To anyone reading this, understand that leaving a beach for a colder, rainier somewhere-else just plain sucks. I’d liken it to getting out of bed on a freezing winter morning after a night-time failure of your domestic heating system. Making the decision to leave Goa was up for similar review. Should I stay or should I go?

The previous night, I hung out with Silvia and Mathias in Panjim (or Panaji, depending on the map in hand). Earlier that day we negotiated a price for a taxi from our beach huts to Old Goa. The deadline for feeling rich was quickly approaching, plus Mathias made it pretty clear that buses were out of the question, despite a 1000% cost difference. Our driver must have been 12 years old. He mostly rode it out in third gear, needlessly forcing the engine of his boss’ (fancy) Suzuki as it wound its way up and down and around Goan hillside. No air conditioning meant that we were in for a sticky ride. Open windows and annoying Indian pop meant that a much-needed nap was out of the question.

About half way between origin and destination, we stopped in a small village to have a gander at an incredible villa that still houses some members of a once-prominent (or is it eminent) family of Portuguese settlers/traders/merchants. The house was filled with priceless antiques of all sorts: furniture, mirrors, books and now-illegal items of garish luxury made from endangered animal parts. We were lazily guided around all this stuff, generally amazed by the ability to touch and grab things older than Montréal. Speaking of which, we encountered members of the 11th to the 14th generations of this family, fake-chatted and went about our touring the thousands if not millions of dollars’ worth of stuff this family adamantly held on to. This might explain the disappointment-come-anger of our tour guide when we “donated” Rs. 50 for the tour. I just wasn’t going to break one of my two remaining Rs. 500 notes for this stroll through an antique storage facility.

We got back in the car’s sweltering innards and rolled in to Panjim in time for Mathias and Silvia to check in to the hotel suggested in their Lonely Planet. I left my stuff in their room. The new objective was to find the bus depot to find one that would take us to Old Goa, cited as “the greatest, most beautiful city in all of Asia”. Finding anything in India is as easy as a nun; the bus depot was no exception. Maybe it was just us, but we hadn’t noticed the section of concrete wall about the width of one person that had been chipped away (I mean the entrance to the bus depot). Indians are desperately helpful, but now I think that letting us know that they didn’t have a fucking clue on how to get to the bus station might have been more helpful or at least less confusing.

Once at the bus depot, finding the magical bus that goes where you want to go is another game altogether. There are no bus stop numbers or anything. Just ask around until someone responds with a sound you feel most closely resembles the destination written on your map. Easy-breezy. We faithfully boarded a bus. After a honky, stuffy ride down a narrow two-way road, we got off in Old Goa some 15 minutes later, our stop clearly marked by the larger proportion of white people milling about and snapping pictures of cows grazing on trash. We sat down for a Coke and pistachios that had been in my bag for a few days then set about hiding our disappointment. It seems that “the greatest, most beautiful city in Asia” was gone. It its place stood some disconnected chapels and other such houses of worship that frankly, I’m tired of seeing. Secularism has a way of masking the love for deities once shared by a greater number of Catholic compatriots way back when. Anyway, if churches are your bag, Old Goa might be worth the detour (assuming you’re in India and more specifically, in Goa). In my opinion, cooler than these monuments to faith was the guy wearing the Montréal Canadiens T-shirt. The relics of Saint Francis Xavier were probably cool, but the last person to think so was probably the man who put them behind glass, steel and iron bars.

Fuzz.

Back in Panjim, I took a (final?) shower in my German travel-amigos’ room right before going out for one last dinner in India. We ate at this restaurant memorable for its soundtrack and clean toilet. The food was spicy too, I’ll give it that. Following that, we ambled about looking for a place to wet our whistles. We just looked around for something like an hour before we finally found a hotel bar that was still open for the exclusive enjoyment of two rich business types plus the silent hatred from the bar staff inexplicably unable to kick them out to close up shop for the night. Drinks were had by a sleepy Mathias and a chatty Silvia before we finally strolled out for a final picture of a hilltop church and march back to the hotel.

I got my stuff, hugged it out with the weary couple and walked out into the night. Some kids fishin’ for dirty water-thingys warned me against paying more than Rs. 500 for a taxi to the airport. Valuable advice. I walked and walked, no taxi to be found until I remembered the waterfront casinos and the one gas station I had seen earlier in the evening. There I found a driver willing to drive me to the airport for Rs. 500. And that’s when my trek home began. It’s memorable for the wrong reasons.

I was way too early for my flight. So much so that I wasn’t allowed inside the terminal. An exception was not going to be made for this weary, lonely tourist, said the four guards and their AK’s. Fine. I sat on my bag outside and watched vans of Russian tourists pour out and check in for chartered flights. They stank of oil money, but not enough to keep the mosquitoes away from me. I had gotten pretty good at swatting them away, anyway. I read The Savage Detectives for a few hours until the guard finally felt sorry enough for me to let me sit inside. Fatigue was gaining ground. I napped on an especially uncomfortable chair.

Waking up to some commotion closer to the time of my flight, I wandered into the washroom to brush my teeth and dump all the liquids and other restricted items from my bag. From that point on, it was Indian lineup after Indian lineup and from waiting room to waiting room until I boarded a flight bound for Delhi (that made a stop in Mumbai). Back in Delhi I had some 12 hours to kill and tried wasting some in the city proper until I realized that it was too hot, I was too tired and just plain fed up with all this waiting around in Connaught place. I found a nice seat at Delhi international and sat there doing and thinking absolutely nothing for about 4 hours. I was one with the place.

