by Danny Bent
It was the most dangerous thing I have ever done. I’m shocked, looking back, that I put my life at risk merely to find a friendly face on Christmas day. But, by this point, life had taken on a different meaning. Dangers and annoyances ceased to exist. After a short time, my ride slowed. I was disappointed that it was over. The driver leant out this time and shouted “Chai?”
Why not?
They wouldn’t allow me to buy the tea. Instead, they gave me a whole drink for myself while the driver poured half of his into the saucer and shared it with his partner. It was so wonderful to see them sharing. I’d taken to drinking from the saucer too. It helped cool the scalding liquid. Until fifty years ago this was not an uncommon practice in Britain but is now considered a breach of etiquette.
I hung on again and off we went. Fifty kilometres from Mumbai we hit a city. The traffic got out of hand and I had to say goodbye to my ride. The smog was horrendous. The traffic appalling. I pedalled hard to get out of this city and looked forward to arriving in Mumbai.
Unfortunately this was Mumbai.
Chapter 39
Weaving in and out of the stationary traffic, I tried to keep my eyes on the road but couldn’t help noticing the life on the sidewalks. Mini tent structures were set up as houses for families, and mothers sat cooking over small stoves or fires whilst their children washed in the gutter water.
Sky scrapers, towered above these people, housing industries powering a world standard nuclear programme and a leading space programme. I found it hard to come to terms with what I was seeing; people living in slum tents in the countryside didn’t seem as bad as this. The people who work in these offices, people who have six-figure salaries, have to walk past this every day on their way into work.
Between these imposing concrete structures was something altogether more impressive. Using wood, corrugated iron, plastic and cloth, people have created a whole city at street level - the slums. Twenty-five million people live here, turning over two hundred and fifty million dollars a year. They recycle everything and they live amongst vermin.
I passed by the Western Railway Cricket fields. Seven different games were proceeding on a pitch the size of a normal cricket ground. Others were practising in the nets. It was rammed with those who shared one thing in common, cricket, bringing all types of people together - men and boys, rich and the poor. The Indians love it.
As I arrived in Colaba I saw a café well known to all travel readers – Leopold’s - a café housing the good, the bad and the ugly, the focal point of the book 'Shantaram' which is found in every good backpacker's rucksack. Outside, locals were doing everything they could to get a rupee from passers-by - shining shoes, selling drums, finding people hotels or a taxi ride or a parking space or a souvenir. I moved inside, past the shotgun-wielding guards, to escape the touts outside, and grabbed a beer.
The bullet craters from November 26th 2008 still show on the walls, the day Leopold’s was riddled with bullets that ripped bodies and ended lives. It was one target among many in this city as the Taliban unleashed themselves on India.
Looking round I saw groups of tourists, business men, gangsters and facilitators. If you want anything, this is the café to go to - drugs, girls, a hit man, rock 'n' roll. Unfortunately the people I sat with had come to India for one reason. Girls.
The Ministry of Women and Child Development reported the presence of 2.8 million sex workers in India as a whole. That’s well over the population of Greater Manchester. Most enter the trade before they are eighteen years old. Mumbai alone has two hundred thousand prostitutes working the streets or brothels, the largest sex industry in Asia. It is estimated that fifty percent of this population - yes, half - have HIV.
Most of the research done by Sanlaap indicates that the majority of sex workers in India work as prostitutes because they lack the resources to support themselves or their children. Most do not choose this profession; it is forced on them, often after the break-up of their marriage or after being disowned and thrown out of their homes by their families.
* * *
I left Leopold's swiftly and checked into a quiet hotel before going back out on the streets again to see what Christmas would bring. I met more Brits getting wasted – they’d come because of the cheap beer. Come on, Brothers, India is beautiful. At least experience some of the local delights. I guess they would argue that they were.
As I walked down the street, losing hope and anticipating a Christmas in my room, an arm tattooed from wrist to shoulder waved past me. The tattoo depicted the Buddha and the lily flower. At the end of the arm was a girl with short dark hair. Angela. After some discussion, I found that she was studying at the same university as Sandra and gang, but had been travelling elsewhere in the country when I was there. She’d also been at the Golden Temple on the same day as me. She’d seen my bike but I’d left before we’d met.
It was Christmas Eve and we went to a quiet bar up the road. It didn’t stay quiet for too long. In my little backpack I had all the instruments that I had been playing with the kids on my journey and some rocket balloons that kids had chased throughout Asia. Soon the balloons were shooting around the bar and locals and Westerners alike were playing horns, whistles and kazoos.
Angela was feisty, pushing unwanted attention away and arguing with those she considered to be speaking rubbish. She was sharp, and not afraid to cut people.
She came back to my hotel and we stayed on the balcony sharing stories, dreams, and wishes. She was a juggler, an artist and a toy maker, giving her toys to Indian children to play with. As more stories came forth, my heart melted.
A Japanese lady came out of her room and asked us to tone it down. I could see the twinkle in Angela’s eyes and the tension in her face. As she began to give the lady a mouthful, I leaned forward and put my lips against hers. It muffled her voice and the Japanese girl walked back inside. I pulled away as soon as she’d gone, but Angela’s arms wrapped themselves around me and my lips were ambushed. Christmas was only four hours old but I’d got everything I wanted already. Thanks, Santa!
