One Day in Mumbai

When you only have half a day in Mumbai, what do you do with it? Aaron and I weren't sure how to answer that question, as it seemed like no matter what we chose, we would be missing out on so much. You can live in a huge city for months, or years, and not experience everything you would like to, so how can you really get anything out of half a day? We were determined to try.

Although we had enjoyed the hotel's breakfast buffet the previous morning, our second breakfast in India consisted of Aldi toaster pastries, canned chicken, and raisins. It was cheap, fast, easy, and there was less of a chance we would be paying for it later in the form of traveler's diarrhea, which would have been even more unpleasant to deal with while walking around the city.

We repeated the previous day's going-out routine: slathering on sunscreen and mosquito repellent, wearing long sleeves and pants, brushing our teeth with bottled water. Since the hotel provided free bottled water, we each loaded Aaron's backpack with a few big bottles, as well as some snacks. We packed everything else, checked our luggage at the bell desk, and checked out of our room so that we could walk around the city without having to worry about coming back before the checkout time. Our plan was to meet Rob in the lobby around 2:00 so we could take a taxi to the airport together, with plenty of time to eat at the airport before catching our flight to Hyderabad.

With one tripod, both camera bodies and all of our lenses, we headed out of the hotel alone for the first time. It was a little overwhelming to have the freedom to wander where we wished, but it was also overwhelming because we felt very exposed. I had learned the previous day that no matter where I was, people would stare at me. I'm not comfortable being an object of curiosity, so I tended to make eye contact and smile a lot. It disarmed people, and made me feel less nervous about being in India (it turned into a game later in Hyderabad).

I knew I was staring at people, though. Everything was absolutely fascinating to me, from the way people dressed to the way they spoke down to the way they walked and interacted with each other. People were reserved, modest, yet very affectionate. It felt like everyone regarded the people near them as family in the larger sense. The people were absolutely beautiful to me, and not just in terms of physical appearance: they radiated this sense of good, even though we were obviously strangers.

We walked around the barricade and plaza surrounding the Gateway, where there were quite a few items for sale.

This was a common sight: men selling chai from a thermos, poured into tiny paper cups.

Several people sold fresh fruit and vegetables. To the right of the chai man, there was a guy selling plastic packs of strawberries that smelled amazing. This kid sold peeled cucumbers, using the leaves and a bowl of water to keep them cool.

The balloon vendors were relatively aggressive, and they were everywhere. The smell of the latex was a little overwhelming at times. And what would you do with these? The only think I can think of of is hit people with them.

This guy roasted peanuts, dispensing them in rolled paper cones. Some vendors had trays balanced on their heads.




















There was a line of waiting taxis, with drivers ready to take tourists on city tours. We kept using the excuse that we were leaving in a few hours and didn't have time, which was unfortunately true. It was important to us that we saw some of the city, but we couldn't risk getting into a cab with someone who may not understand that we needed to get back to the hotel at a certain time so we could meet Rob and catch our flight to Hyderabad. I've only taken taxis in big cities a few times, and it was usually to get to/from an airport, and those rides showed me that not only is it hard to see a city from a taxi window, it's also nearly impossible to have an accurate sense of how long it will take.

So we just started walking down a street until we found a huge intersection. Aaron set up his tripod to take video, and I took photos of anything passing by. It might be weird, but watching traffic was one of the most enjoyable parts of being in India, because everything about it was different from home.

For at least an hour, we set up shop at this intersection. There were quite a few corners, and a median with a statue from which we had a good view of multiple angles of the roundabout. Oh, how I wanted to go to that art museum! The nerd in me groaned at the idea of being so close to it but not being able to go.

 

And look at that architecture!

I was fascinated by the flow of traffic: how every vehicle and pedestrian occupied his or her own space, and all of it flowed in one controlled motion, seemingly choreographed. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. The traffic in Rome is the closest analogue, but the Italians whizzing by on motorini were somehow more insistent. Staccato. Frenzied. A bit reckless. Indians exhibited what I think of as "traffic trust," knowing everyone would get where they were trying to go eventually, and that cooperation would help them along.

When the lights changed, it was exhilarating to watch everyone move, and navigate the laneless intersections without colliding. The key is the way Indian drivers use their horns more than their mirrors and turn signals combined. And yes, those cars are coming right at me. I was on the very edge of the sidewalk, crouched low and shaking a little in anticipation.

