Well, I’m in Mumbai, and the heat and humidity are a little
uncomfortable. It’s a steady 85 F, and no relief is offered by the constant
presence of rain clouds. Air conditioning is not run in the daytime and
excessive bathing is discouraged. At night, merciful AC soon thwarts itself as
my hosts like to keep their home at what feels like a steady 40 F while they
sleep. Overall, it’s a little hard to get comfortable.
Traveling around this vast, vibrant city is an adventure in
itself. As a result of the British Raj, vehicles are all driven on the left
side of the road with the driver’s seat on the right. I’m pathetically grateful
that the rules of my exchange forbid driving, because I would be terrified to
do so here. Two rules exist on the streets of Mumbai: 1# Right of way is determined
by size of vehicle. 2# If you yield to anything smaller than your vehicle, you
are a n00b and deserve to be punished thusly. Traffic is a cacophony of horns,
but no driver seems especially stressed which I find impressive. Road rage is nonexistent.
I imagine if any driver stopped to yell out his window, his vehicle would
simply be pushed along in the ever-present flow of traffic. God help the man
who leaps from his car to threaten another driver.
Car is my favorite way to see the city mainly due to the air
conditioning and the smell (or the merciful lack thereof.) My host mom applies
steady pressure to the horn as we dart between giant, brightly-painted dump
trucks and motorcycles with 3+ riders. Usually, it is a man with a small
toddler standing on the seat in front of him, balancing precariously between
his arms. A woman wearing a sari sits behind him, riding sidesaddle. They are
all either in bare feet or flip-flops, but weirdly enough, one of them is wearing
a helmet sometimes. I can’t keep amusement off my face as we enter the red
light district, crawling through traffic. Sari-clad drag queens proposition
people riding in rickshaws. Traffic picks up again, and we’re off, passing by
rows of shops inside shanties. These stores range from gyms to print shops, all
set up under a few square meters of corrugated metal roof.
You don’t see as much traveling by rickshaw, but you
definitely experience more. Before I elaborate, a rickshaw in India looks like
this:
The open sides let every scent through: every bit of diesel
exhaust and every staggering wave of heat rising off mountains of garbage
stacked on the roadsides. My host brother, Krishna, sticks his head out the
window to reprimand an impatient motorcyclist honking behind us. A beggar with
no hands sticks his wilting arms through my side, his stumps clumsily clasping
a plastic cup. He almost loses it as the rickshaw rockets off again. I can
barely hear Krishna talk over the roar of the motor as rain begins to fall on
us.
Crossing the street in Mumbai is, quite frankly, the
scariest thing I’ve ever done. Vehicles never slow, as yielding is a sign of
weakness and weakness must be stamped out, so you must cross one lane at a
time, pausing as traffic rushes around you, trying not to go deaf as all the
world honks impatiently at you.
