Day Twenty One

Stepping into the Udaipur airport, I leave the old world behind. Gone are the dusty roads, open sewers and sweatered goats. Once you get off the surface streets, transportation in India is rather efficient. From the trains to the planes, they have a clear system for herding people from one place to another. It’s not the same as ours and involves more papers and lots of luggage tags that get stamped here and there. But it works, and it’s orderly. After so long on cars and busses, it’s shocking that I can cross the country and land in Bombay in an hour.

I only have an hour layover on my way to Goa, but the view into the city alone is worth the flight. Coming in for landing we skim the surface of the world and pass within shouting distance of the largest slum I’ve ever seen. It’s not surprising considering how few I’ve seen, but when I got to know Bawana, I thought they’d be the same all over India. They’re not the same. Bawana was set on an ordered grid of streets, with each shack on it’s little plot. This is an explosion of tiny homes, built from repurposed wood and cardboard, pressed together over every inch of space between towering apartment and office buildings. There is no grid. The roofs of the houses overlap as scales on a snake, coiling this way and that into every vacant corner of the city. Granted, this is land near the airport, but it’s still an awesome sight to behold. There are no roads or paths visible from the sky. Everything’s land-locked, penned in, immobile. There must be passageways under the rooftops, but if we can’t see them, then they’re cast in permanent shadows. Likely hidden from the heat, but also the world outside.

When they say India is the land of contrast, they’re usually talking about the rift in wealth between the upper and lower classes. But it’s a broad country and landing in Goa, I see the notion of contrast applies to many other things. The land here is tropical. I regret having used the word ‘lush’ to describe anything in Rajasthan as this makes even the most manicured park there look like a barren dustbowl. There is a density of palm trees that makes me feel like I’m in the Caribbean. The drive to my hotel is along small roads between rolling hills. A former Portuguese colony, Goa is full of old churches and Spanish-style tile roofs. The windows are open and the warm, wet breeze clings to me. I realize I’ve been dusty for three weeks.

The hotel is lovely, but again I’m surrounded by newlyweds and families. A few retirees thrown in for good measure. I walk up the beach and browse some small shops setup in shacks. Fishing boats line the shore, grounded for the night, full of nets and tackle. The sun sets over the water, just as it’s rising in New York. I realize it’s me that’s setting, not the sun. I eat alone at the beach, with only my lobster and giant prawn for company. I think I enjoy it more than they do. I will be happy here for a few days, but I ache for home. I change my flight and cut my stay short. They don’t have to be, but the hotel is amazingly nice about it. I fly in a few days and my new flight gives me nine hours to explore Bombay. A few small changes cast the past in a different light.