I loved how open and friendly people were--especially the young. Our equipment was a way into a conversation, and we tried to be as polite as possible because we felt like these people were giving us the gift of a tiny slice of their lives, captured digitally.

These kids were great. The one in the middle was obviously the leader in the situation, and he asked to have us take their pictures with our cameras and with their cell phones. But even truck, bus, and cab drivers waved or even stopped for us.

And these boys were heartbreakingly adorable. They kept stopping in the street because they wanted us to take their pictures so badly.

And as they walked away, you can see how much they cared for each other, helping each other cross at least four lanes of traffic, not at a crosswalk, to get to the center of the roundabout and on with their day. (I really, really love that lens for portraits. So nice.)

I loved taking pictures of everyone who would let us, but at times, it felt exploitative. Sure, I wanted to document our trip, and be able to show my family and friends what we had done and seen while in India, but I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of the people whose photos I was taking. By composing the shots, choosing what to show and what to ignore, I was passing a sort of judgment on them--however much I didn't want to do that, it was unavoidable.

Then two men stopped my heart dead in my chest. They were lugging a cart with huge water barrels. They were drenched with sweat. They were doing more work than seemed humanly possible. And the second man was not only drenched in sweat--he was missing an arm.

I felt so incredibly conflicted. Do I take the photo? How could I not take the photo? Would they feel like I was robbing them of their dignity? Did I need to explain to them that by taking the photos, I was trying to capture life in Mumbai just as it was that January day?

The man at the front of the cart answered my questions for me when he stopped, smiled, and then posed for me. He wanted his picture taken. I still felt incredibly conflicted, but also so grateful to him.

I thanked them several times, and they went on their way.

We were continually amazed at how people were able to move large quantities of goods on vehicles seemingly too small for the tasks at hand, or with far fewer people than simple physics should necessitate. By the time we saw two men carrying a full-grown goat between them on a motorcycle in Hyderabad, we were almost used to it.

Every man I saw reminded me of my dad's work ethic, and his penchant for "build your own" trailers. He'd do fine in India.

After seeing this, how can I honestly say I have ever worked a day in my life? I know it's all relative, but I felt sick inside at just how hard people worked, and here I was, taking pictures on a street corner. I was being paid to take those pictures. I was "working."

We eventually moved from the roundabout down a side street.Though we could have easily asked for directions, we didn't want to get too far from the hotel because we didn't know where we would be "safe." We weren't too concerned for our safety, to be honest--it was more an issue of being able to keep track of each other and our equipment, since we still had a lot of shooting to do in Hyderabad and we absolutely could not afford to lose a camera, a bag, a tripod, or anything else.

The side street we chose was home to the Leopold Cafe, which was popular with tourists but also among the sites attacked by terrorists in 2008. This street also had some rather aggressive vendors, one of whom followed me for a block and a half in the hopes that I would buy a book of his postcards because I showed the slightest amount of interest. I did end up bargaining for a refrigerator magnet depicting the Taj and Gateway of India. Although the picture on the magnet is incorrect, I think it adds to the charm. What do you expect for 50 rupees?

I have a sensitive nose as it is, and India allowed me to play Toucan Sam's "Follow Your Nose" game like a professional. Delicious food smells came out of nowhere, carried from open doorways and windows or from atop the heads of street vendors.

Samosa Man! I wanted to follow him down the block. Imagine a cartoon-like white tendril of delicious aroma beckoning to me with come-hither fingers, and me following him down the street, balanced and moving forward on my rapidly-tapping toes, eyes closed in sheer ecstasy at each whiff. Yes. That's what it was like. It smelled so good.




We kept walking, stopping to take photos and look at wares arranged on tables. Eventually, we turned left again, back towards the Taj. I didn't really want to go back, so I dawdled, taking Aaron down side streets and stopping as often as possible, despite my growling stomach and aching feet. There was so much more to see.

And that's when I met Ganesh. While Aaron was taking photos, I ended up in the center of the street with two teenage boys. We started a conversation about why we were in India, and why we were taking pictures. Then Ganesh showed me just how ugly tourists are: he offered to show me the slums, just like in Slumdog Millionaire, which is apparently what all the white tourists want to see when they visit Mumbai. It made me so angry and uncomfortable that that's what tourists expect, and ask for--to take a taxi to the slums and then go back to their expensive hotels where they can wash away all traces of the lives they have just exploited.

