trying to sell us a piece of cloth or a tin whistle or something else we really did not want to buy, the temptation was to hand over the money as it would be easier than the aggravation. At least we would find some peace - until the next salesman saw that we had given in and thought that he may as well have ago. That was the price of caving in. If we didn’t learn to say no, and mean it, they would never get the message.

The cruel but satisfying solution was to play the same game. Now that could be fun. It has to be said that we passed large amounts of time at railway stations and in cities beggar baiting and driving the hawkers mad. Descriptions of this sport will be recounted later as we developed this into an art form.    

After our walk along the Queen’s Necklace we headed for the Tourist Information Office. The second biggest scare of the trip was about to hit.

All my homework prior to the trip suggested that the best way to avoid food poisoning was to use street food vendors. Food sold by these people was freshly cooked and piping hot and could be trusted. If we could find a stall with a large queue it would be unlikely that the food had been sitting around for ages waiting to be sold.

Not being a lover of fried food I was not mad for the idea, but eating it was better than being ill.

We soon discovered that food vendors grouped en masse on practically every street corner, and it was here that we were able to watch them cooking their particular delicacy ­-and also watch them cleaning the utensils and plates in the gutter, using the gutter water. How quickly it is possible to lose the desire to eat ever again.

All the food establishments looked dirty and pretty unsavoury, even the ones listed in the guidebooks. If street food was out, what the hell were we going to do? We continued looking for the Tourist Information Office, more than a little subdued.

With a great deal of twisting the street map this way and that, we eventually reached our goal. It was to be the beginning of yet another learning curve.

The recipient of our requests smiled winningly at us, nodded vigorously to each and every syllable we uttered, and then produced illegible maps and pointed us in exactly the opposite direction in which we needed to go. a

It was weeks before we realised that an Indian will never tell you he doesn’t know where a certain place is. He will always nod and tell you that whatever you seek is just down there. Gullible idiots that we were, that’s just where we went.

We would further compound the problem by stopping and asking someone else, and they of course wouldn’t know either, but would tell us they did, and send us off in yet another wrong direction. We would end up hopelessly and totally lost.

It was using this dubious method that we tried to track down a restaurant recommended in the guidebook, and it was using this method that on our first night we became hopelessly lost in a succession of dark dirty alleys with me in the first stages of panic.
This might never have happened if we had taken an auto rickshaw or taxi, but they were still on strike. 
We finally found our way back to the hotel tired and hungry. 

Our bedroom did of course have a T.V. and this became a matter of some significance. It was my introduction to A.X.N.

This became a huge source of amusement to Brian as if we ever were obliged to book in to anywhere with even the faintest possibility of T.V. my first question would be "Have you got A.X.N?’’

This particular station seemed to show a constant stream of films that hadn’t even been released at home. It was also possible to tune into Sci-Fi serials the like of which I had never seen. I was hooked.

So, on that first night in India, we lay in our very large double bed in our very Westernised hotel room, rather hungry but straining to keep our eyes open to watch an excellent American film on Asian Cable T.V.

I opened my eyes on that second day with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
I desperately wanted to open the curtains and not see Bombay outside.
It was dirty out there and nothing was safe to eat.
We were going to starve to death.

Despite all the medicine and preventive measures against sickness I had brought, I hadn’t brought simple things like vitamin tablets.  I was frightened to drink the hotel water even if it was in bottles, and insisted Brian put it through our water purifier and then boil it.

I dragged myself out of bed and went into the bathroom. I cleaned my teeth but, out of sheer habit, swilled my mouth out with tap water. Certain typhoid. Frustration and mounting concern at our situation sent me into a flood of tears.

Brian, nonchalant as ever, sat me on the bed and told me to calm down. He told me we would be fine and we were here now so we had better get on with it. Of course he was right. We formed a plan.

First: breakfast.
Surely it would be O.K in the hotel? Unfortunately the guidebook advised that hotels were one of the best places both to eat well and also to become ill. Food was generally prepared in advance and stood around happily becoming contaminated as it waited to be served. Hell!

We made our way down to the restaurant, which was quite small but clean and airy. Breakfast was a buffet affair which I approached with interest, horror, and mounting starvation. Brian approached it with a completely different attitude: See it, eat it. He sat down to blobs of unidentifiable curried substances followed by omelette. This sent me into a fit, whispering: "Christ, is it cooked properly? You are mad; I can’t believe you are eating eggs. "

Unperturbed he rounded the meal off with toast, plastic looking cheese slices, jam, cakes and coffee. I, on the other hand, gingerly opened a thermos flask labelled hot milk, to find it was a congealed mass of rancid substance which both looked and smelled like vomit.  I settled for dry cornflakes, dry toast and despite dietary morals, cake. I washed this down with black tea that was stronger than most espresso coffees and the same temperature as rainwater.