Arriving in Newark at around breakfast time, I ate eggs and bacon for the first time in weeks and practically cried as the salty cured meat sexed my tongue. More flying.

They say there’s no place like home. I had never really believed that phrase to be true. There are plenty of places like home. Sure I love Montréal, but it doesn’t mean that I can never make a home elsewhere. “Home is where the heart is” makes more sense to me. I think I finally understood the meaning of the phrase when I cleared customs and found my parents waiting to take me home, my mom holding a Superman balloon for some heart-related reason.

I’m not really sure at what time I got up, but the sun is usually pretty high and bright when I emerge from the cabin. After a dip in the sea, I settled down on a long chair and read between naps. Women in saris were walking along the beach, trying to sell us all sorts of trinkets and home-made jewelery. I talked to one of them. Her English was good. We talked about how she lives away from home eight months out of the year making money selling her goods and tries to send money home to her parents and children. She’s illiterate, but says she’s fine with it. Where she’s from, even educated women end up just like her as soon as they marry (rather young) and have children (also rather young). The whole conversation made me sad. I guess maybe I shouldn’t be, since she seems quite content in her way of life and besides, who am I to impose our Western view of things on other cultures? I talked to her about Canada and cold it is sometimes. What really scared her was the thought of total light or darkness in the arctic. She didn’t believe me.

Sitting next to me was a German couple that I had a chat with. They’ve become my new “travel-buddies”, though I don’t much care for the term. I met Silvia first, commenting on the guy trying to sell us boat rides all the time. He’d come around two, three times a day and try to convince us to go out to sea to watch dolphins (maybe) from afar. Each time, I told him that I didn’t care to see dolphins, but I don’t think he understood what I meant.

I started telling Silvia about a silent party supposedly happening that night. She seemed interested, despite my failing to provide any details whatsoever about time, place and price. But in a strange coincidence, just as I was getting up to go ask the Brits about this event, the promoter passed by with his invitation. It was settled. We were going to this party. Her husband, Matthias, showed up a little while later and joined the conversation. He’s a banker in Munich but soon moving to Frankfurt where supposedly all the banking action is. We talked for something hours before realizing we were hungry as hell.

We walked over to a restaurant and ordered a 3-pound, freshly-caught crab with some grilled shrimp and squid. I’m salivating at the thought of it, actually, as I’m sure the rest of you are. It was more delicious than you can imagine. In fact, my memory just isn’t good enough to remember a meal this delicious (in order to ensure any future appetite for inferior-tasting foods; it’s a survival thing). We talked into the night, basically about our travels through India and various other parts of the world. They were surprised when I told them that I love Germany.

After dinner, we made our way to this silent party that just wasn’t happening. There were about six people there, though I suspect we arrived way too early. It’s from 9 p.m. until about 4 a.m., and midnight just wasn’t a late enough hour. Who knows, though. We had such a fucking hard time even finding the place that it may have never gotten started anyway. Instead, we had drinks and chatted about music (rather, I listened to Mathias criticize music) before hitting the hay. I’m almost certain the beds were actually hay; my hip and back always hurt in the morning.

The next day was pretty much the same: waking up, swimming, reading, sunbathing (burning), people-watching, chatting and napping. The only thing on everybody’s schedule seems to be the evening mosquito-protection routine. Silvia, Mathias and I developed a pretty decent friendship over the few hours we’ve known each other. I think they’re glad to have a third wheel to spice up their comfortable silence. They’ve known each other for ten years and have been married for two. They told me they got married in Vegas, the notion of which made me laugh, but now I think it’s true. I just didn’t picture Germans getting married shotgun-style. I keep trying to give them plenty of alone-time, but they just keep finding me and then it’s the three of us. In fact, I’m grateful for the company, despite my occasional desire to be alone. We ate at the same fancy restaurant as the night before and talked about movies the entire time. They’re big fans of David Lynch, who I more or less like after seeing Lost Highway. The conversation made me want to watch a few movies, something I hadn’t done since I was sick in Mumbai. Alas, no video stores or DVD players were available on the beach (there is some sarcasm in this sentence). In the end, we called it an early night, the reason being that the three of us feeling a little under the weather.

Saturday was one of the best days in Goa so far. We rented scooters for Rs. 200 (fuel cost Rs. 280, and I suspect they siphon it back out and re-sell the same fuel to unsuspecting tourists). Helmets are for losers. Apparently, so is taking names, asking for licences and giving some sort of receipt or deposit ensuring the scooter’s safe return. I didn’t have any experience driving a scooter, so I followed them onto the quiet back roads (albeit monkey-crossed) of Goa leading to Agonda beach.

So it turns out that all Agonda beach resorts were in the process of closing up for the season. The beach was deserted and the water too fierce for swimming. Along the way from there to Cabo de Rama fort, we stopped at this beautiful, secluded temple and entered alone. An old man surprised us and marked our foreheads with a tilaka, indicating that we should make a donation. We obliged, Ganesha watching after all, and then sped over to the fort.

The fort itself was underwhelming. One of the doors was on the ground and graffiti tarnished the place. In a minefield of cow shit stood a catholic church overrun with children playing games. The whole scene (minus the kids) reminded me of a Western-movie-style-shootout-in-front-of-a-church thingy. From the tower, we spotted a beach that looked promising. Getting there was something else. Mopeds aren’t really meant for off-roading.

