Down the Rabbit Hole: Arrival in India
July 29, 2010
Flew into Mumbai early this morning, 6:30 local time, about 4:00 Istanbul time. Didn't really matter what time it was as I hadn't slept in the Bahrain airport during our layover and other than restless bouts unable to sleep on the airplane from there to Mumbai.
Picked up our luggage and queued to get our entry stamps. We passed through customs and walked by a money exchange place. The man at the counter asked us if we wanted to exchange any money. Told him we would find an ATM. He replied that the ATM was broken. Venturing on for a few more minutes we found an ATM in good working order. Welcome to India.
Equipped with fistfuls of colorful Indian rupee bills we ventured through the sliding glass doors into sub continent. At seven in morning the air was already warm and sticky. We veered toward a kiosk advertising tourist information. Upon closing it we realized it was a shop selling tawdry trinkets so we changed course to stand marked prepaid taxi. I'd read that negotiating with taxi drivers was something of a headache and prepaid was the way to go. We told the man behind the counter we wanted to go to CST, the central train terminal in Mumbai. For 440 rupees, the equivalent of $10, he gave us a ticket with a cab number.
We headed toward a lot where black cabs were lined up in two rows and were intercepted by a disheveled Indian man with a blaze of red hair. I've now seen several Indians with such color hair and it doesn't appear to be natural. I guess its some sort of fashion statement. He asked for the ticket. Unsure as to how the system worked I handed it over and he gestured for us to follow him. He asked the standard question of where are you from and nodded noncommittally when we told him. We moved through the row of elderly and battered taxis with the red-haired man repeating the numbers on the ticket. I noted that each of the taxis had a number printed somewhere on it.
“9098,” the man said. His queries met with grunts and shrugs from the lounging drivers. Most wore grungy, loose fitting white shirts and trousers. We reached the end of row without finding 9098. Two of the drivers rose from their prone position and converged on us. Some words were exchanged and there appeared to be some question as to whether the '8' was a '5' as there was a cab number 9095 but no 9098. I offered one of them my pen to correct the mistake but they decided it was best to clear it with the office so the red-haired man grabbed our ticket and walked back to prepaid taxi kiosk.
He returned with the corrected taxi ticket and we put our bags in the back of cab 9095 and got in. I moved to shut the door but the red-haired man held it open.
“Give me something,” he said
“For what I said?”
“Give me 50 rupees.”
“No.”
“Give me 30.”
“No, here I'll give you 10 ($0.20).”
It was the smallest denomination I had and he didn't seem very happy about it. However, I didn't ask for his help and could have very easily found the cab on my own. India seems to be awash in middlemen.
I don't know if we were just in a rough part of town or what but my impressions of Mumbai from the first ride aren't pleasant. The congested roadways are frenetic, with seemingly little order as cars, motorcycles, trucks and auto-rickshaws weave and vie to make their way. The rumbles of their engines and honk of their horns formed a constant, jarring cacophony. Most drivers seemed to periodically, every five seconds or so, give a good sounding. Stenciled or printed on the backs of trucks is the phrase, “Honk OK Please.” I have a difficult time fathoming with all that commotion how I would be able to identify from which direction a honk originated.
The ride to CST lasted nearly an hour taking us past close built, ramshackle tenements with corrugated metal roofs anchored by rocks and open sewage systems. Other housing that just consisted of tied off tarpaulins where dirty little kids picked through rubbish. We passed by abandoned and heavily graffittied buildings and huge piles of rubble and garbage.
A misty rain left the place a muddy mess. People seemed to be sprawled everywhere, fast asleep on wet, cracked sidewalks, in the medians, everywhere. The horrendous sights combined with noxious gray fumes of the vehicles and odor of human squalor had a dizzying effect. We arrived at the train station and I was very glad to get out. I tipped the driver 100 rupees ($2) turning his perpetually dour expression into a wide grin. I was happy to see it.
Now, our guide book describes the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) as follows:
Imposing, exuberant and overflowing with people, this is the city's most extravagant Gothic building and beating heart of its (India's) railway network, and an aphorism for colonial India.
The guide goes to bill it as being the busiest train station in India.
Looking around I thought that if this was the beating heart the Indian railway system must be on its deathbed. A few taxi cabs and auto-rickshaws congregated in one corner of the vast open parking lot. A handful of people wandered around on the platform. One man was vomiting in the grass while one woman was digging through a rubbish bin. We trotted up the stairs to the open air station house. A couple of you men in smart looking brown army uniforms and berets lounged around a card table. One had his assault rifle propped up on his shoulder. The other had his sidearm lying on the table. Above their heads hung a huge wooden timetable. It was a garish yellow and red and badly chipped. Across from them were half a dozen ticket agent booths. None were occupied.
The rail yard didn't seem all that active either. Four sets of tracks, a long line of box cars on one and a few porters lazing about. We looked up a the time table. None of the destinations and times seemed to match up with what we had researched on the internet.