 I didn't say this to Ganesh. I thanked him but politely declined, explaining that we would be leaving Mumbai later that day and were happy to walk around a little on our own, to see what we could. We were less than a block from the Taj, so he may have figured we were staying there (and thus had money).

Then he asked me to buy him some rice from a nearby stand. I am not a hard-hearted person, and I honestly wanted to buy him that rice. I could afford it. I could have bought rice for everyone standing on that street for the cost of a dinner for two at Denny's back home. I struggled to say no to him, explaining that if I bought it for him and his friend, I would want to buy it for everyone, and I couldn't do that because my husband would be angry with me. I felt like an absolute moron, and I struggled not to cry in front of him, because I felt that guilty. How do you say now to a soft-spoken, polite boy who speaks impeccable English and is blind in one eye? How do you say no to a boy who, truthfully or not, calls himself Ganesh, and whose namesake is the Remover of Obstacles?

When it was clear that I wasn't going to buy them food, Ganesh and his friend walked away. I felt terrible, until I saw Ganesh pull a wad of bills out of his back pocket and buy himself some rice. Not that it means he couldn't have used some help.

On that side street, we photographed a man I later dubbed the only sour man in all of Mumbai:

 I didn't try to smile at him.













The rest of that street, however, was so pleasant. It felt like a microcosm for what India was for us.

The shabby but pleasant.

The constant motion and endless urban growth. The city was so completely alive.

 

And the juxtapositions of delicate, beautiful, expensive things with the old, gritty, rough realities of Mumbai.

There was a dead rat on the sidewalk directly below the dress on the right. It was like what a pretentious art student would assemble to make a statement, except it was just there.

Outside the hotel, I managed to buy a book of postcards from a vendor. I was glad I did, because I didn't have much of a chance to buy them in Hyderabad. (Now, I promise, I did write all 12 postcards--I just have no idea if they were actually sent, because I was unable to buy stamps in Hyderabad and had to leave them with the man who took us to the airport to fly back home.)

I wish I had another word to describe how I felt about going back to the Taj, but conflicted is the one that remains lodged in my brain. I welcomed the air conditioned lobby, the comfortable couches, the privacy of our 4th floor room. I was happy to be able to wash my face and breathe clean air (when I blew my nose, my snot was black.) I also felt extremely ashamed at my behavior: for having taken photographs, for having bargained for already inexpensive souvenirs, for having denied beggars, for having said no to Ganesh.

While we waited for Rob in the lobby, I couldn't sit still. I walked around the hotel a bit, looking around at the pool, the shops, the restaurants. I stood in front of the window of a jewelry shop, looking at earrings and necklaces I certainly couldn't afford. The price tags were tactfully turned facedown. There was a store that sold nothing but pashmina scarves; another with silk ties. I lingered too long in front of yet another jewelry store, causing the proprietor to get up from his stool and abandon his newspaper to approach the door. I was in the hotel, I was white, so that meant I had money to spend on luxury goods. Obviously. The assumptions hurt, and were ill-fitting. Seeing my tired face reflected back at me, studded with the glitter of gemstones in the shape of peacocks and elephants, I couldn't tell if I belonged inside the hotel or outside of it.

Surprise!

Last week, Aaron came into the kitchen to tell me he had a surprise for me. I immediately told him I didn't want to know. "Stop talking about it," I said. "It won't be a surprise anymore."

Aaron is great at coming up with ways to surprise me. But he is also terrible at keeping things a surprise because he is always so excited about what he's come up with that he can't wait to share it. It's like that SNL character, Sue, played by Kristen Wiig.

So he came up with a compromise: he had me play 20 Questions to guess what the surprise was. That way, he wouldn't be telling me, but I could still know.

"Is it used for entertainment?"

"Is it something you eat?"

"Is it something you wear?"

"Have I ever owned something like this?"

"Does it require electricity/batteries?"

His last two answers (Yes, but this is an upgrade and Yes) made it click in my brain for some reason.

"Is it a new mixer?"