My main concern with regard to health throughout the trip was that if either of us was to be sick or injured, it had better be me. Not through any sense of martyrdom I assure you, but based solely on logic. If Brian were to be the recipient of any physical disaster I would not be able to carry him, drag him or obtain the necessary attention to provide him with the best services available. Being female I would warrant little consideration or attention in India. Brian on the other hand, if all else failed, could put me under his arm, put the rucksack on his back, find an airport and demand repatriation.

Breakfast was finally declared over thanks to the Indian child on the next table throwing up over his mother and sister. Time to take on the city.   

Because of the taxi strike we had booked a car for half the day to take us to some of the sights we had earmarked. 

First stop on our route was Crawford Street Market. This was said to be the last outpost of British Bombay before the tumult of the central bazaars, the place where central Mumbai went shopping for its fruit, vegetables and meat. It was indeed very ornate and colonial and we barely had chance to remark on the fact before we were pounced upon.

  A chap with some sort of uniform jacket and a badge, which resembled a number plate removed from the side of a train, pointed and jabbered and pulled at us to follow him.

"Oh yes please madam, sir, you must be coming this way and reading this notice. Oh yes, I am wanting no money I am porter, I am porter. I am having badge, look, look. Yes be coming this way.”

We followed him and read an antiquated sign that indeed did seem to indicate that it was necessary to avail ourselves of a porter, who would take no money and would guide us around the market. This did not seem to give us much room for manoeuvre and so we looked helplessly at each other, shrugged, and followed him inside.

  It really was a picture. Mountains of wonderful fruits and vegetables piled high in baskets. Men were sitting around talking and smoking. There was some pretty sensational architecture and enough shade interspersed with shafts of sunlight to make it look like a film set.

Stallholders clamoured around pressing us to try their wares not realising that Nurse Wash-it-or-peel it would allow nothing to touch either her lips or Brian’s without washing or peeling it.

We selected some bananas and a pineapple and I thought now was the time to ask the porter the prices. I was told: `` Five hundred.’’

Five hundred what? I thought, and promptly came to a halt to consult with darling. I repeated this rather large figure to Brian, who laughed and told me not to be stupid. Five o, five o. Fifty rupees of course, not five hundred. Mmmm.

On we went, purchasing a bit of this a bit of that. I was feeling that we may actually avoid scurvy and we might just survive this trip after all.  We bought bananas, pineapple some mango, four oranges, four custard apples and 200grms of tea.

The porter [he who wanted no money and who would protect us from all the charlatans and would ensure we made only the best purchases] began to add up the total price of our produce. His calculations caused us to stand rigid with disbelief.

We looked at each other, we looked at the porter, we looked at each other again. This fellow was asking us for something in the region of £40. Obviously we were mistaken, or we had totally misunderstood. Out came the calculator, we did the maths again, we told him he had it wrong.

More people started to become involved, the vendors from whom the porter had taken merchandise were all having a say at this stage and I was starting to sweat. Why didn’t we just put the goods down and walk off? The answer is, I don’t know. Perhaps it was because we felt disorientated. Also we had no idea of what the goods were actually worth. Maybe fruit was expensive in Bombay. I was certainly unnerved by the noisy gathering.

We argued a little more and eventually, having bartered down as near to Sainsbury’s prices as we could get, took our purchases and legged it back to the waiting car. Mr Friendly Porter, however, now decided that he did want money for his services. A push too far for us.

Brian gave him a look and a word, the meaning of which I am sure would have been clear to a Martian, and slammed the car door in his face. I felt sick. Surely it wasn’t going to be like this for the rest of the trip? Being ripped off the whole time, knowing it was happening but being totally unable to do anything about it.   

Our next stop was one of the tailor’s shops, which the man in tourist information had located in his little guidebook.

The taxi drove on and on and we realised it would have been difficult to find a shop very much farther away from the centre of Bombay. It also turned out to be in one of the most expensive districts, Malabar Hill.