One of the soldiers took interest in us, a young dark skinned, mustachioed man who spoke some broken English. He inquired as to where we wanted to go. Jalgaon we said (We'd read about some interesting Buddhist cave temples there and were keen on getting out of Mumbai ASAP). He began perusing the the time table. Mystified by the chart he directed us towards the empty ticket booths.
“One minute he will come,” the soldier said before walking down the platform and saying a few words to a seemingly derelict man.
The man subsequently walked around behind the station house and emerged behind the dusty glass of one of the ticket booths. He removed the piece cardboard from the counter and gestured for us to come forward. I said that we'd like to go to Jalgaon. He nodded and passed a ticket across the counter.
“7 rupees,” he said. 7 rupees is about the equivalent of 15 cents and Jalgaon is a city a good 400 kilometers from Mumbai. I went ahead and peeled off another 10 rupee note and took the proffered ticket and three rupees in change. We walked past the soldiers and thanked them for their help.
“One minute. You take picture?”
“Sure.”
The mustachioed solider hopped up and squeezed in between us while his partner snapped a picture with his cell phone. They thanked us and directed us farther down the platform. We wandered off still not quite sure what we were suppose to be doing. Perhaps the taxi driver dropped us off at the train station. We had explicitly said “CST” many times and he had seemed to acknowledge it clearly. Being the throbbing heart of the railway network he had to be a common destination for people exiting the airport.
We ventured up an overpass running over the tracks but found a dead end on the other side. We slowly trod back down. Reaching the foot, a white golf cart whizzed by on the platform. One of the soldiers was riding shotgun. He shouted something and indicated we should follow the white golf cart.
Jean and I set off down the platform but quickly lost sight of the vehicle. We walked a hundred yards or so down the platform where some rough looking porters were directing heavy push carts of goods. We turned the corner and passed through poorly lit hallway and emerged in...
...a bustling train station. Aha! We found our way to the ticket booths. There were loads and loads of them. After some trial and error we made our way to another ticketing area that was thankfully air-conditioned where counter 52 was located, the ticket agent specifically designated for foreigners. There were even three yellow benches in front marked for tourists only.
Without too much trouble we purchased tickets for Agra where we were to meet Meredith with a stop over in Jalgaon to see the Buddhist caves in Ajunta. It was just past 9 in the morning and our train didn't leave until 3 and we were dead tired after not sleeping the night before.
We tried to leave our bags at the train's luggage check but they wouldn't take them without a lock on them. So, we conceded and waited out our train in the air conditioning on the yellow benches in front of counter 52.
Flew into Mumbai early this morning, 6:30 local time, about 4:00 Istanbul time. Didn't really matter what time it was as I hadn't slept in the Bahrain airport during our layover and other than restless bouts unable to sleep on the airplane from there to Mumbai.
Picked up our luggage and queued to get our entry stamps. We passed through customs and walked by a money exchange place. The man at the counter asked us if we wanted to exchange any money. Told him we would find an ATM. He replied that the ATM was broken. Venturing on for a few more minutes we found an ATM in good working order. Welcome to India.
Equipped with fistfuls of colorful Indian rupee bills we ventured through the sliding glass doors into sub continent. At seven in morning the air was already warm and sticky. We veered toward a kiosk advertising tourist information. Upon closing it we realized it was a shop selling tawdry trinkets so we changed course to stand marked prepaid taxi. I'd read that negotiating with taxi drivers was something of a headache and prepaid was the way to go. We told the man behind the counter we wanted to go to CST, the central train terminal in Mumbai. For 440 rupees, the equivalent of $10, he gave us a ticket with a cab number.
We headed toward a lot where black cabs were lined up in two rows and were intercepted by a disheveled Indian man with a blaze of red hair. I've now seen several Indians with such color hair and it doesn't appear to be natural. I guess its some sort of fashion statement. He asked for the ticket. Unsure as to how the system worked I handed it over and he gestured for us to follow him. He asked the standard question of where are you from and nodded noncommittally when we told him. We moved through the row of elderly and battered taxis with the red-haired man repeating the numbers on the ticket. I noted that each of the taxis had a number printed somewhere on it.
“9098,” the man said. His queries met with grunts and shrugs from the lounging drivers. Most wore grungy, loose fitting white shirts and trousers. We reached the end of row without finding 9098. Two of the drivers rose from their prone position and converged on us. Some words were exchanged and there appeared to be some question as to whether the '8' was a '5' as there was a cab number 9095 but no 9098. I offered one of them my pen to correct the mistake but they decided it was best to clear it with the office so the red-haired man grabbed our ticket and walked back to prepaid taxi kiosk.
He returned with the corrected taxi ticket and we put our bags in the back of cab 9095 and got in. I moved to shut the door but the red-haired man held it open.
“Give me something,” he said
“For what I said?”
“Give me 50 rupees.”
“No.”
“Give me 30.”
“No, here I'll give you 10 ($0.20).”
