The odd couple

First the bedlam, then the beaches. Andy van Smeerdijk journeys to Mumbai and Goa.

The previous time I visited Mumbai was 14 years ago, when India began its trade liberalisation policies. So I expect big changes. But while all the usual suspects are now present ? KFC, Nike and Coke ? and new concrete towers have risen, Mumbai seems to have the same ramshackle ambience.

The sidewalks are choked with hawkers selling pan, lassi and cold drinks, while behind them, mobile phone businesses seem to occupy every second shopfront. My taxi skirts a railway; slums sprawl between the tracks and the road. At least a third of Mumbai's 18 million people live in informal settlements, but they're not all impoverished; many are members of the middle class with no other option.
 
"Welcome to Bombay," says the doorman at my hotel. The receptionist repeats this greeting. The city's name was changed to Mumbai in 1997. Only thing is: no one seems to have told the people of Mumbai.

I'm on a short jaunt to India and in the spirit of the 1972 Hindi film Bombay to Goa, am to visit these two destinations ? the former a thriving mega-city; the latter, a beachside state. They're an odd couple, yet they go together like dal and rice. For visitors, Mumbai is a chance to sample the energy and mayhem India is renowned for. Goa is, of course, the place to relax afterwards. But for now, the bedlam.

The heartbeat

There's no better place to get acquainted with Mumbai than one of its railway stations. The heartbeat of the system is Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, which locals call CST ? although its former name, Victoria Terminus, slips out regularly.

This grand neo-Gothic structure is crowned by a statue of 'Progress', who stands aloft on its central dome, presiding over the stone friezes, filigrees and buttresses and frowning at the mayhem below. From afar, it looks like a palace, but close-up it's more like a greasy rag. The stonework is grimy, the facilities dingy. Listed as a Unesco World Heritage Site in 2005, much-needed restoration work began on the station in late 2006. Reportedly its terraces will be waterproofed, tiles replaced and plumbing improved. No doubt, 'Progress' would approve.

According to the US-based Population Institute (PI), Greater Mumbai has a population of 18 million. Stand at CST at peak-hour and it feels like you've seen at least half of them. (Incidentally, the PI predicts its population will grow to 28.5 million by 2020, making it the most populous city on the planet.) Peak-hour brings a tide of commuters here and is a sight not to be missed. People pour out of train carriages and spill onto the platforms like grain streaming from a silo.

At about 11 am, thousands of men with metal tiffin (lunch) containers arrive from the suburbs, having picked these up from housewives. They assemble, sort these according to street address, then disperse throughout Mumbai. The result? Hundreds of thousands of office workers enjoy home-cooked lunches. Even more incredible is that errors rarely occur.

According to a 1998 study by Forbes, this method of sorting has 99.99 per cent accuracy!

While I wander around, a gent called Omar adopts me; he informs me that he is my guide. He explains that India's first railway was established here.

Built by the British in 1853, the first train ran between Mumbai and Thane, a distance of 32 km.

"Six million commuters use the system every day," he says, unleashing a torrent of statistics. Once the figures dry up, he informs me how many commuters have lifelong 'train friends' ? passengers who've taken the same train or carriage for decades together.

A trip on a metropolitan train is a great insight into Mumbai life. Carriages are spartan, but there's plenty to gawk at. Indeed, a journey is a social event. People chat, make eye contact and often lean over each other's shoulder, perusing their newspaper.

The train arrives at Churchgate. Once you stride off the platforms, shoe shiners vie for your attention. Several Mumbai stations (including Bandra, Charni Road and Marine Lines) were recently earmarked for makeovers and Churchgate looks in desperate need of this too. Safety on these overcrowded railways is a another pressing issue, with 3,500 people dying annually in railway-related accidents ? the majority killed while crossing tracks between platforms.

It's estimated that at peak-hour, trains designed for 1,700 passengers carry up to 4,700! In other words, there are 14-16 standing passengers per square metre of floor space. Of course, many of them aren't technically on the floor.

The larder

For Indians, food is the penultimate priority. Even those who can't cook ? almost universally male ? seem confident they are experts on the virtues of parathas, pickles or puri. Aside from savouring a home-cooked meal, the best way to sample this enthusiasm for food is in the marketplace.

In the early morning, Mumbai is surprisingly sleepy. The absence of car horns is almost unnerving. But there's one corner that buzzes and the closer you get to it, there are signs of its wares. A boy carries a box of mangoes while a man wheels a cart laden with bananas. They all emerge from Crawford Market. Established in 1869, the building ? a blend of Norman and Gothic styles ? officially opens at 7 am, but there's activity well before sunrise.

Outside, taxis ferry fruit, vegetables and meat to restaurants across the city. In the labyrinthine fruit section, the floor is littered with straw and cows wander through, snacking as they go. The air is heavy with the scent of blushing mangoes. But not all the produce is from India.

"Apples from America," says one vendor. "You want some? Good price for you!"

Adjacent is the livestock area and the smell of this ? mingled with cow dung and straw ? gives the market a farm-like quality. In the covered area, vegetables, meat, fish and less perishable foodstuffs are sold.

 While the fresh okra and shiny aubergines are impressive, the mood is set by the high ceiling, iron lacework and grand banisters. Shards of light stream down from the high awnings and illuminate the marketplace.
 
By 10 am, all the stalls have opened and the tempo has quickened. Further afield, the market's wares are being enjoyed across the city. Food is everywhere in Mumbai; whether it's streetside pani puri or cafe fare in Juhu, the lair of Bollywood stars. But if you're a Western tourist, it's virtually your duty to dine at Leopold's Cafe. A Colaba institution, Leopold's appears in Shantaram, the bestseller by Australian escaped prisoner Gregory David Roberts, who became embroiled in the Mumbai underworld in the 1980s. Roberts depicts it as a place of dubious dealings and scrappy service, but the latter has definitely changed. The service is excellent, as are the vegetarian dishes. Nearby is a more 'local' hangout:

Tulloch Road, a bylane lined by tables and eateries that dole out seekh kebabs. Many Mumbaiites also head to Marine Drive and Chowpatty Beach in the evenings for a stroll or a snack. Chowpatty has a carnival atmosphere with throngs of people and many cheap food stalls.