We found Enamour, the tailor’s shop, and it looked very professional, very clean with glass cabinets, counters and rails. The proprietor was charming and spoke excellent English. Brian selected fabric for two pairs of trousers and I chose fabric for a dress. It was not going to be cheap. The trousers were going to cost only slightly less than the little factory that Brian uses in Hebden Bridge, but we went ahead.

Having now placed the order we had the added problem of fittings. Mr Christian, the proprietor, needed us to return later in the afternoon.

We had hired the car only until 2pm and it was now 11am. We couldn’t return by taxi as they were still on strike. Buses were running but we could not read the Hindu signs on the front telling us where they were going, and we certainly would not know where to get off if we had caught one.

It was finally decided that two of the tailor’s assistants would come to the hotel that evening and give Brian a fitting. Tomorrow was another day and Mr. Christian was sure the taxis would be back at work.

We went back to the waiting car and headed for Colaba on the other side of town. The destination was a store called The Cotton Club where I hoped to be able to pick up a lightweight skirt.

People inside were buying and no bartering was taking place, but things were expensive, at least on a par with high street stores in the U.K. Perhaps our money was not going to last as long as we had thought.

We returned to our car and asked the driver to take us to The Gateway to India which, according to our calculations, was quite close by.

The Gateway is a huge archway, built after the visit of King George V in 1911 to mark the entrance to the Port of Bombay.

As we pulled up the whole area was surrounded by touts and postcard vendors and queues of people waiting for ferries to take them to nearby Elephanta Island. We hoped to take a trip over there ourselves but it was going to depend on the transport situation.

We walked around the Gateway, and Brian was less than complimentary about the pointing and stonework. It wasn’t a very awe- inspiring monument but the Taj Mahal Hotel sitting majestically behind it was.

Despite our rather tatty appearance we thought we would try to go inside in search of what must surely be a safe cuppa.

We found a seat in the lounge where we ordered Earl Grey tea. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the next 40 minutes or so before we had to return to our hotel and relinquish the hired car. We were not made to feel particularly out of place drinking our tea in the opulence of Bombay’s top hotel. The foyer certainly was not swarming with the well heeled or beautiful people, although judging by the room tariff displayed at reception it would be seriously expensive to stay there. It seems to be a fact everywhere; money can’t always buy style or class, judging by the Taj residents anyway.

We travelled back to the Ambassador to memorise the route. If we could make some sense of it there was a possibility that we could walk to the port the next day and catch a boat for Elephanta Island. The journey really did not seem too far, surprisingly. Could it be, we wondered, something to do with the driver taking a direct route now that he was getting rid of us?

We sat in our room and had a picnic of expensive fruit. I had hoped to save some for our train journey the next evening, but to complete the

 rip-off of Crawford St. market the fruit was over ripe and too much handling was going to reduce it to a mush. We sat, a little dazed and disorientated, working out our next move.

We decided to walk up the road to the Victoria Terminus, the train station from which we would leave for our trip to Goa. It seemed to make sense to check out train travel procedures without being hampered by our bags.

We made our way to V.T accompanied by a succession of street children. Tired of plucking at our sleeves or arms, they worked their way downward to pull at my skirt and Brian’s trousers and then finally resorted to tapping our feet. I became totally exasperated on more than one occasion and wondered if they would be so keen to keep prodding at Brian’s ankles if they had been aware of just how far and high he would be capable of kicking them.

VT. is a huge Gothic building which looks more like a cathedral than a station. It is very similar to St. Pancras in London but much larger and far more ornate. Inside there were hordes of people queuing for tickets or sleeping on the floor although it was mid afternoon. Huge information boards in Hindu and English seemed to indicate quite clearly which train arrived where and when, and departure times. It seemed too good to be true but we left feeling that catching the train might not be as daunting an experience as we had thought.

We made our way back to the city centre and as we passed Thomas Cook we thought it would be advisable to change some traveller’s cheques rather than be searching for a bureau when we were in dire need.

Before leaving home we had asked Thomas Cook for advice as to the best form of cheques and currency to carry for such an extended trip. We were advised to take dollar cheques. I changed $300 at Thomas Cook in Mumbai, and when we returned to the hotel I compared the rates I had just received with the rates I had received at the airport when we arrived. At this point I realised that we had a problem.

Maths is not my strongest point, but counting money is pretty high on my list of strengths and I knew something was not adding up. After a frantic hour or so with our calculator we found that unfortunately I had not jumped to the wrong conclusion and that the advice given by T. Cook was going to cost us in excess of £200. I was furious.