Yes. It was not only a new mixer, but a fancy-pants Kitchen Aid Artisan stand mixer in a color they call Cinnamon Gloss (dark red). I believe I blinked a few times. Then I teared up a little. Then I hugged him. Because I have always, always wanted one of these mixers, but it was the kind of thing I never thought I would get--it was too much for a birthday or Christmas or anniversary present, because we don't spend extravagantly on gifts. It was certainly not something you get "just because." Unless, of course, you're Aaron and you find a great deal on the Internet (a sale plus two rebates).

The mixer was delivered today by our friendly UPS man, who has woken me out of a dead sleep a few times because our bedroom is at the front of the house and the front door really resonates when someone pounds on it. He had a hard time lugging the large box into my messy living room, and I couldn't offer him much help since I was barefoot and in a hastily-thrown-on robe.

Aaron pulled it out of the box and set it up on the counter. It's incredibly shiny. Sleek, even. In my kitchen, it's like when you see an expensive car driving through a lower-middle-class neighborhood. You think someone must have made a mistake, because it's just too good.

I know, I probably shouldn't get this worked up over a mixer, but I love to bake. For so long this appliance has rested in the back of my mind as an aspirational object. This thing will let me do what I already do, but even better. I may be placing too much importance on a THING, an IT, an OBJECT. At the same time, however, this mixer is an investment, and the returns will be measured not in how much I get out of using it, but in how others benefit from the breads, cakes, brownies, and cookies I bring them. Because I get a kick out of baking for people, especially for no reason other than the fact that I like them.

Now who wants banana bread?

I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning

When it comes to sleep, Aaron and I have always been incompatible. Our bodies are wired differently. I need rather large quantities of sleep at reasonable times, and when I start feeling tired I don't have long before I absolutely have to go to sleep (or risk falling asleep wherever I am). I can get up early, but I don't like it, and it usually takes me about two hours to feel human after waking.

Aaron is a crash-and-burn kind of guy: he can stay up all night, especially while working on a video project, and not nap. I call this behavior his "editing vortex" because he goes into his office and doesn't come out until he has to--and that's only for things like going to work or using the bathroom. I bring him food, and sometimes drinks, because he might forget otherwise. I hear strange noises from time to time (usually from wedding singers through blown-out church microphones) but in some ways, he ceases to exist. Eventually, he comes out, needing a shower and some rest, and if he's worked particularly hard, he'll sleep as long as I'll let him the next day.

Even right now, I've been up since a little after 6:00, walking around the apartment looking for things I can do that won't make too much noise, because I know he's exhausted. He gets home from work between 10:45 and midnight five days a week, so I understand that early mornings don't work for him. We recently instituted a rule that states I don't have to worry about being quiet after 9:00, unless he posts a note on the refrigerator telling me that he was up until some unholy hour and needs to sleep in as long as he can to make up for it.

It's no surprise that on our second (and final) day in Mumbai, I woke up at 7:00. There was just enough light coming in around the full-wall curtain blocking the balcony and windows that my body registered it as a cue to get out of bed and DO SOMETHING. I had the same problem I have at home, though. What can I do that won't make noise but that will make me feel like I'm accomplishing something?

I wanted to be out in the streets, seeing as much as I could before we left that afternoon. But I couldn't go alone because it wasn't entirely safe and I'm a bit too trusting. I couldn't look out for myself the way I would need to because I would be too busy figuring out where I was going and keeping track of where I was in relation to the hotel. Without a map, I wouldn't risk it, anyway. I settled for what I could get, and went out on the balcony to look out over the square and the harbor.

How can you not want to be out when the morning looks like that?

I quickly realized that my pajamas were not appropriate attire when I noticed quite a few men staring up at me. I sighed and went back into the room. The sound of the door and the movement of the curtain made Aaron mumble in his sleep, so I knew I had to stop moving around so much. He hadn't fallen asleep as early as I had.

I was at a loss, though, because everything made noise. I couldn't go into my suitcase to get dressed, because that would be too loud. I wanted a snack, but those were also in the suitcases. I could take a shower, but then I couldn't dry my hair or get dressed afterwards, so there was no point getting ready this early. I felt trapped in the room. I felt resentful.

I was also freezing. In hotels, Aaron likes to crank the air conditioning as cold as possible because it makes him feel like he's sleeping in his childhood bedroom in the middle of winter. It was too cold and dark to try to mess with the controls on it, and if its hum stopped, Aaron would surely wake up (and be very annoyed with me). I put on Aaron's hooded sweatshirt, wrapped myself in a few dry towels, and sat at the desk for an hour and a half, writing.

