Nautica Impressions HKG to ATH

[Wendy The Wanderer]

Jack, thanks so much, I'm really enjoying your postings. I'm a Regent fan who hopes to try Oceania some day, probably in a Concierge level balcony cabin. You've certainly painted a very positive picture.

[china addict]

Jack, you are a great raconteur and I relish every word you write. The tale of the missing laundry tokens and drama over the washers and dryers made me laugh out loud. Actually, when I was on the Nautica last summer the laundry room was one of the best places to hang out. We had chardonnay in there and great fun modeling weird garments discovered in the "lost and found" basket. DH wondered why I knew so many people on board and I told him we had bonded over our laundry. I am so glad you are enjoying these precious days with your parents and am praying for Ty's good health. Please please please start a new thread when you are back home and let us know how he is doing.

[merryecho]

RE: the infamous Oceania laundry problem. A simple solution would be to have a sign up sheet, where you could put your name down for x amount of time for laundry and x for dryers after that. It seems crazy to have to keep running to the laundry to see if a machine is free- it would be so much easier to know that at 5:00 a machine is yours for the time needed to do a load.

[Aussie Gal]

Jack,

 

Another hilarious episode! We are thinking of you and Tye down here and are hoping for a good report. Having been there (am a 6 year cancer survivor) I do know what you are both going through. It is not an easy time and I am glad that you will be home when you will be most needed.

 

I have one question to ask and that is about the Bridge lessons. We would love to learn but are complete novices. Do you think we would be eligible to sign up for the lessons. Secondly when are they held? Next April we hope to take the ship's excursion to Agra and the Taj Mahal so will be missing a couple of days. We also are thinking of doing the side trip to Angkor Wat. I would hate to miss out on lessons because we will be missing from the ship.

 

Keep up the good work. We were reading your post this morning at breakfast and it certainly made our day, especially the laundry episode.

 

Jennie

[ChatKat in Ca.]

Nautica's resident celebrity is a former child star from the age of black & white well-meaning family sitcoms—Lumpy from ‘Leave it to Beaver.’

 

Jack - I am throughly enjoying your posts. We are diehard RSSC Cruisers and will be on Nautica in June.

 

Your Lumpy posts have me grinning from ear to ear. When we were kids, Frank lived in my neighborhood (On Guthrie Street) and was the idol of a bunch of us. We routinely would go and knock on his door to say hi. He later moved to Cadillac Avenue and we still continued to knock on his door to say hi. He was always very kind to us little brats. please tell him that we fondly remember him. His dad worked as a butcher, if I recall correctly.

[lahore]

Hey Jack, what a great post. Our last Nautica cruise was for two weeks and the laundry room could get quite nasty then, so I will come prepared this time - with a different attitude I expect and a preparedness to spend more on getting it done for me. It's astounding that someone even thought of buying up all the laundry tokens - how gross can people get???

 

Good move FDR - Jack deserves it if anyone does!

[JackfromWA]

FIRST, A FEW RESPONSES:

 

CRUISINGSERENITY, Like most of us I doubt my writing ability and your encouragement is overwhelming. I believe most of us have a story to tell—I love the expression the greatest stories of man or woman’s good nature are buried each day in the obituaries—but few of us make, or even ever have the luxury of time to tell our stories. On a 35-day journey with eighteen sea days I unexpectedly discovered the luxury of time needed to share a little of my story with you. I am glad you like it—it warms my heart. Thanks for reading.

 

FDR, I envy your initials! Thank you for your unabashed encouragement, well wishes and generous offer of free internet access. I am sure other readers are as impressed as I am that you pay attention to such small details as our little cruise forum, then again it is the attention Oceania gives small details that makes cruising on Nautica so pleasant. You and your partners have built a well-oiled machine and the time you spent replying has cemented my already growing loyalty to your cruise line (not that I needed it, as any reader knows I am experiencing a fantastic once-in-a-lifetime trip with my parents). I have carefully budgeted my internet package and as of mid-cruise yesterday I had used exactly half—590 minutes are remaining. While part of me wants to exploit this unexpected opportunity and download the last three episodes of ‘24’ from itunes, the mature and grateful aspect of my nature simply thanks you for your kind and generous gesture. I will continue my pattern of writing offline and going online to post. If I run out of my package before Athens, I’ll take you up on your offer. Like most of us, I am totally excited to experience your new ships and new cruising innovations (after a few shakedown cruises of course) when they come online. Can’t wait to see what you have in store for us and wish you all the best for your future well-deserved success.

 

LHT28, I couldn’t agree with you more. Most of the passengers are down to earth, friendly people. There is little snobbery or elite sense of entitlement obvious on this cruise and I love it. I haven’t mentioned it yet but I think the “country club casual never formal” dress code contributes to the relaxed atmosphere—what do you think? You have much more experience on Oceania than I do.

 

TWIGA, thanks for posting. You will have a great time. Please feel free to contact me (or Jan—she seems to be a wealth of knowledge and posts regularly) if I can help answer any questions before your trip next September.

 

WENDY, like you I love Regent. Overall, considering the value, I like Oceania better. Can’t wait to here what you think when you try it.

 

AUSSIE GAL, No worries! Bridge lessons are only held on sea days, so you won’t miss any classes if you take the trip to Agra or the side trip to Angkor Wat. Everyone I have spoken to that did the Taj Mahal last year enthusiastically recommends it. I would have loved to go but two things stopped me: finances and wanting to see it first with Ty. I hope you are lucky enough to have Jean Joseph as your instructor. I have overheard several classmates comment she is the highlight of their cruise. Make sure you try to attend every beginning class on sea days (on our cruise they last one hour and are always as 11 a.m.) as the instruction is sequential and it might be hard to catch up. I believe after 18 lessons I will at least know enough to sit at a table without completely embarrassing myself.

 

CHATKAY, I will pass your well wishes on to Frank aka Lumpy. I am going to wait till the last few days, as I would rather have him read my description of our time together after he gets home! Every store needs a villain and Frank is an easy target. All in all I am sure he is probably a kind man with a big heart—his wife is very nice—he is just a “loud” personality. Around Frank I get the feeling it is Frank’s world and I just live in it.

 

LAHORE, my suggestion laundry for is just send it out and do something other than the laundry room on your holiday. These ships don’t have the self-serve laundry facilities for extended cruises. Hope you have a wonderful trip. Wish I were able to come with you and I look forward to reading your impressions.

 

GOA (our first day in India… ever)

 

We arrived at the port shortly after 8:00 a.m. My cabin is on the port side and I believe this was only the second time my window faced the dock when Nautica berthed. As most of you know, Goa is hot and humid. Since I carry a few extra pounds I suffer from chafing between my thighs in hot, humid climates. I learned this a few years ago after a trip with my brother Jeff and his family to Disney World over spring break (nothing like Orlando for hot and humid). In hot, humid climates the chafing can become very painful—especially when walking from one end of Epcot Park to the other. Since then I have brought baby powder along to minimize my discomfort on trips to warm climates.

 

In Hong Kong I went to a drugstore called Watson’s to purchase a little more powder than I had brought from home. The heat and humidity were incredible there and I didn’t want to risk running out further along the trip. While I quickly saw Johnson & Johnson baby powder, near it on the same shelf was something new—St. Luke’s Prickly Heat Powder. The label promised the powder to be “cooling, refreshing and soothing,” as well as “effective in relieving itching and discomfort from prickly heat.” It was packaged in a compact British appearing white tin adorned with ubiquitous-in-China red roses. It seemed to be exactly what I needed, and since it was recommended to “apply three to four times daily” it appeared to be perfectly benign. The only hint of trouble was a warning that St. Luke’s Prickly Heat Powder is “not suitable for infant and children under 2 years.” Since I was neither, and it was cheap, I bought the tin.