The bumpy ride paid off. We stepped down the cliff-side (don’t worry, makeshift stone stairs were laid out) and onto the finest beach I’ve ever seen. It was postcard-perfect. Aside from a family party happening near the lagoon, we were they only people around. The water was a little cooler here, and certainly much rougher. We all braved the biggest waves I’d ever seen (more firsts!) and one of them knocked me down completely and the rip tide began dragging me out. Somehow I held on and decided that it would be more cautious to come in just a little.

Having had enough, we moved on to the next beach, Cola beach. This one was also on the verge of closing up for the season and save for a British couple admiring the sunset, no tourists could be found. We snapped a few pics and left for Palolem. My ass was hurting from all the scootering about.

Back at the resort, we met Per (pronounced like the fruit), this older Swedish guy who joined us for dinner and shared interesting stories of his travels to South Africa and through a more primitive south-east Asia, before all the touristy shit popped up. We shared horror stories about illness and foreign toilets. It’s a hot topic, you see, all of us being a little ill here and there! After dinner, Silvia went to sleep (headache) and Per introduced me to snus. He made a little ball of it and I put it in my mouth between my gum and upper lip. What a rush! I’m not a smoker right, and so its effects were immediate and intense! It stung a bit, then my heart started racing! He promised to give me some that I’ll try clearing airport security with. In fact, he gave me a few tips on how to do so. It’s just tobacco after all.

We walked back to the resort and had a round of beers as the conversation carried on. At 1:30 a.m., I headed out to Neptune’s Point, where word had spread that another silent party was taking place. This party was anything but silent. Everyone has headphones on, yes, but for some reason felt the need to shout! Everyone’s headphones has lights on it—green, blue and red—that change according to the channel that you’re listening to. Three DJ’s were at the front, pumping out tunes and trying to get everybody to listen to their channel. Sometimes I’d turn around and see everyone on the blue channel then turn around again and see a mix of Christmas lights. What’s great is that if you don’t like the music, you can just change the channel. What’s funny is that despite very different music, everyone’s dancing in the same way, regardless of the channel. White people. Pffft, learn to dance.

I sent out two postcards from the post office conveniently tucked away in an alley with no sign to indicate its location. A local cabbie had helped me find it and offered to drive me to the bus depot afterwards. I told him that I wanted to catch a bus to Agonda, but he told me there were more buses to Canacona and that it was closer to Palolem beach which he said was really nice. Agonda is only 7 km away, anyway.

The bus ride was an adventure, I’ll admit. The bus was anything but recent and its interior had been refurbished with stainless steel and adorned with flashy Christmas lights and pictures of Ganesha and Jesus; that’s how I knew I was safe. As I looked out, I saw an advertisement posted to a wall that claimed a “100% solution to HIV/AIDS problem”. I wonder what they know that we don’t. The bus driver honked, stopped and picked up more passengers until the thing was so full there was no standing room left. It wound its way up and down hills and around sloping corners, horn blaring a fair warning to oncoming motorcycles (to trucks, it was more of a polite toot begging it to spare our lives). Upon arrival at Canacona, I think if it wasn’t for the other white people getting off the bus, I would have missed my stop.

Glad to be off that hot bus with its sticky, blue vinyl seats, I booked a motor-rickshaw to Palolem beach. I was guided to a nice little place on the quieter north side of the beach by this well-spoken stocky guy named Garresh. I haven’t seen that many beaches in my life, but my guess is that Palolem beach ranks pretty high. The water is salty, warm and the sand is so fine I’m sure I’ll be spreading it all over my apartment for next year.

So I just lay there and read or slept or walked around. I watched cricket with the guys running the place and developed a good rapport with Reno (pronounced like an anglophone saying Reno-Depot) as we drank and he explained some of the finer points of cricket.

I met two English girls who had been staying there for a few nights already, Jesse and Ollie (?). We grabbed a few drinks as we waited for the freshly-fished Red Snapper we picked out to cook over a charcoal grill. This took about an hour, over which we shared stories about travel and discussed the subtle differences between English and Canadian societies. We walked back to the cabins and talked some more with Reno over yet a few more drinks. We called it a night at around midnight.

It’s humid and the fan just wan’t cutting it, I thought. As I was falling asleep, dogs started barking, then lightning flashes woke me. The power was cut and the fan was no longer active. In a teaser to what the monsoon season must be like, I lay there in the dark humidity, listening against my will to the thunder and sheets of rain pelting down on the terra-cotta roof of my cabin. Somehow I slept. I dreamed of an air-conditioned shopping centre and the McSpicy ads I had seen during the cricket match.

I must have eaten something terrible because for the next day or so, I was krank. I stayed in my room watching The Lord of the Rings on TV and tried to get some sleep. I managed to meet up with Josh at 10 a.m. for breakfast at Mondy’s. I had a pancake with a Coke. I won’t describe how I felt. To make matters worse, city employees were spraying the Causeway for mosquitoes and most of the fumes got sucked in to the restaurant. I imagine that can’t be good for anybody. Then again, Mumbai’s air “quality” can’t be all that great either.

I picked up some crackers, 7-Up and water bottles and cocooned into bed. I slept only a half-hour at a time as a fever came on. I took some paracetamol tablets I had picked up at the pharmacy for Rs. 15 which helped considerably. The toilet had become my best friend.