When he woke up, he saw me huddled in a chair in a baggy sweatshirt, probably looking a little frenzied because I was so glad he was finally awake. Ninety minutes of writing and listening to my husband snore really helped me feel human again. He laughed a little, because he knew exactly why I was draped in towels, scribbling in a notebook, and letting my stomach growl audibly.

He hadn't even swung his feet off the edge of the bed before I was in my suitcase, rummaging for what I would wear that day and making plans. And making lots of noise.

Home Sweet Hotel

After our trip to Elephanta Island, we had a small chunk of free time to do with what we wished. As excited as we were to see Mumbai, we were even more excited to get better acquainted with our expensive hotel room. While Biplab headed out to a phone store to get help with repairing the damage from the puddle encounter and Rob walked around Mumbai to get souvenirs, we dragged ourselves into the elevator and instantly slumped against the walls.

While we were gone, the bed had been made and dressed up with throw pillows:

Somehow, this is one of the only pictures we managed to take of our hotel room. I guess we were too busy thinking about video production to bother documenting what the room was like. I promptly messed up the bed by collapsing, fully clothed, into the center of it. Aaron downloaded pictures and footage from the cameras onto his laptop and made the first of his video-diary entries (which he did not manage to keep up with over the course of the trip because by the end of each day we were just too tired). We were supposed to have about 45 minutes, so it wasn't long enough to take a real nap and feel rested.

For as upscale as the hotel is, our room was relatively plain. It was nice. It was clean. But, for the most part, the room wasn't overly spectacular, for which I was grateful. I always feel uncomfortable in fancy places, like I'm underdressed, outclassed, and clearly an outsider who will be commanded to leave once someone in power notices I'm there. Thankfully, our room didn't make me feel this way because we were staying in the Tower wing rather than the Palace wing. Our main indulgence was that we had a sea-view room rather than a city-view room.

No joke, this hotel is a fancy-pants place for rich tourists, politicians, celebrities, royalty, and anyone else who expects luxury. The Obamas stayed here. Oprah stayed here. John Lennon stayed here. And I understand why they stayed at the Taj, how if you're going to stay in Mumbai, this hotel is unquestionably the place to stay.

But the whole time we were there, I felt very conflicted about staying in such a lavish hotel. I didn't fully belong there, but I also didn't really want to belong there. I won't deny that I've been fortunate in my life, and have benefited from a position of privilege (especially concerning race, educational opportunities, and employment). I'd like to think, however, that even with my inborn and acquired privilege, I have managed not to take it completely for granted or devolve into an entitled, ungrateful wench (well, I hope so, anyway). I'm not great at being grateful, but I try.

That first day, I was grateful for the quiet of our room. Clean sheets. Bottled water. Privacy, if I thought I wanted or needed it. Distance--not only from the restless clamor of the city, but also from my life back home, from everything familiar, from the petty things I think about on a day to day basis. I was also grateful that I was having this experience at all, and that I was lucky enough to be sharing it with Aaron.

Physiological needs did make themselves more apparent in India, though, and we both realized that it had been almost 12 hours since our last real meal (we had eaten trail mix bars sometime between the Gateway and the rooftop shoots). We were supposed to have dinner with Rob and Biplab when they returned from their shopping. We went back to the lobby to wait for them. And we waited. One hour passed, then two. Ordinarily, this is the kind of situation we would have been peeved about back home. Feeling very hungry and sleep deprived, and then having to wait longer than expected for other people to show up so we could finally eat? Somehow, the situation didn't really even matter to us. We felt the hunger, we felt tired, but we also were content to have a comfortable place to sit.

Rob came through the revolving doors, without Biplab, explaining that the damaged phone was proving more difficult to fix than anticipated. In fact, the phone was currently in pieces at a nearby shop, being meticulously dried and inspected, so Biplab had said for us to go ahead without him. We asked the front desk for a recommendation regarding the restaurants in the hotel, specifying that we were looking for options other than Indian food (Rob's stipulation) and that it couldn't be too expensive or formal (a concern for all of us). We were told to go to the Sea Lounge, one of the casual-dining restaurants that serves high tea and some American/European food.

