Smiling, Talking, Silence

Bad News: my camera memory chip seems to have picked up a virus. My photos seem okay, i'll just have to find a computer that I can sacrifice to upload them... The anti-virus software in the few cyber cafes I've tried haven't let me copy them. In the mean time I'll go back to borrowed pics.

Anyway, Mumbai is a wonderful town. If only it wasn't hotter than blood, and if the places I ended up sleeping weren't crawling with bedbugs (don't worry there's a photo of the awful bites that will come some day) it'd be a quaint place to spend a week. The architecture of the town blends Arab, Hindi and British styles in a way that makes the place feel like London went summering in Western India.

After I spent my first night in the worst hostel ever (see guiness book of records 1999) (just kidding) I took the boat out to Elephanta Island which made me feel much better about the place. Then I made my way to a great berry pilaf lunch at an old Parsee place. Just then, after I got back to my hostel after lunch, fate struck.

"Hey mate, want to be a Bollywood extra? We'll give you lunch and pay you 500 rupees." After a quick call to my agent (who reminded me that she is, in fact, not my agent and would I please stop calling) I signed up.

Later that night I met some guys in the hostel that were going out with a Mumbai local, who turned out to also be a Bollywood scout. She was recruiting for a big film, but it was going to go too late for me to catch my 36-hour train to Dehra Dun. I'd have to settle with the first folks.

I met my costar on the Mumbai commuter train (think of those crazy clips you must have seen of public transit in Tokyo with lots of shouting and pushing). We traveled an one and a half hours to the set and got in costume. Then we sat, stood, pretended to drink, rinsed and repeated for 13 hours. A long, but interesting introduction to the life of a Mumbai extra. Plenty of people do it professionally, and make good money. So much that they won't take a speaking part because then they can't be extras anymore in case someone recognizes them. Even foreigners do it full time. Take the shady Russian, for example, who wanted to borrow my shoes.

"No," I told him "these are my shoes."

Apparently he lives in an Extra den with six other Russians who pass their days walking back and forth, smiling and talking, silently. Which is good because that's what they shouted at us all day "Smiling, Talking, SILENCE!" It began to feel a bit like a Buddhist Koan.

a few pet peeves...

People who spread their legs on the bus who get all up in my comfort zone. Back off shorty, I know when Baba in front of me leans back it's only going to get worse so just keep to your side.

Bed bugs. Ick. And Itch. And Ick. Same goes for mosquitoes.

Deet. Go figure.

Happy Journey!

Oh, where to begin...

This morning, at 5:45 am, I quietly crawled out of my mosquito net cot and walked until I found a rickshaw for hire.

I didn't want to wake up my roommate, the other volunteer here at Ashraya, since this was not my first early morning trip to the railway station. In fact, it was my fifth.

Four other times I'd been to the crowded home for beggars that functions, from time to time, as a place to trick yourself into thinking you might get on a train.

At 6:15 I walked up to counter 30, which is kindly reserved for the special-needs population of India (being the handicapped, senior citizens, women and foreigners). "Great," I thought. "There's no one here. I'm first in line," which is exactly where the angry ticket salesman hinted, oh so delicately with his spittle-soaked-shouts, I should be. Thank God/Allah/Ganesh/Emory or whichever is the proper deity of obstacles for providing me with that glass window. I'd have to be number one to get my ticket to Dehra Dun.

Then a short, squat, oddjobish looking fellow taps me on the shoulder and says something I don't understand. "Tatkal?" he asks, "uh huh," I reply, "you are number eight." I turn to see the seven people that have been waiting since before 6:15 for the window to open at 8:00. I'd underestimated the mad rush for tickets too many times before, but I had to resign myself to my eighth-place fate. For nearly two hours I elbowed and was elbowed, shoved and got shoved, prayed and was prayed for to get this little scrap of paper, but I finally got it. Even the sweet lady who was number nine and praying for my trip got her ticket. It was a good morning.

Now that I have my ticket, I feel like I should frame the thing instead of using it.

Instead of a $250 plane trip to Bagdogra, or a less-civilized bus ride, I'll be riding the 36 hours to the northeast of India in sleeper-class style for the price of 613 Rs, roughly $15. I bought a couple more books today (The Argumentative Indian and Krishnamurti's Commentaries on Living Vol III).

The plan now is to bus to Mumbai on Monday, mess around there for a couple days and take my train on the 23 to Dehra Dun. From there I'll take a bus to Sikkim and look into a bit of trekking for a week or two. After that I'll work my way back west by way of Varinasi, Delhi, Maybe Rishikesh and Agra for the Taj Mahal. Then back south to Mumbai to fly home to the Atl.

I can't wait for my happy journey to start.

don't even know what to call this

Apparently today is a holiday - i'm not joking here - where everyone takes sticks and branches and saris and sweets and pots and hangs them outside. i keep asking and i still don't have an answer what it's about...