Day 2: Vegetarian and Very Grateful
Wednesday
Jetlag has taken over. This morning I woke up at the wee hour of 3am The interruption of my slumber came to me as no surprise. I was familiar with the fact that sleeping would be difficult. But I also knew that eventually I would get used to the Indian time zone.
Despite the odd sleeping patterns that inhabited the four of us, we did not disappoint. We headed down to the lobby for a healthy breakfast, planned out our day, partook in an “Insanity Workout” (an exercise routine) before leaving the hotel at 10:30.
Our first stop was the Colaba Fish Market. Known country wide as one of the largest markets for fish trading, Colaba is a sight for sore eyes (and a scent for very sore noses). Before I go much further in the description of the market, let’s just say that I am no longer eating a piece of fish in all my stay here.
When we hopped out of the car, I experienced smell and a sight that I will never forget. If you are trying to recreate the smell that passed through my nasal stream, well you can’t. The stench was so immense and yet so unique. The mere smell of the surroundings left a mark on me as a human being.
Now, the sight was equally jawdropping. The first thing we saw when we left the car were rows and rows of shrimp piled about three feet high lying in the middle of the road. Surrounding the piles were groups of women. Sometimes there would be ten of fifteen women per pile of krill. These women were shelling the animals in preparation for sale.
The fish that we saw were battered, beaten, torn, even trashed. The “fresh fish) were not fresh at all. They were being washed in the street gutters, spat on by the fishmongers, rolled over by the trolleys. Jack, in all his vigilance, discovered a dead rat lying in a pile of sea creatures that happened to be “fresh fish”.
The fishing boats were also quite interesting. In fact, the word ‘boats’ does not do these battered skifs justice. For those of you who have see the movie “Captain Phillips”, these boats reminded me of the boats the Somali pirate’s sailed on.
Today, I would soon learn, was a day of markets and religious buildings.
The next place we visited was the Crawford Market. This was not a fish market or a meat market or a vegetable market or a clothing market. It was all of the above.
As soon as we exited the taxi, a man tapped us on the shoulders and asked us to follow him to the head of the vegetable market-a massive enclosed space with vendor after vendor after vendor all selling the same thing. This man claimed to be the master of the market. He guided us through the shops, leading us first to a fruit vendor. Our theory is “if you have to peel it, it’s clean.” So we bought some bananas. But the master of the market told us that the price was to high so he tried to barter-until he just stole the bananas. Anywhere else this would be an offense but he was the master of the market and so we could steel. Swag
We excited the fruit and veggie section of the market and headed to the animal part of the market. But before we enterd the cuthcershops, we had to visit the live animal shops. The live animal shops were almost as sad as the butcher shops. Rows and rows of cages, packed with puppies, ducks, chickens, parrots, bunnies, and more, all in desperate search for a home.
Before we entered the market, the “master of the market” prefaced the butcher shops by saying “In here you will find cow, goat, sheep, pig, and dog.”
Many people try and hide the fact that they are using dog as meat for the tourists sake. But this person was not worried about hiding the fact that they were using dog in their meat supply.
Before I go much further into the explanation of the meat market, let’s just say that I am going vegetarian for the rest of the trip.
The cut up animals were hanging from rusty nail in the ceiling. There was a thick stream of blood rushing across the ground. In one bucket were skinned, dead chickens. The adjacent bucket heald live chickens (animal cruelty much?). The market, like the fish in the market, was being was in the gutter.
I honestly don’t have that many for details about the butcher market because I tried to go through the market as quickly as I could.
The master of the market grew more and more suspicious to me. There were about a hundred clothing stores, all selling the same items, but he found one special store to lead us to. I bet you it was his cousin Joey’s store.
When the master left us, he did the thing that people in India do-a lot. He asked for money. Nothing is free in India. Although it is cheaper than in the U.S., it feels like no one does anything solely to help you. Here, if they do anything for you-take your shoes and place them on the ground for you, give you a hat for the temple, tell you something about the politics in India-they always are expecting money in return.
*Factoid: everyone in India is expecting something in return.
Lunch was interesting. We ate at a Iranian/Parsy Restaurant near that market. This restaurant cost 20 usd for four people (dad, bro, me, and the taxi driver). But we could tell that the modest taxi driver saw this place as a luxury.This was not a place where people of his type were eating. The people in the restaurant were the high class people of India.
Janis Temple, a Hindu place of worship, reminded me a lot of the temples found in Tibet. Different faith, different people, different environment, same scrubbing of the idols, same ornate design, same appearance of the idols.In the temples in Tibet and the temple here in India, there were very colorfull paintings on the walls, all of which told a story about a certain Idol or God or inperasional figure. In both temples you were not allowed to turn your backs on the idols-a very difficult task when you find yourself surrounded by them. In fact, the best thing to do in this scenario is lay down on your back and scooch yourself towards the door.
The Mosque was what made me feel like the most lucky person on Earth. The walk to Haji Ali was one that I will never forget. On the sides of the pier that we were walking on, sat some of the most pained humans that I have ever seen. Crippled does not fully describe the true element of pain that these humans were going through. Disfigured men, women and children groaning, begging for a chance to eat a meal. On on of the sides lay ten or fifteen men who sat in a circle frozen from the burns that left then unmobile. The function of speaking was lost to them and they sat their, moaning. All the money in the world could not repair these people. All we could do was keep our head up and be grateful that we have the life that we do.
The Mosque, beautiful in its own way, was less ornate. In many ways it was much simpler then the temple. The entire structure was made of marble. At the center of the mosque was where the people prayed. They prayed to what seemed to me as a pile of sarries. But it couldn’t have been. There had to be a deeper meaning to the prayers then that.
Like I said above, because we were required to take our shoes off in the mosque, we had the pay the guy to take our shoes and place them in a neat pile.
Like I said before, we needed a prayer cap in order to enter the mosque. So we had to pay the man to take a cap and place it on our heads.
Are you getting it?
The people of India, we would learn, love the beach. Chowpatty beach was a disturbingly hot place. The beach-beside being scorching hot-was quite trashed, but also qute civilized. The beach was much dirtier than the beaches in America. But the people at the cafe were an interesting site. They sat cross legged on mats-shoes off-eating full on meals. Not junk food. Dal, pakoras, normal food. No chips. Normal food. This you would not find in America.
Remember I told you about Jack’s suite? Well, at around 5pm we arrived back at the tailoring store near the gateway to India. But we arrived a little too early. They were not ready for us. So we went to the World Famous coffee shop, Starbucks.
The Mumbai Starbucks was a sight. Outside the store were armed guards and metal detectors. Inside the store we found the cream of the crop of India. This was a place where the upper middle class of Mumbai came as a relief to the outside struggling world. People enjoyed frappuccinos and cakes and pies. This was a safe escape from the beginning and pain of the outside in the world.
Jack’s suit was not close to being done. It was a mock up. The mock up was quite interesting to see. The tailors had gone from showing us swatches to taking our meauresments to a well fitting suite.
Our mom flew in early the next morning.