I felt good enough to depart the next morning to catch my train to Margao at 06:55. I checked out of the YWCA and caught a cab to Mumbai CST. I sat on the train for the next 12 hours. I couldn’t even watch the landscape whizz by without feeling dizzy, but that was mainly because the window was so warped it was like watching a hockey game through a beer glass.

When I got to Margao, I took a motorcycle, luggage and all, with no helmet all the way to the beach. It was exciting! The drive took about 15 minutes and cost something like $2.00. I arrived on the coast of the Arabian Sea and booked a room by the beach for only $10. It’s the off-season. I went for a walk and noticed there were many tourists milling about the shops and having beers outside restaurants. About half were Russian, the other half, Australian. I wasn’t feeling 100%, so I walked back to the beach and hung out in the dark, listening to the waves crash on the shore. The water’s so hot it’s barely refreshing! I called it an early night. Tomorrow I head out to Agonda.

I took a quick shower, had a coffee accompanied by what was probably the best coffee muffin I’ve ever eaten, then set out into the parts of Mumbai I had yet to see. I watched some Sunday-afternoon cricket being played on the Oval and wondered if I could hit or even throw the ball at all. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask someone if I could try my hand at this sport everyone’s raving about. Even tonight I saw groups of kids hanging outside cafes trying to catch glimpses of the game between the Mumbai Indians and the Delhi Daredevils being broadcast inside.

I took the local train from Churchgate station over to Mahalaxmi station in order to get a peek at the world’s largest outdoor laundry facility. This is where hundreds if not thousands of workers hand-wash clothing coming form all over Mumbai (think hospitals and hotels) and hang it all out to dry in the sun. According to one source watching the whole affair with me, this happens during the monsoon season as well. By the time I arrived they had pretty much finished washing the day’s laundry and were busy washing themselves. I watched for a bit, all the while fending off all these kids trying to sell me maps of India and glittery purses, then had my picture taken by some Indian tourists visiting Mumbai on business. The sun was already burning through my clothing.

I took the train back to Churchgate and walked west to Marine Drive, which is what I imagine Miami Beach must feel like. I walked and I walked, I think all told it’s something like four of five kilometers of Back Bay coastline and finally made it Chowpatty Beach. Hundreds of people were watching the tide deliver garbage to the coastline. Some dared to go for a swim. More were playing cricket on the beach. It’s funny seeing a beach in such an urban setting without seeing a single bathing suit. The ones in the water were fully dressed—jeans and all—or in their underwear. No women dared approach the water. Bored, I walked on.

I walked through Malabar Hill among the livestock, Ferraris and Ambassador-taxis struggling to make the climb up the hill, and eventually past the charming little roadside markets selling fresh produce and Slice, the mango-flavoured soft drink. I made it to this Jain temple (more specifically, the Babu Amichand Panalal Adishwarji Jain Temple) and just basically walked around admiring the worshipers ringing bells, burning incense and reciting prayers. I feel cheap not really knowing much more than that. I guess I can just look it up when I go home, right? Still, when you drop your shoes off with the security guard at the gate only to see him 10 minutes later because you’re done wandering around this sacred place and have run out of things to extract from it other than interesting pictures, it makes you feel cheap.

I continued down the road looking for Banganga Tank, actually forgetting I was in Mumbai since this part of the city is so different and seemingly unaware of the infernal hustle and bustle just a few kilometers away. I walked past bus-loads of people probably returning home, past the Polish embassy and past tens of stray kittens, which made me a little homesick. I haven’t had a proper English conversation in over a day, right? I think I saw only one other Westerner on my way there, which doesn’t really help with the homesickness. People were staring, gawking and openly talking about me, knowing full-well that I couldn’t begin to understand a word of their snickering. Still, when I arrived at this body of water the size of a football field (almost), a strange feeling came over me.

It’s India in summary, this place. Skyscrapers of luxury apartments overlook something as holy and ancient as this place. I sat on its steps and watched as older men took baths in it and children played cricket around it. Occasionally a ball would disappear into the murky waters (whose consumption would probably make me as sick as a dog) and the designated “go-getter” would dive in and retrieve it, without hesitation nor lengthy search. Some kids gathered around and—for lack of a better descriptor—demanded to have their picture taken. I indulged their request only to have my camera assaulted as soon as the shutter opened up again. Other kids started gathering around, jealous of the first bunch. At some point I got up and moved on past the roosters and stone carvings of Ganesha towards the Arabian Sea.

It was nearly sunset and the scene was as beautiful as you can imagine. There was no vehicular traffic in this part of town and kids were busy playing in the streets, as parents busied themselves with supper preparations or getting a shave while having a chat down at the local barbershop. I walked up to the edge, snapping pictures until I reached a somewhat crude manifestation of India’s rush into modernity: huge piles of garbage lining the shore. Most of the litter consisted of plastic water bottles and colorful shopping bags.

Some of the local kids also wanted their picture taken. Then the women around as well. I snapped away. This man walked out, invited me into his home so that I may take a picture of his family. I don’t think they have any family photos at all. Feeling a little guilty for the water bottles, I asked for his mailing address. I’ll print the pictures and send them something we all take for granted. I’ll never shy away from a family photo again. The man struggled to write down his name and address, but I managed to check the spelling and postal code with a younger, more literate guy before I left. I caught the bus back to the city.