I wanted to experience everything I could while in India. But after the long day we had, I didn't feel too guilty ordering a safe, boring chicken BLT burger and fries. Aaron and Rob both ordered fish and chips. We sat in a quiet, air conditioned restaurant staffed by impeccably uniformed wait staff. We were three Americans waiting for a friend to join us. We could have been anywhere in the world, really.

Biplab couldn't stay for dinner because he planned to stay at his sister's home that night, and it was a two-hour ride from our hotel, even though it was somewhere in Mumbai. I had the terrible realization that this would quite possibly be the last time I would see Biplab in person. We had only known him for a day, but it had been so much less stressful and also enlightening because he was so knowledgeable, articulate, and open to answering all of my questions about India.

By the time our food arrived, Biplab had left and I was practically slapping myself to stay awake so as to avoid one of those embarassing "I literally fell asleep face-down in my plate of food" moments we've all had as small children (and most of our parents have the pictures to prove it). Rob told us he planned to go back to Elephanta Island so he could visit the caves; we decided that we'd spend the day walking around Mumbai, since this would be our only chance to see any of the city before flying to Hyderabad in the evening.

I was also ready to get closer to India itself: to see the traffic, talk to strangers, see what we could. I needed to get out of the hotel and walk down the street because I needed some grit--I didn't want to remember Mumbai just as it was inside the Taj because that isn't the Mumbai most Indians see or experience. I needed to feel more than just safe and comfortable. I knew India would teach me about wealth, privilege, class, race, culture, and power. It was up to me not to flinch.

Elephanta Island

One of the few tourist excursions we had planned for our India trip was a visit to Elephanta Island, a historical site on an island in the Mumbai harbor. The caves were used as temples and have carvings depicting Hindu gods; the island itself is named for a gigantic basalt elephant statue (which is now in a museum). Although we were still officially working, and hoping to get some interesting video and photos to use in the project, it was also a chance to have some fun.

We were about to buy tickets from one of the ferry companies with a booth near the Gateway, and found out that the caves are closed on Mondays. Rob had been there before, and assured us there would still be plenty to see, so we paid the fare. Indian tourist attractions have a pricing structure based on nationality, with foreigners paying about five times more than locals for admission to historical sites. It was still quite inexpensive for all of us. I kind of like that locals have to pay less, because it makes these sites more accessible to the general population.

Since the island is about six miles out into the harbor, we had an hour-long boat ride. Photography is not allowed on the boats (by order of the Indian navy), so we didn't take pictures or video on the ride because we are serious rule-followers. Of course, that didn't stop Indians from using their cell phones--especially when a group of seagulls flew alongside the boat, eating the chips some kids threw to them.

Tourist Ferry Boats

Even though I knew to expect to see pollution and garbage in the water, it shocked me when boat passengers threw their empty water and soda bottles, chip bags, and snack wrappers overboard.  It was like a reflex, completely automatic. There was an empty, unused trash can on the boat.

We disembarked onto a small concrete ledge, walked up some steps and were on the pier leading to the island itself. This was the closest we were going to get to the great outdoors on the entire trip, since we were planning to spend the rest of our time in Hyderabad (the 4th most populous city in India). Rob and Biplab stopped to buy cold drinks from a booth on the pier, and then we started the long walk to the stairs leading to the archeological park.

Rob: "You don't have any Mountain Dew? Okay, Coke."

We could have taken the train instead of walking, but we weren't really tired at this point and we wanted to be able to take pictures.  The train reminded us of Deer Acres back home.

 We were greeted by very friendly stray dogs, which tested my willpower regarding my self-imposed "Don't Pet Anything" rule. I think animals seek me out because they can tell that I would take them home with me if I could, and at the very least I will pet them and share my food. The only exception to my benevolence? Snakes. Good thing I didn't see any on the island.

The island has year-round residents, many of whom make their living in part by getting visitors to buy merchandise from their stands. The vendors here sold snacks, hats, clothing, jewelry, statues, toys and a lot of other souvenir items. Everything was reasonably priced, though the quality of items varied widely from one booth to the next. I was completely enchanted, though. I absolutely love buying things from street vendors. I've always been attracted to yard sales, flea markets, thrift stores, etc. because you never really know what's going to be there, and if you don't like the prices you can move on to the next booth.

After this first vendor-gauntlet, we came to a paved area that was a little more open than the previous paths, and I nearly had a heart attack of joy because I saw cows, goats, dogs, and monkeys on the loose and mingling with the crowd. Giving me access to animals is like giving Red Bull to a kid with ADHD--terrifying, slightly dangerous, but hilarious. I wanted to play fetch with the dogs.