 

This morning I noticed my supply of baby powder was low, the temperature in Goa was supposed to exceed 90F; it was quite humid, so I decided it was time to open the Prickly Heat Powder. When I removed the lid I immediately noticed it had an odd orangish rust tint and a strong medicinal odor but otherwise seemed normal.

 

My second cabin attendant, Aleksandra, is a sweet young woman from the Czech Republic. My first cabin attendant, Marilana, ended her contract in Singapore, so I have only had the new attendant for one week. When applying baby powder to my inner thighs on the first few days of the cruise, in the small bathroom of my cabin, I noticed I had left too much powder on the bathroom floor. In addition to wasting it, I was making quite a mess for Marilana. So I figured a new way to apply it—immediately following my morning shower I draped my semi-damp towel on the bed, sat down, leaned my head and torso back and lifted my legs high. Then I happily, and successfully sprinkled away. If the image of a 270 lb, forty-four year old man assuming a position normally used for changing diapers is too much for you, I can only say that I wished I hadn’t accidentally glimpsed myself in the 8 foot by 5 foot mirror inconveniently located on the wall—mirrors in awkward places at awkward times can furnish far too much information—at the foot of my cabin’s bed (I learned to look away and I would never allow Ty to see me like this—some things are best done in solitude). Fortunately the position worked very well, I neatly captured the excess powder in my damp towel, and when I finished I rolled up my towel in a neat little ball and placed it under the lower ledge on the bathroom floor. I have repeated this little ritual most mornings and my inner thighs have been very comfortable in the “prickly heat.”

 

Today I lay down, assumed my powder application position and shook the new Prickly Heat Powder loose from the tin. The new powder didn’t sprinkle the way my baby powder did, the size and spacing of the holes is different on the lid, so I kept shaking it to make sure I got enough applied. Like too much salt pouring from a shaker, far too much Prickly Heat Powder quickly escaped from the can. Aleksandra is going to have a bit of a mess on her hands, I thought. Then something hit me. OUCH! THAT BURNS! From the very personal area located below (if your legs are up in the air) my inner thighs I felt a painful, growing burning sensation. As it grew more intense I yelped out in pain. I had powder all over me in a spot that Prickly Heat Powder was never meant to cover. Now I know why this stuff wasn’t recommended for young kids—if it fell where it wasn’t intended to they would scream and cry! It has a real kick to it and needs to be treated with caution. If medicated Gold Bond powder is a beer this stuff was a fifth of single malt scotch.

 

As my rear end continued to erupt in flames I looked out my window and noticed the line of tour buses for the passengers going to the Taj Mahal as well as the other shore excursions in Goa gradually drift in view of my open stateroom window. OH NO! —There were Indians waiting to greet us standing on the pier outside, and I was dancing around naked in my cabin attempting to splash water around my lower posterior to relieve my burning bum. I quickly slammed the curtains shut; I don’t think anyone saw me through the window. With my privacy restored I carefully finished rinsing the intensely strong Prickly Heat Powder from my bottom, and I bravely, necessarily, gingerly applied more Prickly Heat Powder after the burning subsided before disembarking; but I was as careful as a pastry chef sprinkling powdered sugar to decorate the Captain’s table desserts—I won’t ever sprinkle it willy-nilly from the can again. When traveling you never know what new things might happen, and this was an auspicious way to begin my first morning in India.

 

We climbed down the low-rising gangplank stairs and were quickly met by twenty or thirty cab drivers for hire. All drove different makes and models of white painted cars emblazoned with a similar red Tourist Vehicle logo. Dad and I made a plan to pay about 2,000 rupees ($80) to hire a driver from 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. We wanted to drive north of Goa to Anjuna’s famous Wednesday flea market and then drive through Old Goa and visit some of the beautiful old churches and see some examples of the Portuguese influenced architecture. A driver agreed to take us for our set-price of 2,000 rupees and we drifted away in a sea of jabbering, sweaty cabbies, not to certain which one was our driver.

 

“Here, get in this car. This is your car,” the man-who appeared-to-be-in-charge of all the other drivers said. Five or six other white-clad drivers pointed to the car, so we naively got in.

 

As we started to pull away I suddenly realized— “Is the car air conditioned?” I asked. It was very hot, getting hotter and every window was open.

 

“Oh no, that costs more,” our driver replied.

 

“Well we better stop. My mother suffers from heat exhaustion and we need a car with air conditioning,” I said. My mother suffers from nothing of the sort, both she and my father are in excellent shape, jog regularly and can easily out run me any day of the week, but she smiled and quickly acted as if she were unable to cope with the agony of a taxi without air-conditioning. The driver reluctantly stopped, we got out, I apologized profusely to him and the man-who appeared-to-be-in-charge came rushing over.

 

“We need a car with air conditioning,” I told him.

 

“OK, that will be a hundred US dollars,” he replied.

 

“No, that’s too much. I can’t pay more than $60.” Obviously my on-the-spot computation of US dollars to rupees was failing me as I was now offering to pay less than the 2,000 rupees or $80 my dad and I previously agreed to pay the other driver. There was some scowling and wringing of hands.

 

Suddenly a new face emerged and said, “You will pay $60?”

 

“Yes, I’ll pay $60.”

 

“OK, I will take you,” he said.

 

“Do you have air-conditioning?” I asked. The thought of three or more hours in a car without air conditioning wasn’t pleasant, even with my Prickly Heat Powder on.

 

“Yes, I have. You will be very comfortable.” And with that, off we went with our new driver, David. Apparently David isn’t one of the regulars working the pier. He had the proper documentation (everything in India seems to require documentation) to work on the pier, but the man-who appeared-to-be-in-charge came up to David’s window and started reading him the riot act. I will never know what, if any, protocols of pier taxi driver rules David violated, but I was glad to have him; his English was excellent and his demeanor was pleasant. Like so many Christians in Hindu or Buddhist countries, David had a picture of Jesus inscribed with a prayer attached to his driver-side window, and a two inch high wooden dome-covered cross affixed to the center of his dashboard.

 

I instructed David to take us to an ATM, we had no rupees, and I also informed him I needed to purchase a SIM card for my GSM phone. Even though Nautica added coverage for both GSM and CDMA US-based cell phones last week, and the $2.50 per minute charge is much better than the $9 per minute stateroom phone charge, I still wanted to talk to Ty, my sister, my brothers, my office and some other friends without anxiously watching the clock.

 

David efficiently whisked us to a Bank of India ATM—my dad’s card worked, mine didn’t— and to a mobile phone outlet. What in Vietnam was a thirty second SIM card purchase, in India was a thirty-minute lesson in patience, bureaucracy, and the inexplicable need for a passport photo to attach to my new India SIM card form. When I finally, politely, said I couldn’t wait another half hour to go to a photo store, located somewhere over a hill and around the corner where they would gladly accompany me to pay for a photo from some relative or accomplice, they miraculously found a way to issue the SIM card with a photocopy of the photocopy of my passport photo. I once spent thirty long, hot minutes purchasing a chocolate bar at the automobile entrance to Iguaçu Falls in either Paraguay or Brazil; this experience was eerily familiar. What is it that makes a society think they are modern and globally competitive because they have so much arcane, useless bureaucratic paperwork to pass around?