I went back to Mondy’s for a drink and a meal and ended up meeting Josh from the other night. He was already six beers in and chatted away as I ate some vegetable curry whose spiciness I’m certain they toned down because I’m a foreigner and this despite my asking for an authentic level of spiciness. At some point some ugly white girls came in and sat at the table next to ours. They tried getting our attention but somehow failed. The jukebox had a line-up of Mumbaikers waiting to select a song at some point during the night. Abba came on, then Phil Collins, then Celine Dion and finally Bryan Adams again. All the classics. I could feel the waiters’ desire to hear anything else.

I’ll be meeting up with Josh in the morning, so I guess I’ll hit the hay. But first, I’ll watch one of the 200 or so channels that I just found out I have access to! HBO, baby!

My day started off slower than the rest. I got up a little late, had a cappuccino at Barista Cafe and just watched the other tourists run about. I took a walk down Madam Cama Road and stopped to watch some cricketers on the Oval, basically a large public park near the University of Mumbai. This man walked by and commented on the heat, which by mid-day was nearly unbearable. We started talking about what he did for a living and where he was from in India. This isn’t by any means an unusual occurrence in this part of the world, but I now expect any “new friends” to eventually try scamming me in some way. Anyway, for some reason, I thought he might have been different. Maybe it’s the heat. He spoke excellent English and told me he was a teacher back in Goa. He was in Mumbai to visit a temple that sounded interesting, so I tagged along.

Walking at a brisk pace, we entered a shrine with a cremation facility for the city’s poor who go unclaimed. Knowing I was probably going to get screwed at the end of this tour (he kept telling me to take pictures of this and that), I still found it interesting that in the middle of ultra-urban Mumbai one could find such a place. They have a completely different view of death here in India. No one was being cremated at the time, but ashes were being put into different pots according to their social status. All the urns were being kept in the same cabin, but the hookers and beggars’ were on the floor. The “curator” of the place came out to join us and started talking about being friends and loving spirituality while he showed me the burial ground for babies. And that’s when he whipped out his little pad with names of all these people from all these different parts of the world. This is a clear sign you’re getting screwed. All these assholes have one. They keep flipping pages and showing you all these names. “Kevin from USA”. Under his name—in different handwriting, of course—is the amount he donated. $100. Rs. 20 000. That’s when I got upset. I can’t take it anymore. I told them I wasn’t contributing a single paise to their seedy little operation and just took off. One of them followed me and begged me to buy him something to drink. “It’s so hot, I need beer.” Oh yeah? He just wanted Rs. 100. I know it’s not much money, but it’s just the way that it gets swindled from you that’s most frustrating. I bought him a bottle of water for Rs. 15 and walked away, furious.

I wanted to send some postcards and so went off to find the General Post Office. It’s costing me Rs. 12 each to send them to Canada. Cheap! Anyway, interacting with the post-office personnel really shed some light on who I should trust from now on. People who are actually helping you in some way or offering a service you’ve requested tend to be dicks. There’s no courtesy, no fake friendship and they don’t give a fuck what your name is or where you’re from. That’s my new guideline.

I walked back to the YWCA to meet up with Wendy. By this time, it was 14.30 and we wanted to catch the last ferry to Elephanta Island and check out the caves that had been carved up. The boats were leaving from the Gateway to India, which is in fact super-close to the YWCA, so I confidently led us to where I thought this place was. We walked and walked until the heat forced me to admit I was lost. I no longer had any idea where I was going. We turned back and seeing as how time was seriously running out, we hailed a cab. Rs. 50 to the Gateway to India. Great! Take us there! We hopped in the 50′s-era Fiat that turned the corner and drove all of 100 meters to the Gateway. Wendy couldn’t stop laughing and rightly so. I paid the Rs. 50 penalty.

The Arabian Sea around Mumbai isn’t the nicest, bluest water and the ferry pretty much wound its way through shipping lanes and past oil tankers, but I have to admit that it was kind of nice to get away from the honking of Mumbai. The breeze was a plus. The boat ride to Elephanta Island lasts about an hour and once we arrived, we realized that we didn’t have much time to visit the site. We got offered tours so many times that we had become experts at turning the guides away by the time we made it up the stairs and into the first cave. The carvings were just amazing. I’ll have to let pictures speak for themselves (or you can Wikipedia that shit and know more than I did while walking though), but it’s a site worthy of UNESCO’s seal of approval. The visit was really short and we walked back down to catch the last ferry back to Mumbai. Wendy bought a souvenir that she expertly haggled for. She got it for Rs. 125, down from Rs. 200. Fist-bump!

Drifting back into the haze at sunset sounds more picturesque than it actually is. Nonetheless, there’s nothing like a view from the water to get people into a photo-frenzy. Pics were snapped and we got off the boat and onto another boat. Then we got off that boat and onto another boat that we got off of to reach the dock. You see, only one boat is moored to the dock and the others just sidle up alongside it, sometimes two or even three other boats. Women in sarees jumping from boat to boat just isn’t something I get to see very often.

Hungry, we went to a restaurant called Kailash Parbat. It was suggested in my book that this joint offered authentic street food without the shady water. I wanted to try pani puri. I’ll let you look it up on Wikipedia, but to sum it up, it’s a ball of awesomeness that I’ll miss once I’m home. We chatted, shared a thali and I escorted her back to her hotel. It’s weird for ladies walking alone at night, especially around here. In fact, we hardly encountered any women on the walk back. We said our goodbyes, but we hope to see each other in Goa. She’s heading out tomorrow for a few days and I’ll be arriving on Tuesday, so we’ll try to coordinate something.

