The air was humid and there was this musty smell all over. I was working out in my head on how to get to the Westin Garden lest my batterries run flat. My luggage arrived promptly. That was a good start, I thought.
I loaded my luggage onto a trolley and walked hastingly through the crowd, careful to follow the "prepaid taxi" sign. I had read earlier in the day that that is the best way to reach your destination and to avoid being taken for an off-track ride. I passed a row of money changers who called out to me. I asked one of them where the ATM machines were and he said there was none. I had a suspicion that he was lying. This was proven right soon enough. The ATM machine was about 10m away from the money changing counters.
I paid for a taxi and was given directions to the exit. As I left the building through the exit, there was a big crowd of people lining the exit in a half circle. This was past midnight. I was taken by surprise by the thousand odd crowd. What were these locals doing here at this time?
Proud that I was street-smart enough to sign up for a prepaid taxi and avoided paying 30% commission to the money changer, I hopped into a taxi hopeful that within the hour, I will be lying on one of Westin's famed heavenly beds.
As it turned out, my elderly driver was unsure of where the hotel was. Ten minutes into our journey of muddy roads, he stopped to ask for directions. I was too tired to be scared or worried. So I kept my mind occupied by looking around, trying to soak in my first impressions of Mumbai. In fact, of India, as this was my first trip to this magnificent country.
There in the dark, I saw taxi drivers sitting and chatting. I watched many tuk-tuks drove by. I noticed that many had dents on their sides.
My taxi driver returned in a couple of minutes. He started the car and told me "no problem". Having no choice but to believe him, I kept quiet and smiled. I was sure he never saw that. Not that he needed assurance.
One can never missed the sound of honking on the streets of Mumbai. It starts the moment the first car gets on the road. I suspect even after the last car drives off the roads, echoes of honking can still be heard. It starts all over again the next day.
We drove for about 15 minutes on a highway before making a turn. It was during this that I was first exposed to the highway slums. At the turning was an open space with people living on it. There were women rocking their babies on make-shift bows using cloth tied to fences. The men were talking while sitting on empty oil drums. Children played with the garbage surrounding them. Some were sleeping on the floor next to dogs. I saw a few more of such squarters during the remaining of the ride. Although I was touched by their plight, I was not surprised. It was not hard to imagine that Malaysia, at some point in our recent past, still had squatters and slums. It was only when we took a turn from the slums of the highway into the Westin's driveway that my first shock came. The contrast of two different worlds was astonishing. That night, I looked out the window from my 23rd floor room and saw a line in the darkness, which separates these two worlds. I went to bed wondering how this city looks in the daylight.
