The non-smiling flight attendants were my first clue to the general temperament i encountered whilst in Mumbai. The 4 taxi drivers I experienced were all silent until they wound their window down to ask someone, in Hindi, how to get to the address i'd given them. I was scared to strike up conversation in fear of offending them by assuming they speak English - as the guidebook had lead me to believe. I arrived at my hostel to be greeted by a room full of phone zombies, including the receptionist who barked at me to fill in the check-in form. Saying that - my first adventure into real Mumbai - otherwise known as Dharavi slum - was lead by a very friendly local named Sunni who seemed genuinely happy to show us around.
Dharavi itself had the atmosphere of a friendly community (albeit a tightly packed one with an estimated 1million people living in 2.2 square kilometres), the hustle and bustle of industry but also an underlying sense of terrifyingly unhealthy living conditions. Much like the favela in Rio, Dharavi is not lacking in cash flow with almost $1 billion dollars of goods produced annually. However, the goods are not so much class A drugs, as in Brazil, but recycled plastic, metal, glass, paper and pretty much anything you can think of. It was amazing to see the activity going on in the commercial area - from women sorting shards of glass, men carrying huge bundles of oil cans on their heads, hand made machinery used for chopping, cleaning, drying and melting. The views from the rooftops of the little factories was incredible - piles of different plastics laid out to dry with mosques, temples and tower blocks littered between. Unfortunately we weren't allowed to take photos whilst on the tour, especially frustrating when we came across a beautifully painted courtyard where six women in jewel-coloured saris sat rolling out poppadoms and drying them in the sun on huge upturned baskets - an image I hope I will never forget.
The ramshackle houses, open drains bisecting the small alleyways and sudden scooter encounters all reminded me of the favela - although the lack of individual water tanks on roofs suggested their bathroom facilities were less advanced. Sure enough we came across a set of communal bathrooms - the posh ones, we were told, where you had to pay to pee and so could be saved from the horror of the others where an estimated one thousand people share each toilet. The gorgeous children were also reminiscent of Rocinha, as they ran up to ask us our names and what country we were from in order to practice their English. The risk of getting caught in celebratory water-balloon crossfire was fairly high but worth it for the chorus of 'Happy Holi's we received as we walked past.
Holi is a Hindu festival celebrating the arrival of Spring, using water and colour to symbolise new life. My hostel had got us tickets to a local community club celebration, which felt a bit like we'd gate crashed a garden party wedding, as our little crew of white Europeans turned up just in time for the breakfast buffet - which, much to my delight, included Jalebis (as featured in the recent film Lion). We'll leave the array of food on the table for another blog - perhaps when I have worked out what the rest of it was. As we arrived we were handed bags of brightly coloured powder and after the breakfast we headed into the sprinkler-topped courtyard complete with dj and colour canons. We attempted to emulate the Bhangra dance moves of the groups of guys and girls whilst playing with the colours.
It seemed the main custom was to smear it on a strangers face whilst greeting them with 'Happy Holi'. To your friends you could be more Picasso about it and cover them from head-to-toe, even the older men and women were emerging fully painted. But of course the children were having a field day - water balloons, pistols and colour combined and us foreigners were perfect targets (a long with the poor waiting staff) although some very sweet kids would first come and ask us before they popped the balloons over our heads. The colours soon ran into one another with all the water as we danced in the artificial rain - my white top is now more abstract water colour than the Jackson Pollock masterpiece I'd hoped it might be.
All in all I had two very interesting experiences in Mumbai, neither of which I could really say are unique to the city - unfortunately I didn't feel confident enough to travel into the city centre alone to see its landmarks and none of my comrades in the hostel felt like accompanying me after the morning Holi party. So as I left to get my flight to Goa it was my own mood, along with my taxi driver's, that defined the city as a fairly mardy one.
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