I walked over to Marine Drive but frankly wasn’t in the mood to wait in line just to have a drink. It’s quite the view at night, though. The Arabian Sea just seems to stretch on into absolute darkness while around the Back Bay multi-coloured neon advertisements and fully lit skyscrapers compose a unique skyline that my camera was unable to properly capture.

I’m pooped. I think I’ll go to bed now.

Really. Yesterday afternoon I walked over to the Reality Travel Tours’ office off a side street of the Causeway, or what Mumbaikers call the main shopping street. Think Ste-Catherine street but busier and with more honking. A local guy helped me find the office. It was close to the Leopold Cafe targeted during the terrorist attacks that struck Mumbai in 2008. The office was on the third floor of the building, in areas that didn’t seem accessible to the public, making it very hard to find. Actually, from my experiences thus far, finding anything in India is next to impossible; one often needs at least three of four peoples’ knowledge of a given area to find any specific address, unless very publicly known. Anyway, when I reserved a spot on the tour I made sure I wasn’t the only one participating in this thing. The whole purpose was to meet other travelers, right?

So the meeting time was set for 13.45 at Chrurchgate station near a bookstore right next to the ticket booths. The easy thing was spotting the other tourists: white girls. (Aw yeah, but it’s not like that…) In the meantime, I chatted with a local gent waiting for a train to arrive. He told me several jokes, but here’s the only I could rememeber:

“Why do farts smell?”
“Why?”
“For the benefit of the deaf.”

I have to admit that I laughed so fucking hard that I thought I was going to puke all over the place. Pretty good, no? He offered to show me around Mumbai for Rs. 600. I politely refused.

Coming back to the main stem of this story, this is how I came to meet Wendy, a 34-year-old from NYC, Katherine and her friend Lara from Denmark. We met up with Vasik (?), our tour guide who was to take us into the heart of Mumbai (literally, as the area seen from above is shaped like a heart), Dharavi. I’ll let you look it up, but those lazy folk, basically it’s a slum in Mumbai where it’s estimated that anywhere from 1 to 2 million people live and work to produce something like $700 million-worth of merchandise and manpower.

We took the train from Churchgate station, which is an experience in itself. I was hesitant to take the train anywhere in this city, but after witnessing how it’s done, I feel confident enough to take it anywhere. Buy a ticket, hop on and hold on. It’s exhilarating to hang out the door of the train as it whooshes by! Other people were just hanging out the doors, yelling at other passengers doing the same on trains headed in opposite directions. Doors are for pussy-societies. Stopping is for wussies, too: just hop on or off the train as soon as it slows down enough.

We all got off the train and headed into the slums. No photography was permitted, which makes perfect sense right? We walked around there for about 3 hours and let me just say that it was quite possibly the best tour of my life.

In fact, for the first time in India, no one hassled me for a donation, change, food or anything else. We ventured through several steps in the plastic recycling process, paint-can refurbishing, clothing patterning and dyeing, leather-processing, pottery-making, soap manufacturing, metallic scraps recovery, and other such local industries that I can’t think of right this minute, but each one adding a new perspective to our rather wasteful North-American way of life. We ventured through atrocious odours, alleys so narrow the mid-day sun couldn’t make its way through. We walked past people’s homes, glimpsing the conditions in which they live. We saw children’s playgrounds that I’d forbid anyone from playing in. Open sewers are a way of life here (and quite the hazard), as are the waterways you have nightmares about falling in to.

There were bakeries and shops, convenience stores and banks that I didn’t expect to find here. What’s more is that this tour shattered my imagined sense of the meaning of the word ‘slum’. Everyone we encountered was hard at work and what’s more, smiling and laughing while doing so, despite (or maybe because of) exposure to harsh chemicals and a general lack of safety not allowed in more developed countries. A lot of the workers here are illegals and have no permanent residence in the slum. They eat, pray and sleep in a corner of their workplace.

A rusty, probably lead-painted and unsafe-looking Ferris wheel was generating tons of laughter from the kids riding it on their way home from school. We sat down and had a freshly baked khari from one of the bakeries. It’s a flaky pastry and was actually quite good! Everywhere we went, we could hear children yelling “hi!”. Kids with badminton rackets and cricket bats were overjoyed at the opportunity to chat it up with us. Rather, everyone was happy to chat with the Danish girls. There’s something about their blonde hair that makes them ultra-appealing to Indians. (I’ve been told that I look too Indian to spark any interest.)

Chickens, cows and goats littered the narrow alleyways. The sense of belonging and community was pervasive throughout. Frankly, short of adequate vocabulary, the whole experience was simply awe-inspiring. Near the end of the tour, next to a triple-threat shrine for Muslims, Hindus and Christians, we had some steaming-hot chai freshly prepared by a neighbourhood chai-wallah .

Starved, the four of us rode the train back into town, to Churchgate station and booked a cab back to Cafe Mondegar, a Mumbai staple on the Causeway. I ordered a dish of vegetable curry and a 650-mL bottle of Kingfisher. The waiter asked if I wanted my dish mild. “Mild? MAKE IT SPICY, SIR!” To tell you the truth, it wasn’t that spicy. I’m rather proud of myself! The Kingfisher went down fast, though…no A/C…

Wendy started talking to this guy sitting at the next table. Fras (I think that’s what his name was) studied in Mumbai about 15 years ago and now lives in Jersey City. So he joined the table and engaged us in conversation about anything and everything just as the Danish girls left to catch their flight back home. I saw this other guy sitting alone at another table nearby and asked him to join us (I was tipsy, you see). Josh from Chicago started telling us all about his trek through south-east Asia. Really interesting guy, actually. He talked and talked about this motorcycle tour through some rough, backwater terrain in Vietnam (I think) that really seemed to convince us (well, me at least) that this might have been the coolest traveling story I’d ever heard! More drinks were had, a bill was paid, then it was on to Cafe Leopold.

