Mumbai & Elephanta Caves

I didn’t see the monkey running towards me until one of the locals waved me away. “She’s got a baby with her” he said, and then in a voice designed to prevent me from being bitten on my vacation added “she’s growling, you know.” Aforementioned monkey then glared at me sullenly, as if on cue.

Matt and I had just taken an hour ferry ride from Mumbai to the island of Elephanta, a prehistoric Lord of the Flies locale perfect for dumping dead bodies under the cover of night or filming next year’s series of Survivor. In my mind’s eye I could actually see Piggy being murdered in just this spot. *Shiver* At any rate, we were here to see the Elephanta Caves, a UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting Hindu sculptures including a 16 foot high monument featuring Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer. And yes, these 13th century caves are worth riding the herky-jerky toy train into the island’s foothills and then navigating the 130 steps. If you wish to avoid the climb, men will carry you in an enormous chair (sort of like a Jewish wedding except that the chair-holders aren't groomsmen who've been drinking all night, making this a safer bet) for the bargain price of $12.

After exploring Elephanta (carefully avoiding the food vendor’s “variety of seafood” kept cold on a quickly melting slab of ice), we jetted back across the harbor to Mumbai – eager for a bit of air conditioning and cold beer. Barely dodging an attack by a vicious eight-year old (who attempted to part Matt from his rupees) we hoofed it into the five star hotel, Taj Mahal Palace and Tower overlooking the harbor. Chic, slick, and swanky, the Taj is an oasis of calm in a city full of constant traffic, haggling salespeople and intense heat. Although Mumbai is an engaging city with a lot to offer it can be exhausting and we happily took refuge inside Masala Kraft, the hotel’s Indian restaurant, where we dined on olive chili and garlic naan, curried chicken, smoky lamb that fell right off the bone and crispy potato cakes.

Cochin, India

“Sometimes when you shake your head ‘no’ from side to side, it actually means ‘yes’ in our culture” says our guide. “It depends on your facial expression.” Now he tells us. For the past two hours I have been smiling and wildly shaking my head “no” at aggressive street peddlers pushing their wares at me with a ferocity second only to that of a cartel of Columbian coke dealers. Ironically, the body language that was intended to deter these budding entrepreneurs from following me paparrazi-like through the streets has instead drawn them towards me in a frenzy resembling something like a circle of hungry sharks surrounding a wounded seal. And so it is here that I have my first lesson in cultural relativism.

Nonetheless, Cochin is a charming little city located on the Kerala coast. With a Portuguese church, Dutch palace, Chinese-style fishing nets and a Jewish Quarter it has retained much of its cultural gumbo, a direct result of its role as a seaport throughout history. We see them all – the Church of St. Francis where Vasco da Gama was originally buried, Mattancherry and Paradesi Synagogue whose floors are paved with hand painted Chinese tiles. We creep about the temple in our stocking feet as the 16th century tiles are too delicate to handle the wear and tear of shoes. Located on Jew Street in the Jewtown section of the city, our guide assures us that this naming isn’t meant in a derogatory way. But perhaps the most interesting sight is that of the muscled fishermen using a system of weighted levers and pulleys to operate the Chinese fishing nets and we watch in awe as they pull in a multitude of prawn, tigerfish and more.

Cochin has much to offer in the way of historical sights, but it also boasts some lovely resorts and cultural pursuits. At the Taj Malabar Hotel we gobble down an Indian feast – naan, lentils, palak paneer, curried veggies and cold Kingfisher beer under a tent on the great lawn, facing the sea. We kick back and watch Kathakali dancers perform, using only body and eye movements to convey their stories – a truly impressive group of actors sharing their traditions with us – what a lovely way to finish our afternoon in Cochin.

Mamallapuram, India

Upon entering Mamallapuram, you are leaving behind the modern world. It takes us nearly two hours to make the 30 mile drive from the city of Chennai to this fishing village situated on the Bay of Bengal as driving is an exercise in frustration. Passing thatched huts and one-story houses, clouds of dust swirl into the air as honking buses dodge a series of barefoot pedestrians, rambling cows and skinny goats munching on roadside debris. Black flies flit in and out of the bus windows, undeterred by the heat. It is here that stone monuments from the 7th and 8th centuries sit beside tin-roofed stores and homes, a place where wide-eyed children run barefoot alongside tourists, making the international sign for food by placing their skinny hands to lips, their mothers verbally encouraging them from several yards away. A man walking on all fours begs for change near the monuments drawing little reaction from the locals. The abject poverty, lack of good sanitation and medical care is upsetting, and I wonder what the government is doing, if anything, for these people who geographically are so close to one of the largest cities in India, yet so removed from the opportunities and modernity just miles away. Yet there is still beauty here – the landscape is filled with women wearing sherbert colored saris – the lemon yellows, tangerine oranges and blue-tinged berry cottons and silks glimmering through the heat, their long black hair in braids. Men lounge about in lungis, selling leather sandals, carvings and small bongo drums, easily chatting with each other and the tourists that pass by. At Arjuna’s Penance, a stone panel measuring 90-feet in length, life-sized carvings of Arjuna and Krishna tower over those who have come to see these wonders. Pancha Rathas is perhaps even more impressive, with its enormous intricate temples and giant animals carved from single sandstone boulders. To be in the presence of art thousands of years old is to be humbled by your place in the world and staring at these models I feel as a grain of sand might on an enormous beach, an insignificant speck in the story of the world.