 

We headed north, functioning phone in tow, and started admiring the beautiful scenery along the roadside.

 

“I never knew there were so many Palm trees in India,” Mom said.

 

“It looks a lot like parts of Southern California doesn’t it?” I added.

 

The beautiful scenery was occasionally broken up with ramshackle homes, large piles of trash strewn along the roads edge, emaciated cows and King Fisher beer signs. It was wonderful. It felt like India—not the India I had imagined, prepared for or expected to see in Mumbai, but a coastal, unique pocket of the vast Indian continent.

 

Eventually we arrived at the market. There were no restrooms, so my mom suffered and my dad and I found a semi-secluded patch of grass, and we walked into the flea market.

 

Goa has a reputation for laid-back hippie beach life, trance music and raves. The Anjuna flea market originally emerged from that culture. Today it is a vast array of booths, temporarily set once a week in a hodge-podge layout along a sandy coastal bluff. The prices were outrageously cheap—a beautiful wood stained-green Krishna mask for $6, a heavy, elaborate hand-sewn multi-colored elephant wall hanging $26—but extensive bargaining was mandatory. My father quickly rose to the occasion and ninety minutes later our arms were full of colorful India mementos, and we only spent about $150 between us.

 

“You know Ray should have a white-elephant party on the last week of the cruise,” my dad said. “Almost everyone ends up with a few things they realize back in their cabin they don’t even want, but it was so cheap they just bought it anyway.”

 

“That would be fun, but there’d probably be lots of complaining from people who thought they received worse things then they gave,” I replied.

 

My dad pointed out that some purchases look much better back on the ship, viewed away from the market stalls and neighboring items, while others look far worse and less desirable when seen back under the staterooms lights. While I think Ray has enough to do without my dad and I making suggestions (Ray is everywhere and does everything), I agree a white-elephant party could be fun—certainly it would be good for a few belly laughs.

 

After a few hours the heat, dust and sales pressure grew overwhelming, I felt myself starting to get irritable and not only were our hands full, but we all are expecting to be overweight for our luggage restrictions on the British Air flight from Athens to London, so we returned to David’s air-conditioned car and headed back toward the ship.

 

Sensing my mom might need a restroom break, David said he would drop us off for ten minutes at a mall with western-style toilets along the drive back. We arrived at the mall— it looked more like an art gallery in San Diego’s Seaport Village—and walked in. David had mentioned the store was much more expensive than the flea market He was right. They were expensive, but they were also fine, elegant, beautiful and unique.

 

Everyone has traditions. As a little kid I loved watching my mom and dad observe their tradition of kissing each other on the lips every time we crossed any state-line, but especially on the bridge separating Portland, Oregon from Vancouver, Washington, while driving our station wagon, and as I’ve grown older, traditions I used to make fun of such as Dad reading the story of Jesus Christ’s birth out of Luke every Christmas Eve following dinner (I just wanted to move past all the religious stuff and get a few presents or eat more sugar), are now infrequently celebrated rituals I look forward to being a part of. When my niece, Victoria, is frustrated by how slowly Grandpa reads the Bible on Christmas Eve, I smile inside, and remember when I felt that way, and wish for her the joy I now take in listening to her Grandpa’s voice while our family celebrates the joy of being together for the holidays.

 

I have established a more secretive and personal tradition for myself. Whenever I visit a new region of the world I try to buy a souvenir that has intrinsic value, intense personal attraction, and can accompany me some day to a nursing home. I don’t particularly want to go to a nursing home, I know things get stolen there, they smell funny and aren’t the nicest places to live, but I may end up there because I don’t want to be a burden on my family—and in a nursing home, since I am paying to be there, I’ll feel entitled to be demanding. I want some things that can stay with me the entire journey of my life, that are well-crafted and solid, so that if I am lucky enough to live in good health long enough to someday get to a nursing home in bad health I can say, “I remember when I was in the Peruvian Andes and bought that beautiful Incan wall hanging—it was $750 dollars—back then that was a lot of money… can you find the six hidden Inca crosses in it? I’ll bet you can’t. Boy, was that a trip. We went to Maku Picky and hiked some Inca trail, it wasn’t too polluted back in 2006 but I bet it is today, you should go there but if you do it sure is hard to breathe in Cuzco and don’t drink tap water, you need to buy bottled water, did you know it is over 13,000 feet…” and other such nonsensical remarks sure to annoy the overly worked nursing home staff, but sure to bring favorite memories home to me. If I am a little forgetful and frequently repeat the same lines, stories and jokes, all the better—I’ve heard my share from old relatives and others I love, so someday it will by my turn to return the favor to my children, siblings, nieces, nephews, Ty and the poor nursing home staff.

 

Today I found my lifetime souvenir for India—a pair of 40 oz. each sterling silver intricately carved Indian Elephants. I instantly fell in love with them. I also purchased the nicest carved sandalwood Krishna I’ve ever seen. My parents fell in love with an exquisite silk Indian rug. After lots of negotiations, significant (but not significant enough) price reductions, we left with a large silk rug for my parents (shipped directly home via DHL included in the price), two silver elephants and a Krishna for me, and an exquisite jeweled wall hanging for Ty.

 

“David, we just had the most expensive bathroom break of our lives,” I laughed. I have never spent this much spontaneous money with my parents, rarely by myself or with Ty, but it just felt right to all of us. The treasures we found are all heirloom pieces we’ll keep the rest of our lives, and decades from now I hope to gaze at my silver elephants and fondly recall the first wonderful day my mom, dad and I set foot in India.

 

Time escaped us. We couldn’t get to all the sites we wanted to visit, but we didn’t care. We had a great day. Fortunately we managed to stop at the Basilica of Bom Jesus where the sacred relics of Saint Francis Xavier lie. I snapped lots of pictures. A few miles from the ship we saw two cows scavenging like stray dogs in a trash dumpster, right alongside the main highway from Goa to Mumbai. I asked David to stop and took a few pictures of that unusual sight, and far too quickly we arrived back at Nautica.

 

We stopped at the security gate to enter the pier and the guard asked for our pink pier passes issued by the Goa police. My dad suddenly exclaimed, “I don’t know where my pass is. I think I folded it in half in one of these pockets.” He had two backpack and too many pockets to search while restrained in the front passengers seat. My mom handed David her unwrinkled pass to show the guard. David returned it to her and I handed my tattered, sweaty pass to David. The guard hardly glanced at it and David returned it to me.

 

After my experience with the SIM card purchase I knew this was a country enamored with forms and paperwork. I didn’t want another bureaucratic boondoggle and an idea quickly occurred to me. “Here’s your pass dad. I have it right here,” I said as I handed my mom’s pass, pretending it was my dad’s pass, over the front seat to David to show the disinterested pier guard. The guard gave my mom’s pass a superficial cursory glance, accepted it as my dad’s security pass and waved us through the gate.

 

“My pass had a fold in it,” my dad muttered. Still trying to take in what had just transpired at the security gate.

 

“Shh Pete, keep quiet,” my mom whispered.

 

It’s hard to successfully practice deceit when your parental accomplices are inexperienced and honest, but I got away with it with no regrets, and derived a great feeling of accomplishment—nothing like fooling the cops on a meaningless bureaucratic matter for a pleasant endorphin rush.