Fras used to hang out here a lot during his college years and his being a local scored us a table right away. We got through a 3-litre pitcher thingy pretty fast, talked about our cats (!) and pretty much called it a night. I think some of the pictures they’ll be sending and some of the ones that I took will set the tone for the kind of wonderful evening I couldn’t have dreamed of having. Fras picked up the bill. His car was waiting for him just outside the cafe. He took Wendy and Josh home. I was a four-minute walk over, so I wished them all a good night. I’ll be meeting up with Wendy the next afternoon or night, whichever suits our schedules and also in Goa.

I’ll leave you with a specific quote from tonight. Having stayed in Muslim parts of India over his thirtieth birthday, Josh confided in me this piece of wisdom: “Don’t trust anybody who doesn’t drink.” He said this as Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” played over the jukebox in the corner of the room. Yeah, so I wish you were here, whoever.

At one of the stations the train stopped at, some boys boarded the train and tried to sell me Mountain Dew. The liquid in the bottle didn’t even go all the way to the top and the seal had clearly been broken. Inside the cap, there was grit and other fragments of dirt. As they sold it to me, they didn’t even hide their giddiness at fucking over a thirsty tourist. I didn’t drink it. That’s why labels encourage you to destroy the label and crush the bottle after use.

Closer to destination, I got to watch as people went about their business near the track. Some were sorting plastic bottles, others were busy defecating closer to the wall separating trackage from the slums. I got to Victoria Terminus at around 08:00 and tried booking a cab to the hotel recommended to me by Yasmine’s brother, Hotel Lawrence. My cabbie had no idea where it was, so after some pointless driving around and asking for directions, I got out and found an internet cafe. Thank you, Google maps.

I finally found Hotel Lawrence, walked up the stairs tired and sweating my balls off, only to be told his rooms were all booked. He did refer me to the YWCA nearby (they accept gents, as well). So this is going to be a little of a luxury stay this time. I’m near all the main attractions, bars, cafes…all that stuff. I have a room with A/C, good internet access (that I’m taking advantage of), laundry service and a super-nice shower. Speaking of which, I think I’ll have one now and then sleep a good night’s sleep for once.

We bicycle-rickshawed back to the metro, one last time and gave the cyclist Rs. 100, more than 4 times the usual going rate. He said nothing in gratitude. Nico’s flight was earlier than my train to Agra, so we got on the metro with all our stuff at rush hour. Terrible idea. Worse than all the people slowly packing in is their total lack of public transit etiquette. Pushing and not getting out of the way is the norm. Security guards at the busier stations have stopped trying to instill the “first off, then on” concept. It’s everyone for themselves.

The problem is, we needed to get off the train at New Delhi station. By this time, everyone’s on the train, but no one’s getting off. We were close to the door when the train pulled in to New Delhi station. I pushed. No one budged. I tried pushing some more, still no one moved aside. No one was getting on the train at this station and still no one had the courtesy of getting off even for a second just to let us off. We almost missed the station. It’s not like we weren’t trying to get off! I have never in my life pushed people as hard as I did then. I had to lift my bag over my head and basically kick people’s legs for them to budge. I finally popped out right after Nico. I was sweating.

At the escalator, I saw something I had never seen before. Several women were laughing and yelping trying to get on this thing. Some didn’t know what to do and one man carrying a big metal box was in distress over the escalator embarkation procedure. I felt so bad for him that I gestured to him that I’d help him out. I walked on, he held out and his hand and held on to me as though he thought he was going to die. It was strange. I had never encountered anyone who didn’t know how to ride an escalator. Getting off was something else. He thanked us and followed us all over the station, trying to thank us some more.

At some point beyond the metro’s exit gates, the corridor split in two different directions, one towards New Delhi railway station and the other to the airport line. Nico and I bro-hugged it out, picked up our bags and went our separate ways. I don’t think I’ll find a better travel buddy on such short notice ever again. He was a good guy to travel with and frankly I don’t think I would have lived the same experiences as if I had attempted them alone.

Once at the station, I realized I was thirsty. Strangely enough, I had to walk off the premises to find a stand selling bottles of water. You’d think such an important station would have stands everywhere. It was too early for my train to be shown on the time grid, so I waited and read in the sun outside the station. Boys were selling coconut slices.

Entire families were camped out on the platforms, making it difficult (a little) to weave my way through them all to my train. The cars are air-conditioned, which is a godsend. It departed on time. That was it, I was bound for Agra. I had a chat with an air-force pilot. Interesting guy. It felt good to speak to a local who wasn’t trying to swindle me. We talked about where I was from, what I did for work and vice-versa. All the usual stuff. Really nice guy. Then he went to sleep. I had to go to the bathroom. Nightmares are less frightening. I cringe when I think about it, so I’ll stop there.