We discovered that Thomas Cook abroad, is a series of franchise offices, none of whom would want or indeed be able to give me satisfaction. I would have to wait until we returned home.

We now knew that if we used our dollars we were going to lose money so this meant that the alternative was the credit card. I have never been a user of Le Plastic. I had only resorted to having credit cards issued for Brian and me as a stand by. Now it seemed they were going to be our main source of cash. 

For the rest of the trip, each time we changed money, I pictured ripping the head off the cashier at the T.C. office in Nottingham.

Prior to returning to the hotel and making these mathematical revelations we had a very bright moment. We had located close to our hotel a quite wonderful bakery. We had loaded up with bread and an entire plum cake. While sitting in our room discovering the misguided monetary advice, we had been cramming cake into our faces along with over ripe mango and tasteless oranges. It would seem we were not going to starve after all.

We went on another little foray to the bakery a few hours later and I returned to our room laden with booty. Brian meanwhile tried his hand at sending our first ever e-mail at a cyber café next to the bakers. Cyber shed would have been a more appropriate description.

The men from the tailor’s visited us early in the evening, and Brian had a trouser fitting. By using sign language and mimicry, the two Indians indicated that we were to telephone Enamour the next morning for a progress report on our garments. There had been quite enough excitement and heat for one day so we washed and settled down with the air conditioning, cake, and A.X.N.

The next morning we awoke early to the noise and beeping of horns and some maniac was banging a drum. I opened the curtains and looked out expecting to see a procession but no, it was indeed, just some maniac banging a drum. Good morning Bombay!

We decided to expose a little more of our bodies to the daylight and Brian put on his shorts to show off his white knees and calves. With his baggy t-shirt and sandals he looked like an escaped orphan. I was very daring in sleeveless blouse and new long cotton skirt.

Breakfast that morning was a no-holds-barred affair for Brian, with omelettes, cake and curry disappearing in ever increasing portions as he damaged the buffet. I picked more gingerly at toast, Laughing Cow cheese triangles and tepid tea the colour of tar.

We wandered off towards Marine Drive and the stinky sea and decided to sit on the sea wall if we could find a bit that did not smell or look like a public toilet. After about ten minutes of loitering we could feel ourselves going slightly pink with the first exposure to the Asian sun.

We must have been wearing our "beggars will die if we are approached’’ look as we were not hassled. Or perhaps it was just too early in the day.

We made our way back towards town and attempted to use a public phone to call Enamour and Mr. Christian. There were still no taxis, so arranging to visit him was going to be interesting. A one rupee local call had to be the first value for money we had on the trip. Mr. C. suggested we caught a bus to the shop. We managed to convince him that this really was not an option and finally he agreed to send one of his men to collect us and he would then take us back to the shop by bus.

Our guide arrived after what seemed like an age and we followed him as he led us to the nearby bus stop. The street urchins and their parents had now woken up and their constant tugging and tappings were proving as much of an annoyance to our guide as it was to us, as it was hampering our progress. At one point our guide looked back at us and he appeared to feel sorry for us and embarrassed at the performance of his fellow countrymen.

A bus arrived quite quickly and we climbed aboard. This involved frantic scrabbling and pushing with other passengers but we made it with our guide still in sight. We tried for the first five minutes to memorise the route on which we were travelling but it soon became obvious that this was impossible and we contented ourselves with watching the heaving street life along the way.

It is said that spending a day in Bombay’s pollution is the equivalent to smoking twenty cigarettes and we could believe it as we travelled along the congested streets. We still had yet to see Bombay operating on all cylinders with the thousands of temporarily parked taxis and auto rickshaws belching their fumes into the atmosphere.

I could see from my window seat a small procession coming towards us on the opposite side of the road. Seven or eight men in dhotis [a type of male sarong, worn either to the floor or hitched up to make a mini  version] trotting along behind a handcart laden with garlands of flowers. As they drew level with the bus I could see the body of a little old lady buried under the mound of blooms. It was also quite evident that she was dead. She looked very peaceful and in fact healthier than the fellows running along pushing her.

The bus dropped us almost at the door of Enamour and we went through the whole rigmarole of trying things on. My dress was available for a fitting now and as I struggled to pull the thing up over my backside, sweating profusely, I wondered what the hell I was doing having it made in the first place. It was pretty obvious from these few days in India that this dress was about as suitable as an Eskimo outfit in a dessert.