 

David was such a pleasant man, considerate guide and safe, cautious driver that I gave him $100 (cash flowed like water today) and told him to keep the change—even though the poverty in Goa was nothing like what I am afraid I’ll find in Mumbai tomorrow, being in India makes me so grateful for the material blessings I take for granted that I want to share what I have in some small way—and we bid David goodbye.

 

The ship is quiet tonight. One hundred-twenty passengers have departed for two nights to the Taj Mahal. Wolfgang, the Executive Chef, planned an Indian dinner in Tapas ont the Terrace tonight. It was unbelievably delicious—maybe our favorite meal on the ship yet. After dinner I walked out on the softly lit pool deck, felt the warm Indian air brush my sun burnt ears and neck as the ship sailed toward Mumbai, and enjoyed the sight of mostly old, long-married couples curled up in Balinese daybeds together, watching a movie projected on a small outdoor screen under the humid, pitch-black sky. It was a good day. The kind of day it would be good to live over-and-over again. The kind of day you remember, and savor, long after it’s passed. Being with two of the people I love most in the world, setting foot for the first time in a new country together, each of us finding beautiful treasures to take home and enjoy for a life time and indulging and tasting the exotic flavors of Indian food exquisitely prepared…. we even had time to help our team take second place in trivia again as the ship left port. These are the best times—the times you remember long after they are gone. The times made possible by sharing 35-days at sea with someone you love. Cruise ships are a palette replete with brushes, paints and canvas. We passengers are the artists and whether I choose to paint an old-world masterpiece or finger paint is perfectly fine—as long as my brush strokes, color and subject make me happy—as long as what I paint is true to me. Oceania is a wonderful starting point because they provide everything imaginable to create art—but you still have to paint your world yourself.

 

Thanks everyone for staying with me. Tomorrow Bombay. Thanks for reading and have a great day.

[LHT28]

FIRST, A FEW RESPONSES:

 

LHT28, I couldn’t agree with you more. Most of the passengers are down to earth, friendly people. There is little snobbery or elite sense of entitlement obvious on this cruise and I love it. I haven’t mentioned it yet but I think the “country club casual never formal” dress code contributes to the relaxed atmosphere—what do you think? You have much more experience on Oceania than I do.

 

 

I do not think the lack of formal dress is the reason ...NCL has no formal nights but passengers are certainly more well travelled and polite on Oceania. ;)

 

I would also like to commend you on your writing.

I have enjoyed your Lumpy stories and of course the Prickly powder...I can just immagine your cabin dance!!! :D:D

 

We love Oceania for the small ships & their smoking policy and all the other things they do so well.

The crew is so genuinely friendly.

 

Looking forward to your next instalment!

 

Lyn

[zu zu's petals]

Ok, it's time for me to come clean....I too have been a "lurker". Others have said it before, but Jack, your amazing prose profoundly touches me. You have that uncanny ability to transport your readers to whatever scenario you describe. I look so forward to your postings! Thank you for taking the time to share your experiences.

We will be embarking on our first cruise ever (Insignia Rome-Athens) in about 5 weeks time. Whilst looking for sage advice from experienced cruisers, I luckily stumbled upon your posts. Can't wait to hear of your time in Cairo (we're going there as well). I'm certain once you've described the pyramids/Sphinx, people of Egypt, etc my anticipation of seeing them for myself will reach fever pitch.

Looking soooo forward to the next installment!

[scdreamer]

Ah, Jack ... you had me laughing so hard milk came out my nose at your desperate talcum powder escapade, and then just a few minutes later I was sighing over your description of painting our world.

 

I have always taken mental "snapshots" of my own special times, just to be able to figuratively pull them out when life takes a turn or I just need a lift.

 

I am afraid we are becoming used to finding your wonderful journal on a regular schedule - maybe we will all have to take up a collection to send you on another exotic soujorn so we will be kept in reading material!

 

Thank you so much for your posts!

 

Leslie & Wayne

[meow!]

Whenever I visit a new region of the world I try to buy a souvenir that has intrinsic value, intense personal attraction, and can accompany me some day to a nursing home. I don’t particularly want to go to a nursing home, I know things get stolen there, they smell funny and aren’t the nicest places to live, but I may end up there because I don’t want to be a burden on my family—and in a nursing home, since I am paying to be there, I’ll feel entitled to be demanding. .

That is very altruistic of you. However, from what we know, nursing home rooms are very small, and just one room with a small kitchenette and bathroom, and that is if you are lucky enough to get your own room -- hardly enough to store the accumulated souvenirs of a lifetime. In many cases, there are many beds (people) in one common room!

 

A more practical question. Usually, when we are on a long trip, to lessen our load on our way home, we often mail back parcels from the various cities we visit on land. (Now often we just mail a local postcard to ourselves from each city, this is the best, cheapest, lightest and most memorable souvenir of all). As you are on a long cruise, and don't have the time to go to post offices, do you ask the ship concierge to mail back parcels of souvenirs for you, or do you intend to haul it on to Athens and mail it there? If you have to take all the goods back on the plane yourself, together with your other luggage, won't that be quite a burden?

[Emdee]

Jack, your posts are an absolute delight. I cannot wait for the next instalment about Bombay - the city of my birth!

 

I have to wait until next March to take my Beijing to Hong Kong cruise on Oceania but I cannot wait.

 

Happy travels!

 

Miriam

[JackfromWA]

I sort of over did it after my Goa post. I was so stimulated by the day I couldn’t sleep—Horizon Lounge is strangely empty at 2:30 a.m. and Nautica is a wonderful place to have insomnia—I went to bed sometime about 3 a.m.

 

Unfortunately for my sleeping pattern last night, today is not a sea day. In fact today every passenger must appear in person for India Immigration between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m. in the Nautica lounge. So after only four hours sleep I had to get up—at least I am enjoying a cappuccino and some not-too-bad orange juice in my stateroom. Not a great way to start Mumbai, but it will still be a great day.

 

I am taking the Elephanta Cave excursion from the ship the morning and after that I splurged with Starwood Points and booked two rooms at the ITC Grand Sheraton Central. We will go to bed tonight, and wake up tomorrow, in the heart of Bombay. So if I don’t post for a few days, I am touring, sleeping and vacationing. I am sure I’ll have lots of time to catch up over the two sea days between here and Salalah.

 

CHINA ADDICT, I overlooked your post yesterday. Don’t know how it happened… sorry about that. My mom has had similar experiences to you and met several nice people in the laundry room, especially while ironing. I guess besides all the chaos, it is a good place to meet friends and bond. Thank you for your kind words for Ty and your compliments and encouragement to keep writing.

[Aussie Gal]

Jack,

 

I just loved reading your post from Goa. It is always special to be able to take home something that you love from a country. We have done that many times, and most of the pieces are very small but do bring back wonderful memories.

 

Enjoy your night away from the ship and we look forward to hearing about all your exploits in bustling Mumbai in a couple of days time.

 

Jennie

[lahore]

Oh, very very funny Jack. As SOON as I read "St Lukes" I swear it I knew what you were going to say. Suffering from the same problem as you, and having lived in Singapore and Malaysia for years I do exactly the same thing. I am a woman and can assure you that the pain is excruciating :o . Nevertheless, a tinnie of St Lukes is the first thing I get out of my bag (or buy, depending on if I have any left over) whenever I return to my second homes. It works so well, it's utterly brilliant stuff. Don't worry, although it feels like hydrochloric acid that first time, it won't do you any long-term harm. Actually I think it's the shock the first time, and the worry that it might cause permanent damage - after a while you just expect that tingling, cooling pain (sounds like I have actually come to enjoy it ;) ) and it doesn't worry you so much - although I am careful not to bucket it on. I am just so totally beside myself that you had the same experience and actually posted about it.