I got to Agra, finally. Nico had mentioned the Taj Plaza was a good place not too far from the Taj Mahal, but pretty cheap for a nice A/C room. I walked out of Agra Cantonment station, only to be hassled by countless taxi drivers wanting to take me everywhere but where I want to go. I negotiated with a guy to take me to the Taj Plaza for Rs. 150, no talking and no questions. He agreed. Obviously, along the way, he offered to drive me everywhere, that I should hire him as my personal driver and tour guide. He went on to inquire about my hotel budget and if I had considered any other hotels in the area. There’s no escaping these guys. I finally stayed firm, got him to drive me to the hotel I had requested and walked in there, hoping they had vacancy and desperately wanting one of those rooms. As I checked in, the driver waited outside.

I went up to the room, dropped off my stuff and set off to see the Taj Mahal. Some kid was offering to auto-rickshaw me the 500 m over there, fully aware that there is a strict vehicle restriction around the Taj Mahal. I just can’t deal with these people. Even as I walked over there, bicycle-rickshaws were pressuring me into riding. When I arrived, finally, tour guides, official and not (I’ll never really know) wouldn’t stop haggling me until I finally told one to “step the fuck off before I punch him in the face”. I had come all this way to enjoy it alone and without some guy lilting his English (as Hindi-speakers do) the entire time about all the finer points of the Taj Mahal I had read about anyway.

Pictures will never do this monument to love any justice. Walking through the great gate and finally seeing it off in the distance is like no other thing I have experienced. At that moment, it’s like all the other hundred tourists (most of them Indian) aren’t even there. It gave me goosebumps in 30° weather. It was a beautiful day and the pictures I took are now precious to me, even though I know looking at them back home will never bring back how I felt when I saw it for the first time.

After spending about an hour milling about, I headed to Agra Fort before it closed. I hired a guide so as to save time and that was rewarding enough. It’s really an awesome fort. I don’t know how much more I could say about it. Pictures will tell the tale. It’s a shame I don’t have any extreme or drinking-related stories (as those are typically more interesting), but there just isn’t much more I wanted to do in Agra. The walk through the town at the foot of the Taj Mahal was once again filled with people trying to get me to visit their shops and I was too tired to put up with it. I returned to the hotel, read and fell asleep in the cold A/C.

We took the old TATA bus over to the metro this time. It takes some getting used to. The bus never really stops, so you just flag it down and as it gets slow enough, you hop on. Then you pay the Rs. 8 to some dude in the corner. Just to give you an idea of how shitty a bus this was, a piece of cardboard separated the cabin from the engine below. So as it turns out, we got on the bus going the wrong way, so when the bus coming in the opposite direction was near, they got it to stop so that we could make the switch.

We visited the Qutb Minar complex where stands a 72-m tall minar. The whole thing was pretty fascinating. I guess pictures are more interesting than words. You’ll all get to see them soon enough. After relaxing on the lawn near the minar, we hopped on a bus that was heading to Old Delhi station, near Kashmere Gate and, more importantly, close to the spot where we bought beer. Beer’s hard to find in this town. As are bars. Maybe I’m not looking hard enough. It’s hard to say. Officially, when they are open, they close at midnight. Pretty early if you ask me. Anyway, this bus took forever to cross what’s probably a good quarter of Delhi. It’s such a huge, sprawling place. In fact, we spent most of our time getting from one sight to another. I actually wonder what the hell they did before the metro was operational. The important thing was that we had a seat. We had never managed to score a seat in the metro. As soon as someone made the slightest gesture that he was getting up, you bet your ass some dude was already making his move, ready to shove his ass into that seat. It’s like trying to buy a ticket at the metro. There’s no line. You’re in the process of paying and some guy sneaks in from the side and jams some money into the hole in the glass. It must happen so often that the cashiers hardly seem phased at all. It’s business as usual.

Sorry, I forgot what I was typing. I’ve been typing for hours now. Oh yeah! On the bus, we had seats until someone pointed out that they’re reserved for ladies. Embarrassing. So we got up and tried to stay up, which is one hell of a task considering the driver kept pumping the gas then brake, then gas! I finally got to sit next to a charming fellow traveler with a Hitler ‘stache who kept spitting on the floor of the bus. Maybe I forgot to mention this, but in most public places, namely the metro, train stations and the bus, spitting is specifically prohibited and can cost you a hefty Rs. 200 fine! This is in contrast to riding on top of the metro cars, that’s only Rs. 50.

Getting off the bus after about an hour’s ride, we found our way back to where the beer store is. We saw some monkeys around the police station and decided to snap some pics. This drew too much unwanted attention, however, so we decided to move on. This being Nico’s last night in India, he wanted to try some street food. We found a decent-looking place that served up some samosas with some (actually!) spicy dipping sauce. To be brief, they were awesome. We ate them in the grimy back-restaurant area and left to buy some beer, Kingfisher this time. A much better brew.

Getting back to the hostel, we ran into Jeanie from Vancouver. We were all hungry so we went for some dosas at a nearby place. Needless to say, it might have been the best meal I’ve had on this trip thus far. It’s like a thin, crispy crepe served up on a banana leaf and stuffed with potatoes or whatever else you might want to put in there. The menu was rather diverse and from my point of view, poorly understood.

After all that, we got together on the rooftop of the hostel, snapped some pictures and drank some beers. We chatted about anything and everything until there was no beer left. By that time, it was getting a little late and Nico and I had early mornings, so we went to bed. I’ll never see Jeanie again. She was Asian of course, being from Vancouver, and was 40 years old. She looked younger than me. She had recently quit her construction management job to volunteer in India. Hmm. It reminds me of this weird midwifing (is that a word?) couple also staying at the hostel. One is from Salt Lake City. Just people I’ll never see again, but interesting to talk to for the little time our lives happened to cross paths.