(I wrote this while on the train this morning. We've since arrived in Panaji, Goa.)
Our train left Mumbai last night at 2300 hrs, and we're supposed to arrive in Old Goa another hour or so, at about 1030. We'd ordered our tickets online two weeks ago, and the Concierge at the Hilton graciously held them for us. No regrets about starting off this journey in comfort. Yesterday morning greeted me with a sniffle, a cough, and a bit of malaise, so I stuck around the room, drank juice, and surfed the Web to find a hotel for our first night in Goa.
Since our train left so late, we checked out at 6 p.m, and left our bags at the bell desk while we ventured to the main post office to send a few things home. Fortunately, the main post office is behind CST, formerly known as Victoria Station, so we had a chance to scope things out before our late-night departure. Liz wanted to confirm that our train was indeed leaving from CST, as she'd heard that a printed ticket is not always the last word regarding one's point of embarkation.
I felt badly about leaving Mumbai, as Abby put me in touch with her friend's hubby in the hopes that we could meet and even check out where he works (TV studio). Sadly, time and energy weren't on our side, but I'm most appreciative for the effort. Thanks, Abby & Ashwyn!
The main post office is a lovely building, but a bureaucratic nightmare -- or wet dream, depending on which side of the counter you're on.
To ship a package from India, the contents must be compressed tightly before they're placed inside a linen bag that is cut to fit -- and then sewn shut. One one side, you write the FROM: address, then you flip the parcel and fill out the TO: portion. Luckily, I was able to get the parcel sewn at our hotel for 50 Rs.
Our cab let us off at the post office, and I made a beeline for Window #2, which was clearly marked "Foreign Post." The grouchy worker behind the counter waved me away, indicating that I needed to go to the Speed Mail office in the new annex, three floors up.
I was skeptical, since the guidebooks stated that the Speed Mail office closed at 1600, but off we went. I think I'm getting a better handle on how to obtain information from folks here -- ask two or three people, and then aggregate the data. So, after wending down dark Victorian hallways for a few minutes, I asked a quick-stepping fellow, "which way to the annex?"
"New building this way," he fairly spat, and we followed. Are postal workers disgruntled the world over?
We tracked him around a corner, through a courtyard, and into the "new" annex, a crumbling bunker of a building that probably dated back to Victoria's Jubilee.
The Speed Post office was closed, as expected. I explained to the guys packing up that I merely wanted to ship something to the USA, and that celerity was not an issue. The alpha worker redirected us back to our starting point.
I thanked him, and we trudged back down and into the main building where I stood in the foreign post line -- twenty feet from where we'd begun. After some misunderstanding on either side of the counter, I was given a form so I could list the parcel's contents. Total cost: 975 Rs for a 1.4 kilo package -- and 25 rupees for two liters of Aquarich to make sure we didn't pass out in the street.
I asked the chowkidar posted outside which way to the train station, and he gave me the inimitable head-bob, indicating that it was just around the corner.
I wish I were a better writer, because I can only describe CST at rush hour as a teeming mass of humanity. An endless tide of suburban commuters surging into the station on foot, bicycles, and of course, inside the ever-present black and yellow Padmini taxis that crowd Mumbai's streets. Bear in mind, you're also weaving your way through beggars, sleeping dogs and street vendors.
I've been through some of the world's busiest airports, and I'm intimately familiar with Grand Central and Penn Station in New York, but this was the first moment in India for which I felt unprepared. I suppressed the reptile part of my brain in order to remain mindful of where my travel companion was at all times, and to keep our goal in mind -- where do we get our train?
Liz and I shared a eureka when an LED signboard flashed from Hindi to English displaying our train's name. We confirmed our platform and got the hell out of the station, cabbing back to the Kolaba district.
We had a strong cocktail and a meal at Not Just Jazz. It was nearly deserted, as the jazz combo wouldn't be gigging until 10. As before, the service and food was wonderful. Our waiter was from Mangalore, and engaged us in small talk, as is the custom here. He called over another waiter who hailed from Goa, and confirmed where the best beaches were -- as well as the ones to be avoided.
The jazz combo was tuning up as we finished our meal, and we were on our way out when the dhoti-wearing pianist walked in, hefting his Roland keyboard.
"You're leaving?" He seemed to take it personally.
"We've got a train to Goa at 2300. But next time..." I gave him a thumbs-up, and he smiled in response.
A quick stop by the hotel to retrieve our bags, and then back to CST. Luckily, rush hour was long gone, so I didn't have to muster 125% awareness to find the 1st class AC/sleeper waiting room.
We walked down the platform, passing the 3rd and 2nd class cars, making me even more thankful that we could afford a coupe, as opposed to being packed hip-to-hip in an open car, or crammed into a tiny sleeper berth.
On Indian trains, you're assigned a seat, so we stopped at the first 1AC car to check the passenger manifest -- and found our names. Maybe we'd accumulated some good karma in Mumbai.
Dinesh, our porter, took Liz's bag and helped her aboard, while I struggled under the weight of my maxed-out backpack/daypack. Settled in our compartment, Liz promptly climbed into the top berth and began to snooze, while I stretched out with a copy of Culture Shock: India and listened to my iPod.
I probably got a few hours of sleep, but when it grew light outside, I whipped back the curtain with anticipation. The sun was rising over the Western Ghats, the range that follows the coast along the Arabian sea. Our compartment only allows us to see eastward, but there's plenty to take in:
Clay-rich earth, sculpted into terraces and paddies. Goats and cows, heads down, eating the tiny green shoots that the monsoons bring. Tuk-tuks, horsecarts and SUVs stopped at rail crossings. Mountains, stone wells, and navigable rivers plied by men on rafts with long poles. The further south we go, the greener it gets.
Posted by Walter at June 11, 2005 01:46 AM