Still more alterations were needed to the trousers and the dress, and I was becoming agitated as we were leaving that night. We had already paid a deposit but we were not going to pay for everything at this stage

It was obvious that Mr.C did not want to give his assistants the responsibility of collecting cash from us at the hotel if they delivered the goods. That I am afraid was Mr. C’s problem and in the end he reluctantly agreed to deliver to us no later than 7pm and collect full payment then.

We were led like children back to the return bus stop and aimed on to the bus for central Bombay. We had become quite familiar with some of the central landmarks and we felt sure we would recognise something or somewhere that would indicate to us that we were near our hotel and should get off the bus.

We arrived back and stood in the heat, noise and fumes wondering what to do next. As we looked about it seemed that some of the taxis were on the move so we quickly grabbed one and asked him to head towards the Government Emporium shop that we had read about in our guidebook. The driver was quite surly and tried to rob us rather royally over the fares, but nevertheless we arrived and went inside for a browse.

Government shops collect handicrafts from all over India, the prices are fixed and therefore bartering is not necessary. We thought that most of the merchandise was fairly tatty and all of it could, if you had the inclination, be purchased in the U.K. There really was nothing unique. The visit was a useful exercise as it allowed us to see the type of prices that were charged and so, if we did barter with a street vendor at least we had some idea what would be a bargain and what would not.

It was very hot outside by now but there was nothing to keep us interested in the shop. By studying our rather useless map, which in the hands of such incompetent map-readers was rendered even more useless, we determined that we could not be far from the Taj Hotel. We struck out and in no time at all we arrived there. We thought that today we would aim for the salubrious balcony tearoom upstairs. It had a real colonial atmosphere and we found some very comfortable wicker chairs and sat overlooking the Gateway to India and the sea.

Whilst drinking Earl Grey, which was served with biscuits this time, [and very nice too] we took bets on how much this would cost and assured ourselves that it was worth it even if it cost £10. We need not have worried. It cost us about three pounds, our second bargain.

Time to make a move so we returned to the heat, and in the time it had taken to drink a pot of tea, the taxis were on strike again.

My map reading may be poor but my sense of direction is pretty good, and we managed to find our way back to our hotel quite quickly.

We stocked up for the final time at Gaylord, the bakery, and checked in to our room to repack, shower, and prepare ourselves for the unknown.

The hotel booking clerk had allowed us an extended checkout time but even so we had to vacate the room by 7pm. [Our train departure was 10. 30 p.m.] We had been able, by using a series of drama queen tactics, [and that was only Brian] to secure transport from the hotel to Victoria Terminus. We really could not walk that distance with our baggage, bottles of water, and the fruit. I didn’t care if they showed up with a wheelbarrow as long as we arrived on time for the train and with the minimum of sweat.

The men from the tailors arrived with our garments very promptly as promised, and we telephoned Mr. C. to say they had been and gone and had been paid.

We sat in the hotel lounge watching folk coming and going. A party of female American students were also waiting to leave and they entertained us for a while as they decided to repack their mountains of luggage in the reception area. They were covered in henna tattoos and their baggage was full of saris.

At nine o’clock a taxi appeared to take us to the station. Given the outrageous price he charged us for the ride we assumed he was breaking the strike, or the strike was off again for five minutes and he was taking full advantage of the stupid westerners. Whatever, we were now at Victoria Terminus and ready for the next stage of our journey.  

The platform was crowded with people and their luggage and mountains of boxes and packages waiting to be loaded on board. The train was not at the platform as I had thought it would be, and so for reassurance I approached a very clean and respectable looking family group of Indians who were waiting nearby. They assured me that we were in the right place and that the train would arrive shortly.

We had been told when we booked the train [two months ago, prior to our departure from England] that our names would be displayed on a notice pinned to the side of the relevant carriage. This really seemed unlikely to us but we did watch with interest as a uniformed rail attendant began pinning lists to a notice board on the platform. We moved in for a closer look and were stunned to see our names and ages along with the carriage and seat numbers printed up on one of ten similar lists. The train pulled in and, there on the side of each carriage was an A4 sheet listing each occupant, their age and dietary preference, vegetarian or non-vegetarian.

The carriages were a dull oxide red on the outside with metal bars over the windows. Some carriages had glass windows. These were the air-conditioned carriages. Others just had bars. Both were graded as first class.

Second class carriages had bars, wooden benches and as many as 60 domestic fans suckered to the roof like jellyfish. Third class had wooden benches, barred windows, and very little else.

But, not to worry, we were travelling first class air-conditioned. Ha!