Sunday, April 13, 2003

I reached Bombay a couple of days ago. Arriving at Dadar Station ('dadar' is a Marathi word meaning 'in the middle of fucking nowhere'), I jumped aboard a moving suburban train, whilst carrying backpack, guitar and sitar, to get into Victoria Station in the centre, a truly lovely and insane building of the kind which conservative and tasteful Delhi has little of. Instead of bothering to look for some decent accomodation, I jumped in a taxi to the Salvation Army, which is the kind of place the Rough Guide would call "a popular haunt for budget travellers". It's a bit of a craphole, through friendly, and suffers from a slight cockroach problem. The roaches a quite small, though I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

As often happens, I was rewarded for my hardships by meeting other travellers on the same budget as myself. I met again a French Canadian couple I'd met in Hampi three weeks ago, Jeanviele (not spelt that way, I'm sure) and Annie. JL, as I'll call him, had just come off a course of antibiotics, and was keen to sample the nightlife. I'd heard some interesting stories from a Swedish-Indian London-based dentist in Mamallapuram about Bombay's bollywood dancing clubs, but of course on my own I wasn't going to get in, even if I wanted to. However, after spending until closing time in a cafe/pub discussing politics and travelling with an opinionated Danish man and a German, we found that going out in Bombay after midnight wasn't so easy. In the end, we found ourselves hungry, and were helped by a hyperactive pimp to a kebab stall. It was a strange evening. The night after was more so.

We started of in Chowpatty beach, the artificial little crescent of sand where all of Bombay goes to wander about, fend of people offering head massages and eat lots of bhel puri, a weird little snack which tastes a bit like cornflakes. After sitting on the beach with some other English travellers, we tried again to find a club in Bombay which had more than two people dancing. We tried 'Velocity', but found the prices to be approximately the same as home, if not slightly more. So we went across the road to the discrete 'Club Stallion'. I suppose the title should have been a clue. It was a sex club, or at least as near to a sex club as India is likely to get. Women, fully clothed in saris, danced Bollywood-style before seated men in a fairly tiny, but up-market, club. It was very strange.

Today is my last day in the city before I return on the 20th for my flight home, and I spent it in a more conventional fashion at the Prince of Wales Musuem, and the nearby art gallery. Accompanied by a slightly overfamiliar Mp3 audio-guide, I made my way through the museum; it certainly beat Chennai hands down, and I spend the best part of four hours wandering the various exhibits, listening to the relaxed Indian voice in my headphones.

Aurangabad is next; then Bombay, then home. I can't honestly say what my feelings are; right now I'd be glad to sit down with a toasted cheese sandwich (with real cheese) and watch 'Bill Oddie Goes Wild' (I'm not sure why this programme in particular, except that it's wholly Unindian), but I fully expect to be wanting to come back after I've been in England a few days.