It was the smallest denomination I had and he didn't seem very happy about it. However, I didn't ask for his help and could have very easily found the cab on my own. India seems to be awash in middlemen.
I don't know if we were just in a rough part of town or what but my impressions of Mumbai from the first ride aren't pleasant. The congested roadways are frenetic, with seemingly little order as cars, motorcycles, trucks and auto-rickshaws weave and vie to make their way. The rumbles of their engines and honk of their horns formed a constant, jarring cacophony. Most drivers seemed to periodically, every five seconds or so, give a good sounding. Stenciled or printed on the backs of trucks is the phrase, “Honk OK Please.” I have a difficult time fathoming with all that commotion how I would be able to identify from which direction a honk originated.
The ride to CST lasted nearly an hour taking us past close built, ramshackle tenements with corrugated metal roofs anchored by rocks and open sewage systems. Other housing that just consisted of tied off tarpaulins where dirty little kids picked through rubbish. We passed by abandoned and heavily graffittied buildings and huge piles of rubble and garbage.
A misty rain left the place a muddy mess. People seemed to be sprawled everywhere, fast asleep on wet, cracked sidewalks, in the medians, everywhere. The horrendous sights combined with noxious gray fumes of the vehicles and odor of human squalor had a dizzying effect. We arrived at the train station and I was very glad to get out. I tipped the driver 100 rupees ($2) turning his perpetually dour expression into a wide grin. I was happy to see it.
Now, our guide book describes the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST) as follows:
Imposing, exuberant and overflowing with people, this is the city's most extravagant Gothic building and beating heart of its (India's) railway network, and an aphorism for colonial India.
The guide goes to bill it as being the busiest train station in India.
Looking around I thought that if this was the beating heart the Indian railway system must be on its deathbed. A few taxi cabs and auto-rickshaws congregated in one corner of the vast open parking lot. A handful of people wandered around on the platform. One man was vomiting in the grass while one woman was digging through a rubbish bin. We trotted up the stairs to the open air station house. A couple of you men in smart looking brown army uniforms and berets lounged around a card table. One had his assault rifle propped up on his shoulder. The other had his sidearm lying on the table. Above their heads hung a huge wooden timetable. It was a garish yellow and red and badly chipped. Across from them were half a dozen ticket agent booths. None were occupied.
The rail yard didn't seem all that active either. Four sets of tracks, a long line of box cars on one and a few porters lazing about. We looked up a the time table. None of the destinations and times seemed to match up with what we had researched on the internet.
One of the soldiers took interest in us, a young dark skinned, mustachioed man who spoke some broken English. He inquired as to where we wanted to go. Jalgaon we said (We'd read about some interesting Buddhist cave temples there and were keen on getting out of Mumbai ASAP). He began perusing the the time table. Mystified by the chart he directed us towards the empty ticket booths.
“One minute he will come,” the soldier said before walking down the platform and saying a few words to a seemingly derelict man.
The man subsequently walked around behind the station house and emerged behind the dusty glass of one of the ticket booths. He removed the piece cardboard from the counter and gestured for us to come forward. I said that we'd like to go to Jalgaon. He nodded and passed a ticket across the counter.
“7 rupees,” he said. 7 rupees is about the equivalent of 15 cents and Jalgaon is a city a good 400 kilometers from Mumbai. I went ahead and peeled off another 10 rupee note and took the proffered ticket and three rupees in change. We walked past the soldiers and thanked them for their help.
“One minute. You take picture?”
“Sure.”
The mustachioed solider hopped up and squeezed in between us while his partner snapped a picture with his cell phone. They thanked us and directed us farther down the platform. We wandered off still not quite sure what we were suppose to be doing. Perhaps the taxi driver dropped us off at the train station. We had explicitly said “CST” many times and he had seemed to acknowledge it clearly. Being the throbbing heart of the railway network he had to be a common destination for people exiting the airport.
We ventured up an overpass running over the tracks but found a dead end on the other side. We slowly trod back down. Reaching the foot, a white golf cart whizzed by on the platform. One of the soldiers was riding shotgun. He shouted something and indicated we should follow the white golf cart.
Jean and I set off down the platform but quickly lost sight of the vehicle. We walked a hundred yards or so down the platform where some rough looking porters were directing heavy push carts of goods. We turned the corner and passed through poorly lit hallway and emerged in...
...a bustling train station. Aha! We found our way to the ticket booths. There were loads and loads of them. After some trial and error we made our way to another ticketing area that was thankfully air-conditioned where counter 52 was located, the ticket agent specifically designated for foreigners. There were even three yellow benches in front marked for tourists only.
Without too much trouble we purchased tickets for Agra where we were to meet Meredith with a stop over in Jalgaon to see the Buddhist caves in Ajunta. It was just past 9 in the morning and our train didn't leave until 3 and we were dead tired after not sleeping the night before.
We tried to leave our bags at the train's luggage check but they wouldn't take them without a lock on them. So, we conceded and waited out our train in the air conditioning on the yellow benches in front of counter 52.
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