Day 8 to 12: Udaipur, Mumbai and bottling it

I’ve broken

I’ve caved

I’ve capitulated

(I’ve the exhausted my Thesaurus)

After swearing to myself that under no circumstances would I set foot there –  a potent threat to my momentum, the Hotel California of my adventure – its name has followed me like an Indian hawker throughout my travels, wafting its alluring scent time and time again, via story and anecdote, via invitation and recommendation, beckoning me into its sunkissed, blue water arms.

Goa

And I’ve bottled it. On Monday night I take the 10 hour sleeper from Mumbai to spend 5 days of beach in this broken paradise.

I know, it’s not the real India…

…but then how much of the real India can you see?

On Day 8, I caught the overnight from Agra to Udaipur – India’s lake city, propping up the mighty state of Rajasthan. Called the Venice of India, its grand lake flanked by houses and hotel holds more of a torch to Lake Como than anything else. It has floating palaces – featured in Bonds last official Fleming adventure, Octopussy – that lend a bizarre, but magical edge to its vista.

Its narrow sloping streets, doesn’t just cultivate traffic chaos, they also house gallery after gallery, artisan after artisan, showcasing the best of India’s art from modern, abstract takes on Krishna, to traditional colourful puppets a la Indian Punch and Judy

Blighted by homesickness on my arrival (overnight sleepers don’t do much for the soul), I went on to spend 2 happy days in Udaipur, leaving charged and invigorated to take on Mumbai.

But before I left, I managed to escape into the surrounding countryside on horseback. Led by a guide I cantered, trotted and galloped into isolation, only finding civilisation in a remote farming village.

The village’s children burst out of their houses in greeting us, running beside the horse, shouting excitedly ‘Namaste, Namaste’ (and getting the suitably inferior pronounced reply from me). This poor but welcoming place was surely the slice of real Indian life every traveler wants to see, peeling back the veneered surface of the omnipresent and  rather limited Incredible India marketing campaign, an insight into how the other half live…

…until my guide paid a handsome fee to their village leader. Had I been an unsuspecting player in a tightly choreographed performance? Were the village children trained in expressions of unhinged joy at the sight of the white man?

Maybe. But as the sun set, and tying our horse up behind Lotus Lake, in the middle of rolling countryside, as local kids jumped in and splashed around in the cool inviting water (not often ground water isn’t infested with rubbish), I’d much rather leave the cynic in Agra

‘It is very hard to see the real India you see,’ said Saurabh, a civil servant heading south for work. I had met him on my flight from Udaipur to Mumbai. I had cheated, I know – but just this once I had sought sky rather than track to get south to compensate for my delay in Delhi.

‘The government want you to see the good bits, but they hide everything that is wrong with this country.’

But surely things are improving? India’s the second fastest grow-

‘NO!’ He was a passionate man, ‘The money is going nowhere needed. Too much corruption. And even if you wanted to help, too much red tape, too much bureaucracy . You would give up. Look at Britain – you only have 2 parties going for government’ (felt it unwise to interrupt), ‘that is good, that is simple. In India, we have so many parties, too many voices – in the last election, there was one coalition made up of 24 separate parties!’

Two dozen Cleggs and Camerons? That’s a scary prospect of smugness.

Saurabh maybe right, but he was also quite negative – a charge he leveled on himself. ‘I know I am very damning, but I still hope things will change, but slowly.’ He was an everyday, middle class Indian, wonderfully caring, extremely passionate, angry of what he saw in his own country, but fiercely proud of where he was from.

Maybe in him, just maybe, I had found the a slice of the real India I had been looking for.

So then onto Bombay – the melting pot of Mumbai

The entrepreneurs playground.

Without sounding like a adverts for Sharwoods, this really was a city that is defined by ‘East meets West’. With wide ‘ramblas’, grand Victorian architecture, modern bars and exclusive clubs, bustling street stalls selling vibrators, porn cards, and knock off DVD’s…

…the south of Mumbai is more Barcelona than Delhi.

Arriving mid-afternoon, I shared a taxi from the airport with Kerry and Libby from Glasgow. Its amazing how when you meet people on your travels, how quickly they become part of your adventure…

…and this initially unassuming pair were to play a big part in mine.

We met later for food, and being guided my our Lonely Planets proceeded to sit down in some of Mumbai’s most famed and recommended eating establishments. I say sit down, cos as soon as we saw the prices, we got up and walked out.

Then we bumped into Leopold.

This open plan café/bar in Mumbai’s teeming Colaba district, is world famous. Packed with Indians and Tourists alike, serving huge beer towers and simple, unfussy Indian dishes, it has a look, feel and welcome you would imagine to find in the heart of New Orleans. We drank, we laughed, we chatted…

…and when we thought time to go, we discovered it had an upstairs pub/club. And bugger me, if it isn’t Villa Chelsea on the telly!

Things are really looking up.

And as we continued our night we were truly blessed with the character s we were to meet there – the crazy dancing German Fritz, his sister Julia, Mongolian/Turkish Suha and mighty, mighty Zambia

They say one of the must do’s in Mumbai is dive headfirst into its nightlife – like nowhere else in India. I can safely say we ticked that box. 

When Leopolds called time at 1am, we were pointed to one of Mumbai’s most exclusive night spots Polly Esthers. After convincing the doorman to let me in wearing sandals, and after Fritz unbelievably paid all our extortionate entry fees, (‘I make a lot of money at home. Seriously a LOT of money’), we finished the night dancing among the young Indian wannabes and socialites, like friends who had known each other for years.

It was one of those truly random nights that you never forget – one that gathers it own momentum that you never want to control, allowing you to just glide through the night, absorbing the people and stories that lie in its wake.

Brilliant.

And as if to endorse the night, the next morning was met without an echo of a hangover.

So clear headed, myself, Libby and Kerry ticked a few more boxes on ‘The Mumbai Hitlist’ – visiting the Gateway to India, Elephanta Island and sampling the evening food stalls on Chowpatty beach, where we tucked into Bhatpuri, Pan Puri, Pulav, and Kulfi.

Udaipur to Mumbai – vastly different cities, vastly different experiences. And neither apparently the real India.

But as my 10 hour train trip awaits, again heading south, you realize just how big this country is. How can you put a finger on what is the real India when you’re faced with size on this scale?

Whether dancing with cosmopolitan kids from Mumbai, sipping whiskey with restaurant owners from Udaipur, listening to impassioned patriotic critiques from Civil servants to sharing stories over Chai with Sikh families on the train…

…perhaps the real India isn’t definable by one single thing, but in the sheer variety of its people and personalities, its sights, sounds and smells.

From the sacred Sikhism of the north, the powerhouse of Delhi, the mighty monuments of Utter Pradesh and Rajasthan, the metropolis of Mumbai…

…the differences are stark.

But underlined by one obvious, but telling fact.

Its ALL India. And its all very, very real.