I wanted to stare into the rectangular pupils of the goats.

I wanted to pet the cows.













I wanted to high-five the monkeys. All of this, ALL AT ONCE. I know, I am a child. But I've never seen monkeys in the wild, and this was the closest we would get to having an Indiana Jones moment in India.

The sign the monkey is sitting on explains that the island finally got electricity in May of 1989, which helped us maintain a little perspective regarding the infrastructure of India, especially in relation to its population. I was consistently, acutely aware of the differences between India and the U.S., and I have to say that I have great respect for so many aspects of everyday life in India.

I had been warned by various sources that the main crime I had to be concerned about in India was pickpocketing in crowded tourist areas. These monkeys were actually the closest experience we had with petty theft. They were everywhere along the path, jumping from one ledge or building to the next like little acrobats.

I was mostly afraid they would leap onto my back after a trip across one of the tarp ropes. I also didn't know if they would have any interest in the camera.

We watched monkeys snatch drink bottles from people. Some were unsuspecting, but others were willing participants in the monkey-thefts. Biplab's lemonade was only half-empty when it was snatched from him.

And this little guy was guarding his roasted field corn, because there were bigger, badder monkeys nearby. He's sitting on some chairs with long bamboo poles attached to them, which are used to carry tourists up to the caves (for a fee).

This was the monkey-in-chief, apparently. I was slightly afraid of him, because he looked downright menacing when he was picking his teeth and glaring at me. He also swung into the trees above my head and landed on the ledge right next to my elbow in a matter of seconds.

Since it was heading into the late afternoon, many of the booths along the stairway were already closed for the day. And had we known this would be one of our only opportunities to buy inexpensive souvenirs in Mumbai, we probably would have looked more carefully and thoughtfully at what was available. It's hard to think of these things when you're suppressing jetlag. And when you have a long, steep climb to make.

Although some of the stalls sold cheap plastic junk, there were some with handmade items, like this jewelry stand.

Even though the caves and most of the vendors were closed, I still enjoyed trekking up to the top of the hill. Every experience in India was like a gift, and I felt like there was no room for griping or feeling ungrateful, no matter the circumstances. The idea of being there at all was incredible, and I kept reminding myself that since this wasn't a vacation, I had to be content with the moments I had that were vacationish.

Those stairs to the top of the hill seemed to go on forever. They also became progressively steep, which proved challenging for our exhausted  (and out of shape) bodies. Finally, we made it all the way up to look at a closed gate. Rob thought we would at least be able to go into the area near the caves, but everything at the top was closed.

We were thirsty, and a bit sweaty. I paused near the gate to look at the crows convened in the trees above me, and was promptly shat on. Rob followed some men down a trail, only to find that it ended abruptly at a trash-filled ravine, and people were pissing over the edge of it. I could have been annoyed with all of this, but then I turned around and peered through a gap in the foliage to see how far we had come:

Going back down the hill was certainly easier, especially since we decided to buy cold bottles of Sprite and stop in at one of the more established shops to look at carved statues. Although I love haggling and bargaining, I was a little out of practice, so Biplab helped me negotiate with the shopkeeper. I ended up getting an ebony wood elephant for several hundred rupees less than the asking price. Knowing that it had a long journey, the shopkeeper wrapped it in several layers of newspaper and some bubble wrap.

We didn't buy anything else at the shop, although we were sorely tempted by this:

I was under the impression that heat, sunlight, and humidity were bad for film, but what do I know? I didn't check the expiration dates.

When we got to the bottom of the hill, Biplab insisted we take the train to shorten the walk. He was met with no resistance from us, since our calves were beginning to ache from our extended Stairmaster session. We crammed ourselves into the remaining seats at the back of the train. It was an extremely uncomfortable ride, but definitely worth the 5 rupees.

On the ferry ride back to the mainland, we half-slept and enjoyed the slight breeze. We watched the sun start to sink. A submarine surfaced and made its way to port. And then, as we were about to get off the boat, Biplab reached for his phone and couldn't find it. We looked around, and realized we were sitting right above a grate that vented the engine compartment. The phone had slipped out of his hands and fallen below decks, into a puddle. Sigh.

At least the elephant is happy living in my china cabinet.