I’d arrived at the International Terminal of Mumbai Airport, waiting patiently at the baggage return for my guitar and suitcase. The suitcase appeared, but no guitar. Fantastic start. And so it began. First step; get the guitar back, and take it from there. The rep was super-polite as I rummaged through my documents in search of my destination address, Anjuna Palms resort, Anjuna, Goa. ‘No problem’ she said, “We’ll send it on to you’. I didn’t hold out much hope.
And so I found myself outside in the dark, amidst a manic crowd baying for attention, money, business, like a crowd of obsessed fans outside the backstage entrance after a rock concert. My only option was to hang a sharp left at the railing holding them back, towards what looked like some officially dressed guards. One of them engaged me, an older, thin, taller man with a calmness about him that stood out amongst the chaos. I needed to ask him how to get to the Domestic Terminal for my flight to Goa early the next morning, but he’d already pre-empted me. ‘Domestic Terminal is closed, my friend.’
To this day, I still don’t know if this was true or not. And so, in my own mind at least, the nightmare scenario began…
The guard had everything under control and planned out, the taxi was waiting, I’d have to stay in Mumbai tonight, according to him, no other option. As I felt the wheels of his plan turn in motion, I grasped at my other options, looking around for any other confused tourists in my predicament, but I was on my own, with no clue whatsoever. I hesitantly put my suitcase into the taxi and resigned myself to whatever happened next. Robbery? Kidnap? Murder?
The taxi pulled away from the airport and into the darkness, destination unknown. I hurriedly opened up discussions in the hope I could put my mind at rest, relieve the panic, at least know what was coming next. Predictably, his response was he needed money for the ‘travel and ‘hotel’ expenses, I had none, so, first port of call: cashpoint. I settled down in resignation, nothing I could do. A foreigner too far away from home.
After a dull journey through featureless, dark scenery, we eventually reached a small lit-up structure at the end of a deserted, almost derelict shopping precinct, nothing resembling a bank at all. I was ushered inside by the guard and the driver. Is this it for me? Not quite, as lo and behold, a cash-point machine sat in the back corner of the room, through some makeshift partitioning, along with, strangely, an attendant. The guard didn’t ask for money, I took it upon myself to draw out £300 for some reason, but luckily and unexpectedly, I hit my limit of £250 for that day. Nothing anyone could do, If they were going to rob me, that’s all the money that I had access to, for now. As we sped off towards the hotel my spirits lightened, I observed the hustle and bustle of the Mumbai suburbs, if that’s where we were. Livestock roamed the streets and fires burned in the blackness, was it celebration or conflict ? Before I could decide the taxi come to a stop.
The hotel was palatial compared to what I had seen so far. I had a new theory, this was the scam: The domestic airport wasn’t closed, they were simply getting some business for the hotel. Not the end of the world, then. As I emerged from the taxi a young porter boy appeared almost immediately to retrieve my suitcase. He was in traditional dress, a dark red tunic with white trousers and cap, in contrast to the official looking guard and driver. For the first time I could look the guard in the face without too much fear, and he ushered me towards the hotel staff, who, to my surprise, had arrived outside reception to greet me. The boy rushed through everyone and into the hotel with my suitcase as though his life depended on it, just as the guard introduced me to the staff who warmly greeted me.
Had I been over-reacting? Was I really in any danger ?
Inside the hotel I was immediately asked for my passport, and the tables turned again. The hotel manager tried to reason with me that it was standard procedure, but out of paranoia and something that I read somewhere about it being ‘Illegal to give up your passport’, I was back to square one again, I was definitely in trouble. So I became passive again and gave up the passport as the porter boy ushered me up to my room, leaving an uncomfortable atmosphere with the staff downstairs.
The hotel room itself was fabulous, all marble, brass, high ceilings and space, but to me, at this moment, merely a prison cell. I had no polite response to give the boy as he wished me a pleasant stay with the English he had took it open himself to learn, and as the door was closed I was completely alone, isolated, and lost.
Before I could settle there was a sharp knock at the door, it was the guard. I immediately went into attack mode, demanding answers, my passport, I had nothing to lose now. Why was I brought here? Was the airport really closed? How much was all this going to cost? How do I get back ? He put his hand on my shoulder and said something I will never forget.
‘This is India my Friend’
He sat me down, told me to relax, everything had been arranged for me to make my flight tomorrow, and I could order anything I wanted. There was still the issue with my passport though, but he assured me it was just the norm, which I eventually accepted. Too tired to argue by this time. He produced some paper and a pen, as it was time to get down to brass tacks. Just how much was all this going to cost me? All my money ? would I need to go up to my limit at the cash-point again tomorrow?, will I even be allowed to leave?