As we tumbled into my room, I notice Shirley leaning against the sideboard. As my shirt came off, I threw it over her. I didn’t want her to watch.
* * *
The next morning, tears were rolling down my cheeks. I held my hand over my eyes to avoid people's gaze as they looked on awestruck. They thought I was sick. I wasn't sick, and I wasn't unhappy. Angela put her arm round me to comfort me.
I was in the biggest slum in Asia. Deravi slum.
I'd met some photographers here for a shoot for the national press, and had had to leave my bike as the paths between the houses had narrowed so much that Shirley's handlebars were pulling down the corrugated houses. My senses were on overload - incense mixed with raw sewage. Banging house music deafened all conversation but I turned another corner and the music died, and I could hear the kids playing cricket on the rubbish dump, squealing and arguing whether it was LBW or not. Saris flashed past me and kids' dirty colourful toys were being hugged intensely.
We'd been invited into a house which was no bigger than a store room. Five to ten people typically shared these sorts of houses. Kitchen, storage and beds were all in a space about the size of a queen-sized mattress. A girl lay in the tiny bed. She was so skinny that she looked like Ginger, the mummy in the British Museum. She was just skin and bone. A tear rolled down her cheek with the effort it took to look up and see the aliens who had entered her home. Angela had her bright tattoo down her left arm and piercings, and carried the looks of a professional model. I had the brightest ginger beard and blue eyes, and a stupid grin on my face, that could only be associated with something from another world
Seeing this girl was the only low point of the visit. ActionAid had really tried to give me an insight into what life was like in the slum. I was impressed how well they lived in these buildings, if you could call them that. They looked like a strong wind would flatten the lot (luckily I was able to handle curries a bit b
etter by now, so my wind wasn't going to be a problem). The children were all happy and enjoyed treating me like a climbing frame, and chasing the balloons that I fired all over the slum.
My tears were falling because I was back in the charity's office and they were telling me how the money I had raised was being used in the slum. Abhi, a local aid worker, translated what the women were saying, section by section. Part of the money was funding a trade union run by women for women. I heard graphic stories of how initially the women were beaten and verbally abused by their husbands and society for joining and creating such a thing. Bano (the team leader) was speaking. The emotion was etched on her face and I could feel it in my body. Abhi translated "These women stuck with it and kept working and then the results came..."
It felt like a movie. I knew what was coming next and burst into tears. All the emotion I felt from the trip ripped through me. I was uncontrollable. I tried to pull myself together because I wanted to hear the results which were that people realised these women were performing far better than the men ever had, forcing their husbands to change their attitudes. They began stay at home with the kids on the days the women needed to work. They women's status in society was now sky high.
Tears were still blurring my vision. I apologised for being silly. The squalor these people lived in, the disease, the lack of education, the way children and women were treated in India - what a difference the charity was making. What a difference we had already made by donating money to ActionAid. One pound here travels a hundred times the distance it does in the UK. Five pounds is enough for a month's wage for one of these workers.
As we walked back through the slum again, Abhi told me that the children were calling me Father Christmas. Angela seized on the nickname and, for the rest of our time together, I was Papa Noel.
Angela returned to her hostel. I was on my way to another charity gig. All the children of this slum were putting on a performance for children from other slums. It was another programme organised by the children but funded by the charity. Young females from the slums of Mumbai, and surrounding towns, had put together a set of objectives that they wanted to achieve, such as a right to work, safety in their homes and educational rights.
The catch was that anyone who came had to attend the AIDS education programme. It was wonderfully simple. Children had fun and got the education that they might not have received from their families or at school.
One of the young men helping at the festival was Naresh. He wanted me to meet his mum and dad. When I said I would like to, he took me through the slums. Weaving in and out of alleyways and buildings, he kept reiterating that his house was small and that it wasn’t very nice. He was very worried how I would react. On arrival, it was indeed small, but it was amazingly clean and I was served an excellent cup of tea and some curry by his mum. By this point it was starting to get a late and his mother asked if I wanted to stay. Naresh’s face fell. As if a white man would stay here, Mum. I would have to share with him and Zubed, his brother.
I was happy to. “Of course,” I said, “it would be an honour. “
Roll mats were produced and we lay on our straw mattresses on the floor. The three of us side-by-side were sharing a room that in the West would be a cupboard. The boys were asleep in no time. I was left thinking about life in this place. Who would invite a stranger to dinner in the UK, let alone ask them to stay over?
I met Angela at Leopold’s the next morning. I’d been invited by Naresh to stay as along as I liked. At the table next to us was a group of Russians who were still out from the night before and still drinking. One was under the table being sick and another ordered us beers, prawns and a kebab. Fair enough. Thanks. Angela was leaving for Goa in the afternoon for New Year celebrations.