 

I adored your post and just can't wait to get to India myself. Although I have lived with Indian people and am most at home in the Indian sector of Singapore I have never got to actual India. I must have read hundreds (literally) of books about the place but the one time we were booked, visa'd-up and ready to go I got as far as Hong Kong and got as sick as a dog and had to come home. Karma - I wasn't meant to get there that time. I just hope Lord Ganesh facilitates the return attempt. Keep enjoying. I am looking forward to hearing about Mumbai. Maybe we will see you in a Bollywood movie.

[meow!]

... the one time we were booked, visa'd-up and ready to go I got as far as Hong Kong and got as sick as a dog and had to come home.

Were you seasick or did you eat something wrong in Hong Kong? Just curious.

[merryecho]

Ok, a small world story. While reading your Goa post I was sitting on the deck of my floating home looking at your parent's "kissing bridge" over the Columbia river.

Hope you have recovered from your prickly heat treatment, although it did have the silver lining of adding another hilarious episode to the Jack Journal.

[Toranut97]

Another lurker/Jackblog addict here! I am thoroughly enjoying your posts, and am traveling vicariously with you. What a dynamite trip!

 

Also am enjoying the sweet memories of our Nautica trip from Istanbul to Athens last year. We are utterly sold on O now! Hoping we can swing Athens to Rome in November of this year for our 20th anniversary.

 

I am praying for you and Ty. Hope all the tests come out benign, benign, benign!

 

Have fun and .. um... keep on sprinkling!

 

Donna

[lahore]

I don't know Meow (although i wasn't seasick as we flew to HK) - possibly I ate something, but it happened so quickly after I got to Hong Kong it's equally possible I took it with me. It was one of those things that happen when we travel...they aren't all good huh, and we just have to take the good with the bad. I just pray my next try at India is more successful (fingers crossed).

[JackfromWA]

A FEW RESPONSES:

 

Zu Zu’s Petals (what a delightful name!) I am sure you will have a great time—before you know it five weeks will pass and you’ll be on Insignia. Hope you have as good a trip as I’ve had on Nautica.

 

SCDreamer, thank you for the inspiring note to keep up this memoir of 35-days on Nautica in so many new places. I wish I could meet all you great people who post here! We would make an amazing group of friendly, well-traveled passengers if we could take a cruise together.

 

Meow!, I can relate to sending postcards. I collect less and less as there is less and less space at home—I limit myself mostly to the “good stuff.” On a trip this long I knew I was bound to find some memorable souvenirs to take home, American Airlines allows 70lbs (you have to pay $25 extra per bag over $50lbs) per bag, and I have two bags. Coming over they weighed 90lbs combined, but about 10lbs was travel books that I will leave onboard. I should have about 60lbs available, and if I need it I can purchase carriage for a third bag for $80. I think that is less expensive than using the concierge to ship items home, but I know Robert, Nautica’s delightful concierge is happy to arrange services like that for guests who need it. My brother Jeff and his family are moving to Athens for three years in August, both my parents and I have lamented he isn’t here when we disembark for the final time on May 5th so we could burden him with all our extra stuff! My parents did have their carpet shipped from Goa via DHL and that is the only heavy piece (so far). Plenty of shopping days and new countries remain so who knows how we’ll ultimately cope.

 

Emdee, have fun next year on your trip. I wish we could have done that this year. A few passengers aboard took the China cruise immediately prior to this one.

 

Toranut97, Thanks for the well wishes for a benign result. This morning I spoke to Ty through a computer video chat. He is doing well and both of us appreciate all the positive thoughts and prayers coming in our direction. Thanks for the kind words and encouragement to devote a few hours each day to sharing my journey. It has become as much a part of my vacation as trivia, Bridge and eating.

 

MUMBAI

 

Our day in Mumbai started in the Nautica lounge where every passenger had to participate in a face-to-face inspection with Indian immigration. The timing was inconvenient (8 a.m.), but at least it was on the ship and only took a few minutes. After the inspection our Police Certificates were endorsed which we needed to exit the Indira Dock.

 

My parents and I purchased a ship shore excursion to Elephanta cave. I wanted to use the security of Oceania’s shore excursions to get the lay of the land. I knew Mumbai was fundamentally different than any city I’ve ever visited, and I was afraid to just walk out of the secure pier area into the sea of aging black and yellow taxis hovering at the gate.

 

We easily boarded our bus and drove out the gate. I don’t recommend experiencing high, too-close-together speed bumps on a 40-passenger tour bus! As we pulled away from the security gate at the end of the pier I looked down at the cabbies, self-appointed city guides, beggars, postcard and peacock-feather fan merchants clustered at the exit. I caught a hawker’s eye and it was clear from his disappointed and slightly angry expression that in his opinion we should be forced to run his gauntlet in order to enter Mumbai. I think he thought a tall, air-conditioned tour bus whisking affluent, well-fed passengers from the pier to tourist attractions qualifies as cheating. He may be right—part of the reason I paid the ship for something I thought I could do less expensively on my own was to circumvent being hassled by various vendors I inevitably find clustered at port exits.

 

Our guide started talking about India, her microphone didn’t work well, I found her thick Indian accent difficult to understand, and I was too enthralled by the view flashing outside my bus window, so I put on my ipod shuffle and hit play. “Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future,” Steve Miller sang as I enjoyed listening to ‘Fly Like An Eagle’ instead of the guide (who still couldn’t get her microphone to work). I love my ipod shuffle. It is the size of a matchbook and weighs practically nothing. I load several hundred eclectic, favorite songs, everything from The Who to Peer Gynt, and set it to randomly select. The ipod chooses the order of the soundtrack for my day. I can’t wait to wear it in Egypt and Petra. It also cuts down on the number of vendors haranguing me, as most of my fellow travelers don’t have earphones on.

 

Outside the window passed large stone buildings, women regally walking the streets wrapped in colorful sequined saris, pairs of men heaving and pulling long blue carts laden with everything from auto transmissions to dozens of cardboard boxes, western clad businessmen crossing the road—appearing to me as brave as Moses crossing the Red Sea—and a myriad of merchants, children, traffic directing policeman and taxi cabs, humming with activity as far as the eye could see. Our drive from the ship to the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gate of India lasted about fifteen minutes. Our guide warned us not to stop for shopping and to stay with the group as we exited the bus. She held up our Oceania number eleven sign high—the crew call the signs lollypops— and we followed her past the arched Gate of India, through hordes of merchants, beggars and tourist police toward our waiting ferry.

 

As I walked down the stone steps to the ferry I was glad I booked this excursion through the ship. Most ferries to Elephanta Island were crowded with over a hundred people. Crowded in India isn’t like crowded in the United States. There are so many people here that no space for transport is wasted. A crowded ferry in India would be extremely uncomfortable by US standards, and I would be hyper-vigilant for pickpockets and scams—I could never leave my camera bag unattended. On our reserved ferry we had less than 40 passengers, all of whom were fellow passengers on Nautica; we were comfortable and our belongings were safe.

