The real Colaba.

I take it back. Colaba isn't all sunshine, lollipops and drunk tourists. In an attempt to walk to the ocean, (in a place surrounded by water who knew it would be so hard?), we cut up through a side street and through the fishing docks. Turns out that although fish come from the ocean, you can't actually access the water from the docks. And although I wouldn't choose to send my worst enemy into the smell we encountered at the docks, I did see a different side of Colaba.

The fishing wharfs are full of incredibly hard-working, strong stomached locals. They must have strong stomachs as they didn't seem to be dry-retching like we did as they walked through the fermenting fish guts sprayed all over the road in the Indian sun. The docks were a total hive of activity. They were out of control! There were typical Indian, bright painted trucks (the ones that have 'Honk please OK' in colourful cursive on the back) who drove up and down couriering loads of fish bits away from the docks. The fishing boats are similarly colourful. They are also incredibly small. Hope they don't get rough seas in the Indian Ocean. The majority of workers were women. Beautiful, saree-clad, hennaed women. Their beautiful cotton outfits trailed behind them through the remaining fluidy bits of fish that (thankfully!) aren't able to be sold.

Our impromptu self-guided tour through Mumbai's prime fishing region helped bolster my commitment to not eat fish while I am in India. Even my recentely discovered love of prawns was quickly extinguished as we wandered through the docks. The reason for my sudden disgust is the lack of equipment, hygiene and safety precautions used in the preparation of fish in India. There was little ice. There were flies. Everywhere. And the beautiful saree-clad, hennaed women shelled mountains of prawns while sitting in circles on the asphalt, in the open air and hot sun. No deal.

But although disgusting – tummy turning repulsiveness! - I loved our adventure into the fishing capital of Colaba. It reminded me again of crazy India. Of people running everywhere. Of beautiful coloured cottons. Of laughing, head-wobbling men who are all too happy to talk with / at you. It also reminded me that the Indian labourers work so hard to make such little money.

YAY for Colaba – the home of my chai man, Mondy's (the new, better version of Leopolds), of German tourists and of hard working, local Indians.

Mumbai Calling

And so I'm back to the velvet underground.

Wait. Scrap that. There's no velvet here. This is India. This isn't the Fleetwood Mac concert I saw the day before being stuck in transit for 26 hours. This is Mumbai. This is anything but velvet. Mumbai is loud, proud and hot. Very hot. Isn't it winter here? Ha. Indian winter. 33 degrees.

Having never been to Mumbai I had no idea what to expect. Arriving at my new home for the next two months I was disappointed to see that there were no beggars on the street outside my apartment. Disappointed? Really Brett?! That's definitely not politically correct. But India is about poverty right? This next three months is about Brett running away to be in her beloved India and to be with the poor right?

Big. Wake. Up. Call.

Shall have to wait until I start work in the slums on Monday to be back to my comfort zone in community among the poor. Learning very quickly that in my Cosmopolitan Colaba home there are more drunk German tourists than beggars. There are more street vendors selling cheap t-shirts and rip-off perfumes than there are limping children. And there has been a severe absence of Slumdog Millionaire-style blinded children. So no immersion in poverty in Colaba. Have decided there are so few beggars because the wealthy Indians driving their Mercedes and Lexuses would probably not take the effort to swerve around the child beggars. They'd probably just continue driving straight at them as they continue to do with me.

So Colaba isn't poverty central. But a few Kingfisher beers later and I'm in love. I love the energy of the street markets. I love the predictable hoards of tourists outside Leopolds. I love even more that they sell cheap photocopied knock-offs of Shantaram in Leopolds. I love that I've already decided I'm too cool for Leopolds and have found my own bar that I shall love for the next two months. Mondy's. I'm personally going to make it bigger and better than Leopolds. I love the chai vendor around the corner who sells the dodgiest looking, but best tasting 6 rupee chai. I love the men walking on the streets selling balloons the size of small children. NO! I do not want a balloon! I love the kitsch fibreglass, fluro Hindu God knock offs that stupid tourists buy. I love that I am one of those stupid tourists who bought an ugly statue. Essentially, I love my new home.

And although having initially being a tad disappointed/snobby with how 'touristy' and 'removed from poverty' Colaba is, I am embracing all she has to offer. My room mate and I are on a mission to make this literally our home for the next two months. We are planning ways to decorate our humble abode. The balcony will be covered in pot plants, beach chairs, a Christmas tree and fairy lights if we have our way. Although where we would find these items is a mystery. We are committed to making best friends with the bartenders, waiters and shop assistants in our favourite 'local' places so we can become regulars.

Colaba is not going to be the same without us when we leave.