After Angela had gone, I decided to take up Naresh’s offer and stay for a few more days in the slum. I'd been savaged by bed bugs and treated like scum in the most popular hostel in all of Mumbai, so it was a win-win situation. Dharavi slum may be the biggest in all of Asia, but it played a crucial role in the book 'Shantaram' and is home to some of the biggest smiles in the world.
That night there was the obligatory festival and the crazy juice had entered every male in town. Everyone wanted to shake my hand and, as ever in India, a cup of tea needed to be drunk in every house. Ending the evening hanging out with young men sitting in a makeshift hut, I was accorded the only seat. I was introduced to everyone's nicknames which all related to their professions. "Bike Boy" sold knick-knacks on his bike, "Samosa" sold, you guessed it, Samosas to commuters. Everyone was fluent in English. They wanted to see me dance, and then regretted it. They wanted to hear me sing, and then regretted that too. What could this stupid English guy do? I smiled.
They were standing for leadership of the youth council and I was pleased and proud to hear later that they won the position and were already putting plans into action to help the youths in the slum.
Chapter 40
As Angela was already in Goa, and hearing that the French Connection gang were all there too, I wanted to arrive as soon as possible. A straight road led me most of the way and I stopped in trucking cafés to eat and sleep underneath their tables. Shirley’s chain fell off, her front wheel started to wobble, her panniers kept being dislodged by the smallest bumps. It was as if she was trying to stop me getting there. Was she jealous?
Goa is another ex-Portuguese colony. Swaying palms, white sands and sparkling waters - the three essential elements that attract two million visitors annually to Goa’s balmy shores - are plentiful in this tiny, glorious slice of India, hugging the country’s western coastline and bounded by the Arabian Sea.
It was time to forget about the fact I was missing family and friends as they celebrated Christmas and New Year, to forget the pain of the saddle, to put aside thoughts of the suffering in all the countries I had visited - the homeless, the dying, the deformed, the handicapped, the diseased, the repressed, the child labourers, the starving, the torturers and the tortured.
People flock to Goa in their thousands during the festivities to enjoy the cheap drinks, the parties, the sand, the blues seas and the coconuts. I had decided I wasn’t going to miss one piece of it.
I met Angela in town and we went straight to the beach. Within minutes we found ourselves with soft sand between our toes and being welcomed by dolphins leaping and playing on the horizon.
It was New Year's Eve. Clubbing to horrendous techno, we jumped around like the monkeys I’d seen in the trees on the way down, made friends with our silliness, performed makeshift break dancing on the sand and juggled fire. The domestic tourists were getting some well-earned entertainment in the shape and form of a Spanish fire fairy, Papa Noel and friends. I ended the night sleeping in a fishing boat wearing a motorcycle helmet as the sun rose above me.
* * *
Goa is a place where the arts meet spiritualism. Yoga, meditation and martial arts classes covered the beach in the morning. Ayurvedic medicine centres, tattoo parlours, markets selling trendy Indian clothing, music studios and sumptuous restaurants selling fish fresh from the sea plied their trade on the coastal path.
I dived right in and was to be found every evening with Lucy and Alastair doing stick martial arts on the beach. It may be beautiful and graceful, like dancing, but it does give you a few more bruises and fat lips. As the days wore on, our numbers started to swell.
One particular night, Natalia, a yoga teacher from the Ukraine, and Rafi, her Indian sidekick, came and said they’d join us after 'laughing therapy'. What? Laughing therapy? I couldn’t miss this.
Five minutes later we started the therapy on the beach surrounded by regular holiday makers. Laughing for five or ten minutes at a stretch, I think it was the first class I’ve ever excelled at. Rafi and Nat had bundles of energy that seemed to light up anyone they come across. I then went on to Stick Club (first rule of the Stick Club: no-one talks about the Stick Club), and found I still couldn’t stop myself laughing. Even when Lucy caught m
e with an upstroke which cracked my jaw and left me lying on the floor, my blood dripping onto the sand, I couldn't help but let out a prolonged snigger. Even now, writing these words, I’m giggling to myself. Laughing therapy - it works.
The following day it was suggested that we meet at four to give sweets out on the beach to spread love and happiness. I’d just bought an orgasmatron, a cluster of wires that are used to massage the head. It does just what it says on the can. Bringing that along too, we traversed the beach bringing smiles to people's faces and sweetness to their bellies, whilst promoting the laughing therapy session which would take place later in the afternoon.
That night I’d been asked to lead a class in animal balloon making, the second class I have ever excelled in. Monkeys, elephants, tigers, palm trees and flowers littered the venue. It looked like the jungle Goa used to be before tourism moved in. Fifteen people came, including Rafi and Natalie. Such a compliment.
* * *
People warn of the potential for thievery in India. 'Slum Dog Millionaire' reiterates the risks faced. From my own experiences, this sounded like twaddle. I didn’t lock my room at night or when I went out. I had accidentally left my bag open outside my room in a busy cheap hotel in the city with all the valuables visible and nothing had happened. My wallet fell from my bag and about five cars stopped to tell me. Cleaners came into my room with thousands of rupees (months of salary) lying on the bed amongst the mess, and they just stacked them all nicely and I was sure the idea to take them hadn’t even entered their heads.