After another heated discussion the end result was £30, all in. The same as a month’s accommodation I had booked in Anjuna Palms. Although this place was a different class, I’d still been stung hadn’t I? At least I now knew the damage. The guard, in his relaxed, efficient manner ran through the short itinerary; Order some food, get some rest, and he’d pick me up to get back to the airport tomorrow. I ordered a curry and beer, and the guard sped off down the stairs again. closing the door behind him. Would he live up to his word?
Before I had a chance to sort through my clothes for my stay, there was another knock at the door. It was the porter boy with the most delicious meal I had ever smelled, the mysterious spices immediately filling the room. And to go with it, a large chilled bottle of Kingfisher lager. This time I both acknowledged and thanked the boy, who seemed genuinely happy I’d given him my approval this time, and I settled down to what I’d hoped would be a taste of home, but the heat and spice of the Marsala was much more concentrated and vibrant, this was the real deal, layer upon layer of contrasting and complementary flavours and textures that made your lips sing, but none of the obnoxious heat of a hot curry back home, my very first real taste of India, with a cool refreshing lager to wash it all down.
Feeling a lot more relaxed and chirpier in general, I decided to run a bath. I noticed the time had ticked over to midnight, so six hours before my wake up call. I couldn’t risk sleep of course, I needed to catch that plane, so I killed some of the time soaking in the bath, which was so huge I could lay flat in it. I observed my surroundings. The marble, the brass fittings, the stone floor. This was nice, at least £200 a night back home, so did I really have a lot to complain about at £30? Had anyone threatened me? No, Lied to me? I didn’t know. Regardless, I’d been treated like a king so far, so maybe it was my own hidden away prejudices that had came to the fore. Then there was the other side, what if the domestic airport was open? what if I’m being charged over the odds for this hotel I shouldn’t even be in? Why do they refuse to give me back my passport? I kept telling myself what the guard had said. ‘This is India’. Maybe I wasn’t as open-minded or tolerant as I thought I was, and this was my first culture shock. I finally made it out of the bath, got dressed and sat awake watching the minutes tick by. Whatever the truth of the matter was I was done with this hotel, I needed to be on my way. I’d exhausted myself by second guessing and over-analysing.
As the clock neared six am. my mood shifted again.This is it. Of course the guard isn’t going to arrive and take me back the airport, and I’ll never get out of here alive. I was drunk with tiredness at this point, but the adrenaline was pumping. Right on the dot of six there were two thudding knocks on the door that I recognised immediately as the guard’s. True to his word he stood in the doorway, eager to get me moving, and I was only too willing to oblige as I gave the room a last glance, wishing It had of been a more comfortable stay.
Reception was a hive of smoky activity, much like the night before. The guard ushered me over to the the manager, an overweight, balding family man, who Immediately returned my passport, again, true to his word. His slightly stressed demeanour brought home the feeling that I’d been over-reacting, as I settled up the bill and attempted a clumsy and far too late apology. Nevertheless, despite everything, and even after they had my money, I was still treated with with the utmost courtesy, as the porter boy appeared again to take my case to the waiting taxi.
And so, just like the night before, I found myself outside the hotel. It was still dark, and the staff had once again gathered outside reception to see me off. Maybe this was all just part of the ruse, but I put that to one side for now as I shook the manager’s hand and waved to the rest of the staff. The porter had completed his final task and my case was in the boot of the taxi, we were ready to go. But the boy and the staff lingered. The appreciation in the boy’s face as I tipped him a few rupees still stays with me, as does the vision of the staff still waiting outside as the taxi sped off.
The journey back to the airport was silent. For me, too embarrassed, ashamed even, of my mistrusting, prejudiced, closed minded behaviour in my first night in Asia. For the guard, perhaps he’d had enough, and just wanted me out of his hands. As the scenery flew past I recollected the night’s events without taking anything in.
Mumbai Airport: Domestic Terminal. The taxi ground to a halt by a dusty track outside the departure’s entrance. I now stood near the boot of the taxi with the driver and the guard as I experienced my first morning Indian sun beating down on my forehead, making my eyes squint. This was the part where I was supposed to tip the guard and the driver, but looking at the bustling airport made me question everything again. Of course it wasn’t closed last night, why would it be? No tip. £30 was all they were getting out of me. I’d reached my destination. I was safe and back in control again. As I shook the guard’s hand and bid him farewell he looked at me like a teacher looks at a student, maybe he understood my behaviour but in the end couldn’t get his message though, so he just put his hand on my shoulder again and repeated his advice… ‘This is India, my Friend’. And with that, he was on his way, back to the International terminal for his next fare no doubt. I quickly passed through departures and at last found myself sat on the plane to Goa, stepping through the events of the last twelve hours. This had been my first taste of India, who knows what surprises await in Goa. As the plane sped down the tarmac and into the air I sat back and finally got some rest.
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