 

As the ferry left the terminal at the Gate of India, I carefully climbed a ladder to the upper deck. I was rewarded with fantastic pictures of the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gate of India from our unique vantage point. Several other brave passengers, including my mother, joined me and we took photos of each other standing on the stern with a view of the Mumbai cityscape in the background. My mom has started practicing digital photography. I was proud of her as she snapped away like an seasoned pro. One of the great advantages of taking a few shore excursions with the ship, even if you are like me and enjoy more independent travel (I like to be able to roll down the window or stop and take photos at will) is the opportunity to befriend my fellow passengers. Since we are spending over a month together on the Nautica it is nice to strike up conversations and form casual friendships with my fellow travelers. For me there is a fine line—I am here to spend time with my parents, and I don’t want to waste our precious time together on forming too many new, passing acquaintanceships—but I also enjoy becoming familiar and friendly with some of my exciting and diverse fellow guests. By the time our hour on the ferry together had passed it seemed almost everyone knew someone else a little better than they did before our daytrip together began.

 

As Elephanta Island came into view my mom asked, “Is that it you think?”

 

“Yep, I can see King Kong’s head,” I replied. It looked a little foreboding, like an island King Kong might live on. It seemed strangely uninhabited after our brief, protected view of Mumbai. We departed the ferry, boarded a small amusement-park style train and rode about half a mile to the entrance gate. The guide advised us there were over a hundred stone steps and long terraces to climb to reach the caves, and we could pay 500 rupees ($20) to be carried up the stairs on a sedan chair. Though this appealed to me—on a visit a few years ago to Bavaria I hired a horse drawn carriage to bring my nieces and nephew and I, warmly wrapped in wool blankets, up the steep hill to Neueschwanstein castle, as my brother and his wife hiked up while watching me corrupt their happy-to-be-corrupted children—everyone else in our group chose to hike up the steps, and though part of me wanted to experience the thrill of going up the hill, lifted by four strong attendants like the Queen of Sheba, I let my visions of royalty dissipate and began my hike. Although it wasn’t that far, being out of shape, overweight and prone to physical laziness, the further I hiked, the better the sedan chair sounded. It didn’t help that on both sides of the ascending stair cases there were merchants loudly exhorting me to buy their wares. As a heavy, profusely sweating tourist I must have appeared a likely sedan chair prospect. Every time I saw a group of men carrying an empty chair down, their eyes lit up as they saw me approach them, sweating, huffing and puffing up the hill and they excitedly asked, “Sir, would you like a ride?” Damn straight I would, I thought, as I verbally declined their offer.

 

Despite wanting a ride, pride, knowing my parents were right behind me practically prancing up the steps, and not wanting to look like Homer Simpson-as-he-goes-to-India, I forced myself to continuously decline the ever more attractive offers to ride up the hill in style. When I finally reached the top our guide reminded us to be careful of the monkeys, they are aggressive about stealing food, and invited us to follow her into the caves.

 

The caves instantly captivated me. Sadly generations ago the carvings were severely vandalized—genitalia were destroyed, spiritual markings were mutilated—but despite the intentional destruction and age of the sculptures, the carvings remain powerful and relevant. Though little is accurately known about their history, the cave temples are dedicated to Siva, who was conceived as the Supreme Deity, both the Creator and Destroyer of the Universe. Inexpensive pamphlets containing theories and speculative history are readily available on the path from the ferry dock to the caves.

 

Our guide began lecturing in front of one of the many carved panels adorning the North entrance. I decided to wander about, let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the interior temple and explore the various carvings. At least fifty photos later, I asked my mother to let me know when we were leaving as I wanted to sit in a quiet, tranquil location and try to absorb some of the feeling of this stone cathedral. There is a small shrine within the temple, where Siva is still worshipped to this day. I settled into a corner of the shrine, mostly obscured from view, turned my ipod on and reflected on the age, spirituality and purpose of the shine, the carvings and the temple.

 

A good friend from Nelson, Canada took me to many Inca ruins and holy places in Peru, and taught me the value of being still while trying to take in the power of holy places. “You can’t just trek though them,” Carol told me, referring to the majestic Inca ruins. “You have to sit, contemplate and make a connection with the beauty and spirit of the place.” She traveled in India for three months last year, and she recommended visiting the Elphora caves—they are similar, but larger than the Elephanta caves, and located several hundred miles from Mumbai—rather then visit the Taj Mahal. “I wouldn’t make the effort to go back to the Taj, but I would go back to the Elphora caves,” she said. Everyone has different priorities when traveling, but I hold Carol’s opinions in high regard, so I knew before I came to India that both the Elphora caves and Elephanta caves were special places likely to be of great interest to me.

 

After a half hour sitting cross-legged in the corner of the cold, stone shrine, a nasty looking red insect larger than a wasp kept hovering about me—I think it was attracted to the smell of my Coppertone coconut scented sun screen—it’s time to leave, I thought, so I left the Siva shrine content with the memories I created there. My parents, a fellow team trivia player Gary and I took more photos as we headed back toward our ferry.

 

Although we had been warned, both my dad and I wanted to feed the monkeys. Between us we had several apples and bananas. The monkeys react like seagulls to food. When they see it, they congregate, hover and remain just out of reach. An enterprising monkey managed to grab most of an apple from my dad’s hand, so he retaliated by trying to slice the remaining apple with his pocketknife and ration the portions among the troop of bare-toothed monkeys intently awaiting their share. As he whittled away on the apple a commotion erupted.

 

“Sir, sir look out!” an Indian cave guard shouted as he dramatically shooed monkeys away with his feet, unintentionally kicking up the heavy, red dust. My dad had set his small backpack on the ground as he carved up the apples, and two monkeys were bravely rummaging through it, tossing things out as they looked for more fruit. Fortunately the monkeys didn’t steal anything but an empty plastic bag, but I did give my dad a good scare when I asked him where his camera was (I had it hidden in my pocket).

 

On the return ferry we captured some great pictures of Nautica docked against the Mumbai skyline, and before we knew it we were back on the ship. I had booked two rooms using Starwood points at the ITC Sheraton Grand Central, one of Mumbai’s luxury hotels, and a place that accepted my free points, we packed overnight bags, retrieved our passports and left the ship for a night off Nautica in Bombay. There is nothing wrong with the ship, after three weeks we still weren’t overly tired of sleeping aboard, I just wanted to wake up in the heart of Mumbai.

 

To get to the Sheraton we hired one of the ubiquitous black and yellow, old Fiat taxis. Production of the most commonly used model of taxi in Mumbai ended fifteen years ago—so every one you see, and there appear to be tens of thousands trolling Mumbai’s streets, is at least that old or older—but they are kept running with hundreds of mechanics who specialize in repair of old Fiat Taxis. I observed at least six constants among all of them: they are not air-conditioned, they have no seat belts, only males drive them, the passing lights or flashers are never used, the horns are scrupulously maintained, and all have numerous small dents and scratches which I assume are caused from driving in Mumbai for the least fifteen years.

 

The chaos of driving in Mumbai’s choked streets exceeds anything I have ever seen. Imagine trying to increase two of the traffic lanes crossing the Golden Gate Bridge to four, without widening the bridge, and then encourage hundreds of men, women, children, hand pushed carts and motorcycles to dart between maneuvering cars practicing indiscriminate passing and jostling for position. Oh, and multiply the Golden Gate’s traffic load by a factor of five and you have some idea of what driving in Mumbai is like. Traffic is incredible, incomprehensible and dangerous.

