Crawford Market

[Crawford Market, Mumbai, May 2008.]

Markets are one of my favourite things to visit while travelling or at home. You can tell how much soul a city has by the character of its markets. 

I visited Crawford Market twice. The first time I was told that I had to have an official guide because I was a foreigner. Several small men pointed to the sign in English to confirm this. I walked out in frustration that day, but came back later in the week and to be honest my guide was excellent. He spoke very little English, but he made up for it with pointing calmly at details I wouldn't have noticed.

It was late afternoon when I arrived. I'd already walked aimlessly for at least three hours, and played a game of cricket on the pavement with some boys. They watched me roll a cigarette then came up to me with the entreaty "Match?" As it was nearly 40c, it wasn't long before my shirt was completely wet with sweat. In short, I was tired by the time I reached the market. 

[The main entrance. After Indian independence the market was renamed the Mahatma Jyotirao Phule Market, which can made out on the arch in this photo.]

[The basket man (left) was reflected in the friezes on the archway. These were designed by Lockwood Kipling, Rudyard Kipling's father.]

[Mangoes were in season. 90% of the fruit stalls were selling them, and only them. The boy (left) is "sweeping" the straw with his feet.] 

               

                 

[The poultry section of the market (left). As you can see, it was long closed for the day when I went through. A cat and a couple of crows (the latter can be seen in the photo) were the only customers.]                       

Taxi Drivers, Immigration Officers, and Jetlag

As we were leaving the airport, the taxi driver asked me if I liked India. I said I've only been here ten minutes. That was a lie. Firstly because I'd waited half an hour for another taxi driver to find him. He was in a restaurant or something. I'd paid in advance in the terminal so I couldn't jump in another taxi. Then, secondly, earlier I'd had an immigration officer who only reluctantly took my passport. She even went to pick up her newspaper again before resigning to the fact of my existence (and her job). When she did look at my passport she said "Broadhead" then laughed, and the smile didn't leave her face for the full two minutes I was in front of her. I made her day complete when she repeated the refrain "Broadhead [laughter]" as she stamped my entry date. I wanted to ask her what her surname was, but I didn't want to get back on the next plane to Cairo.

A week earlier the immigration officer at Cairo airport (actually both of them -- inbound and outbound) thought it amusing to question my intelligence. I bought a Egyptian tourist visa for 80 pounds at a strategically placed stall in the terminal. When I handed it to the immigration officer with my passport, he said "Why didn't you stick it in your passport?" As if I knew I was supposed to do so because I come here every day. He continued by demonstrating how to do it by peeling off its waxed back ... "Look, magic". 

[The photo is of a Mumbai taxi or two, taken from a Mumbai taxi (though not on the day of my arrival). Taken with my Nikon D80 and fitted with a Sigma 10-20mm. May 2008.]