 

Jean Joseph, the well-traveled Nautica Bridge instructor described driving to the Mumbai International airport in a taxi to pick up her friend as the, “scariest drive I’ve taken anywhere in my life.” I have been in many cities with horrific traffic in South America, Latin America, Eastern Europe and China. The congestion, risk-taking and sheer number of cars attempting to use the roads in Mumbai exceeds everything I have ever seen. Give me Southern California’s good old I-405 at rush hour any day of the week.

 

When we approached the port exit I realized I’d left my Police Pass in my camera bag in the trunk. When I told the port guard my pass was in my camera bag he replied, “Did you declare your camera to customs?”

 

Ten hot, humid minutes without air conditioning or breeze later, we were finally allowed to leave the pier without registering my camera with India customs. I could write five pages here about the incredibly meaningless bureaucracy and paperwork I encountered at every level in India. Though it might make a good story I’d rather share the positive things we did, so suffice it to say India is a bureaucratic nightmare. Forty minutes to change money, twenty minutes to check into a luxury hotel, twenty minutes to check out of a luxury hotel, thirty minutes to buy a SIM card, and forty minutes to buy a stamp at the post office are all normal everyday occurrences based on my short time in India.

 

For reasons I still don’t understand today was a fortuitous day to get married, and we encountered several loud, colorful weddings as we drove thirty minutes to the ITC Sheraton. Although the hotel was fine, the personalized service on Nautica has spoiled my parents and I. We found ourselves privately critiquing the service and saying Emil (our excellent cabana waiter) wouldn’t do this, or Raquel from reception wouldn’t do that. The Sheraton service had no chance of measuring up, but we realized after three weeks Nautica felt like home and we’d be glad to be back.

 

I didn’t notice any particularly interesting Indian style to our hotel. It was simply a very nice, marble floored Sheraton business hotel. I did notice that there were not many Caucasians wandering about. Since we intentionally ate a late lunch on the ship—I didn’t want to eat much onshore in India—we didn’t make dinner plans and my parents and I went our separate ways. My parents went to Phoenix Mills shopping center, a mostly fixed price mall, and I went to meet with some fellow recovering drug addicts.

 

I have been abstinent from alcohol and all other substances (marijuana, cocaine, etc.) just under seventeen years. I have the disease of addiction so I choose to regularly meet with other recovering people to deal with my problem. Most cruise lines including Oceania place a meeting for friends of Bill W. on their daily schedule. Bill Wilson was the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, and though I am not a member of that particular organization, I always show up to it when I am cruising and I am always made welcome. I wanted to attend the organization I belong to, and I had contacted someone in Mumbai who had assisted me in locating the only English speaking gathering available.

 

In the United States it is hard to be a recovering drug addict. I don’t want to tell you how hard it is in India. The best part of meeting with my new friends was listening to them tell of pressures at work, dealing with anger and resentment, having problems with a partner or spouse, learning to cope with wanting a glass of wine at a wedding; all the same issues I’ve had to deal with at one time or another myself. Our external circumstances are different, our feelings and struggles are the same. I felt completely connected with this group of strangers, and I think they felt connected with me.

 

On the drive back my chauffer—unfortunately the only way I could get there was in a silver sedan with Sheraton painted on the side and piloted by a uniformed driver—asked how my appointment went.

 

“Did you arrive on time,” Panjac asked. Due to worse than usual traffic we almost arrived late and I wanted to tell him not to worry about being on time, I just wanted to arrive alive. It was truly better late than never.

 

“Yes, I did. Thank you Panjac,” I replied.

 

“So your appointment went well,” he inquired.

 

“Oh, yes, it went fine.” There was a moment of silence. Panjac considered whether he was crossing a line.

 

“So what kind of appointment was this?” Panjac finally blurted out. He had seen me leave the appointment with Indians hugging me and saying goodbye. He had probably never driven a Sheraton guest to this part of town before—I saw some of the slums that Mumbai is sadly famous for as we raced to my destination.

 

I thought a moment and told him the truth. “It was a place for recovering drug addicts to help each other stay clean,” I replied.

 

He looked thoughtful, I think he already knew it had something to do with drug addicts (it reminded me of the time I was so scared to tell my brother Jeff I was gay—he had known for over ten years), and said, “My Uncle’s only son, my cousin, died from heroin last year. We tried everything to save him, but he just couldn’t stop and we didn’t have enough money to try to get him help. How much does this cost?”

 

“Well, actually it is free,” I replied. “Anyone can go and you don’t pay any money.”

 

“It is free?” he asked incredulously.

 

“Yes, it really is free.”

 

“How do I contact them? I have another person that needs this help,” he said.

 

I gave him what little information I had, and the rest of our hour drive he told me about his family, how addiction to alcohol and other drugs had harmed people he knew, how difficult it is to survive economically, and how challenging, virtually impossile it is to rise from Mumbai’s slums to its universities and thriving business community. In Mumbai, office space is as expensive as downtown Manhattan, yet over six of its thirteen million residents live in filth, squalor and disease. Everyday is a fight against sickness and hunger. It is impossible to move through parts of Mumbai, that I think tourist buses try to protect us from seeing, without feeling a deep sense of sadness and loss for the plight of the poor. I returned to my hotel tired, grateful and a little more conscious.

 

The next morning I arranged for Panjac to take us on a whirlwind trip of tourist activities. The day started a little late as the Sheraton had an excellent broadband connection and Ty and I had a video chat on our Mac computers. He showed me our dog (Rusty), old cat (Stewart) and new rescue cat (Norman). It was so good to see him. For the first time this trip I was really homesick.

 

Our first stop was the Dhobi Ghats where thousands of dhobi-wallahs famously wring, beat, pummel and wash the city’s laundry. As we stood above and snapped photo after photo I couldn’t believe how many clothes were hanging, drying in the sun. I asked Panjac how long it takes to for the dhobi-wallahs to wash a persons laundry.

 

“About two days now, but in the rainy season up to a week,” he replied. The clothes dry outside, so climate dictates turnaround time.

 

After that we drove by the Jaine temple as we made our way to Mani Bhavan, Gandhi’s house when he stayed in Bombay. As we approached the front steps I know we were someplace special. It reminded me of going to Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam. Neither home is ostentatious or grand, or particularly stands out from the surrounding homes (except for the flow of visitors and presence of street merchants) but I experienced the sense this is hallowed ground in both places.

 

We spent about an hour viewing Gandhi’s sleeping and meditation room, visiting the library, gazing at irreplaceable photos, viewing a series of miniature dioramas displaying Gandhi’s life and reading some of his quotes. My mom’s favorite begins, “To call women the weaker sex is a libel….” Being in the home made me curious about Gandhi in a way I hadn’t been before, so as we made our exodus from the house I wanted to purchase a book, just as I had at Anne Frank’s house. As we walked down the stairs to the exit where a small store is located I saw a familiar face—Frank aka Lumpy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. He looked exhausted and I was immediately a little concerned.

 

“Hey Frank, are you doing ok? You seem a little hot.” He was sweating profusely and I was genuinely worried.

 

“Oh, I am fine,” Frank replied. “Four of us shared one of those terrible taxis without air conditioning to come over here and I am just burning up from the ride.”

 

“Have you been upstairs yet? The dioramas are wonderful.” I said.

 

“Oh yes, we were here yesterday. I was so moved I wanted to come back, I also wanted to get some more books as gifts. Did you see these?” Frank asked as he showed me a beautiful book of quotes of Gandhi’s wisdom printed on handmade paper and costing 200 rupees ($5). “They are absolutely wonderful and make excellent presents.”

 

“Gosh Frank, those look great. Thanks for showing them to me,” I replied. “I think I’ll get a couple, that looks like a good idea.”

 

“I was a literature major in college and always loved Gandhi’s writing. These are really special books,” Frank said as he passed his book toward me to look at.

 

I wanted to sink in my shoes. My previous encounters with Frank hadn’t been so warm, intimate or pleasant, and here I was standing in Mani Bhavan with Gandhi’s wise visage gazing over us, as Frank knowingly recommended the best Gandhi books to buy. Life has many ironies. I considered the spirit of Satyagraha, Gandhi’s most beloved principle of practicing truth, relentless love and non-violence, and I thought of my previous interactions with Frank aka Lumpy. What a profound, unlikely encounter, I mused.

 

“Well I’ll see you later Frank, hope you have a great day,” I said as I paid for my books and quickly headed out the door. I didn’t him to see us get in the car so I wouldn’t feel guilty about him knowing I was riding around in a comfortable chauffeured air conditioned Sheraton sedan, while he suffered in a hot, cramped taxi. It is so easy to rush to judgment about others and make an ill-informed opinion. Sure, Frank was rude to my mom once, but clearly, as I suspected (and is so true for so many of us), there is much more to him then meets the eye—I never would have guessed he is a Gandhi admirer.

 

We drove away down Malabar Hill, past the Tower of Silence, the hidden place where the Zoroastrian Parsi’s lay out their dead for the vultures to eat—apparently there aren’t enough vultures left in Mumbai to eat the corpses, so priests add chemicals to accelerate the bodies decaying process—stopped at the Hanging Garden, took a picture with a monkey (literally) on my back, walked on Chowpatty beach, drove past and photographed the imposing Victoria Terminal (we arrived too late to see any tiffin-wallahs carrying food), whiffed the pungent, pervasive odor of the fish market, stopped for a quick photo opportunity at the High Court clock tower and finally arrived at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, more commonly known as the Prince of Wales, Museum.

 

We had about ninety minutes before we wanted to return back to the ship, and we spent that time browsing the incredible sculptures, Nepalese and Tibetan religious relics, priceless Indian artifacts of painting, cloth, sandalwood, gold and stone, most of which seem to glorify God’s I am unfamiliar with. The price of entry was 300 rupees for foreigners and 15 rupees for locals, after seeing all the poverty we didn’t care, we were happy to pay a little more in hopes that anything could help in some small way—and before we knew it we needed to return to the ship. Even though we thoroughly enjoyed our time and culture shock in India, none of us wanted to miss the ship leaving, I did not want to be stuck in Mumbai, and I believe passengers who choose to independently sightsee have to be extra responsible about returning to the ship on time. Another good reason to purchase ship shore excursions is you never risk the boat sailing away without you.

 

My dad purchased another twenty cans of diet coke for about 60 cents each. Oceania, unlike many cruise lines, does not prevent you from bringing your own alcohol, water and soda aboard, as long as you are willing to schlep it yourself, and arrived at the ship about an hour before our 4:30 p.m. deadline. The hotel charged about $10 per hour for the sedan and driver, so after a generous well-deserved $20 tip to Panjac, our total cost was less than $100 for a chock-full day of sightseeing in one of the nicest cars I saw on Mumbai’s streets.

 

The passengers who went to the Taj Mahal arrived back a little late, so it turns out we had a bit of extra time. If I ever take this trip again I will take the Taj Mahal excursion. Despite the almost $1,600 price tag all my friends who went said it was worth every penny. They particularly commended Oceania for flawlessly organizing the air and ground transportation, lodging, meals, and excellent English speaking guides. Someday I hope to stand with Ty in front of the Taj and have our pictures taken too.

 

As the ship pulled away, as I played trivia (our team took first), I reflected on the past three days. I still can’t make sense of India; so much beauty, so much extreme poverty. I thought of the spiritual experiences at Elephanta cave, the gathering with fellow recovering addicts and seeing Frank at Gandhi’s house. I thought of the slums, teeming with disease and starvation and bereft of a glimmer of hope. I thought of the kindness of strangers I watched literally risking their lives to assist a cab driver they didn’t know push his broken-down taxi through a dangerous traffic interchange. India is full of paradoxes. Today I am ambivalent about coming back (except to see the Taj of course), but I said a prayer of gratitude last night for the life I have and of exhortation of help for the poor, the downtrodden and the hopeless who live in the streets and slums of Mumbai.

 

I don’t know what I can do to improve life for the paupers in India. I don’t know how to change the extreme poverty that still haunts the world, but I think Gandhi said it best in this quote from the book Frank shared with me:

 

“I will work for an India, in which the poorest shall feel that it is their country in whose making they have an effective voice; an India in which there shall be no high class and low class of people; an India in which all communities shall live in perfect harmony. There can be no room in such an India for the curse of untouchables or the curse of intoxicating drinks and drugs. Women will enjoy the same rights as men. Since we shall be at peace with all the rest of the world, neither exploiting nor being exploited, we should have the smallest army imaginable. This is the India of my dreams. — M.K. Gandhi

[Druke I]

Like many others, I have read your reports and enjoyed them very much.

 

We were in Mumbai (Bombay) on Nautica, 12-14-06, (Istanbul to Singapore). I was told a different tale about the taxis - the old Fiats. Our tour guide told us that they were made in India, the dies etc having been bought from Fiat when that model was discontinued, and that they were still in production - unmodified. I found it interesting how the cab's meter was mounted outside on the fender.

 

In Cochin two days later, the cabs were of a completely different design, which I took to be Toyopet (predecessor of Toyota), but I could be wrong. Those were also being manufactured in India. I can't recall the Indian name. They were very similar to the "kamikaze" cabs we had on Okinawa during my Army service there in the mid 50s!

[Emdee]

Jack, really enjoyed your Mumbai adventures. Its five years since I have been and I could smell the smells and hear the sounds of the city. Made me a bit homesick ... though I have lived here in Canada for the last 27 years.

 

I have never been to the Museum and studied at Bombay University directly near the Clock tower. I will be going back for a week this year enroute to a Kenyan Safari and shall make a point of going to the Museum and maybe take my 22 year old to Elephanta caves.

 

 

You may want to publish this journal it would be a pity to limit it to cruise critic - it is a sheer pleasure to read.

 

I eagerly look forward to the next instalment.

Miriam

[lahore]

Another fabulous read Jack, thanks so much

[meow!]

... I don’t know what I can do to improve life for the paupers in India. I don’t know how to change the extreme poverty that still haunts the world ...

After your vivid experience on this voyage, what is your opinion on the United Nations helping Third World countries practise birth control, might that be helpful? Just curious.

[Aussie Gal]

Jack,

 

Again thank you for giving us a look at Mumbai through your eyes. I could picture the chaos, the traffic and the people in my mind even though I have never been there. I know that is an assault on all your senses and am looking forward to visiting India next year.

 

I am so glad that the people who did the excursion to Agra enjoyed it and felt it was worthwhile. If you do happen to speak to someone who did it please ask them if they felt they saw enough in the time allowed and was the accommodation up to scratch. Thanks again.

 

Jennie