As you pass, eatery workers cry out, "Hello, bhelpuri." (A greeting?) This is a tangy dish of puffed rice, chopped tomato, onion and chilli.

Garnished with sev (fried chickpea flour) flakes, lime and coriander, it comes with a dollop of chutney.

But most travellers opt to eat in Colaba. Indeed, this is the area where most visitors 'do' Mumbai. Here you can admire the Gateway of India or enjoy a spot of tea at the Taj Mahal hotel. Evocative crumbling buildings line the streets, but many look beyond refurbishment. Aside from the Taj, there's no sign of restoration. And with the smog, humidity and heat, you wonder long these structures can hold out.
 
More than a game

As far as sport is concerned, there's only one game in India ? cricket. In back streets and parking lots, you'll find people tweaking googlies and flaying bats.

It's the morning after the World Cup final, which Australia has won.

Although India exited the tournament three weeks ago, the newspapers still scrutinise how this ? the unthinkable ? could have happened. Yet the mood at the Oval Maidan is in stark contrast to the gloom painted by the media.

This green strip in front of Mumbai University is the site of dozens of cricket matches and here the game is thriving. With the Rajabai Clock Tower as a backdrop, you could be forgiven for thinking you're in Oxford.

Yet the palm-trees quickly dispel this notion. And the dust. The pitches are so well-worn they look like bullock cart tracks and each time a bowler unleashes a delivery, dust billows.

"You from Australia? World champions!" says a man, who introduces himself as Ravi, a member of the Khewati XI. The team plays every Sunday in an organised competition. "But today, we are going to lose," Ravi says. "We need 63 runs from 17 balls."

Remarkably, Ravi and his teammates are upbeat. "Next World Cup India will win," says Ravi. "Sachin Tendulkar. He will win it for India." It's something I am to hear again and again. After all, the Little Maestro is from Mumbai.

Goan south

Ask a Goan where the cricket pitch is and you could receive a very perplexed look. The state has a strong dash of Portuguese influence and this is evident as soon as you arrive: football replaces cricket, Portuguese colonial mansions scatter the countryside and villages have a Latin vibe.

The best way to travel between Mumbai and Goa is by rail. I took the train 14 years ago and passed through some magnificent scenery. At stations, vendors wander through selling idli, chai and chana. Being holiday season, the Konkan Express is booked out. So I opt for the flight, which lasts an hour and lands at Dabolim Airport, just south of Panaji, Goa's capital.

Panaji is a dreamy city on the banks of the Mandovi River; north of it are some of Goa's most popular beaches. But I head instead to the south, which is less developed.

If Mumbai is a carnival for the senses, Goa is like taking your senses to grandma's. Locals languish under banyan trees, others cram inside battered buses but none seem too perturbed. Leaving the main road, we scoot past rice paddies and picturesque villages. About 45 minutes later, we arrive at the town of Colva.

Life's a beach

In Konkani, the term susegad means 'take it easy'. Indeed, relaxation is not exactly a low priority for Goans. Poli Rodriguez, for one. Ask anyone in Colva to point you towards a source of local stories and you'll end up at his doorstep. And despite being busy with the local elections, he's delighted to have someone new to talk to.

"I'm known for my talking. I like to joke," says Rodriguez, 60. "That's the way we Goans are."

A cook on a ship for 35 years, Rodriguez retired two years ago. He shepherds me inside, saying, "If we talk out here, we'll soon have an audience. Everyone likes to stop and chat."

As a young man, he left his home and took to the seas. Over the years, he's seen great changes in Colva. "When I was 7, there were only three big houses here, we called them bungalows. Otherwise, it was just the beach, fishing boats, paddy fields and sand dunes. On the dunes, there were cashew and coconut trees. Things were very different then."

Today Colva is a rabble of restaurants, souvenir stalls and hotels. But a short walk from Rodriguez's home is idyllic countryside, fishing villages and miles of sandy beach.

Catch of the day

It's dawn and fishermen haul a cannoz onto the beach. Their catch, mackerel, glistens in the golden light. Nearby, Antony DeSilva and his wife gut and salt fish before tossing them into baskets."We leave them to dry, then tomorrow we wash them again," says DeSilva. "After that, we leave them to dry for four days." He looks tired; he has just been out at sea for two nights. "Sometimes I go out for much longer. It depends on the fish."

In the fishing village, hundreds of mackerel are laid out on palm-leaf mats to dry. Nets are hung over them to keep the crows out. Further down the beach are several rustic seafood restaurants on stilts and in front of them is an area popular with bathers. This is Salvador Fernandez's office.

A lifeguard for 24 years, he oversees the dozens of people who leap amid the waves; most of whom are domestic tourists. "These people, they cannot swim; they don't understand the dangers," he says. "Ten people have drowned in three months. And they won't listen to me; they just go in too deep." With no lifeboat or surfboard, he says rescuing people is very difficult.

Many locals lament the influx of workers from other states. And a quick survey of Colva's main road reveals traders from Kerala, Orissa, Tamil Nadu and even Kashmir. Not one Goan.

"The Goan identity is vanishing," says Rodriguez. "There is so much development; even right near the beach; there's a law that's supposed to prohibit this. People from other parts of India are buying land for 'peanut money'."

Some of this is a result of Goa's booming tourism industry, which started with a trickle of hippy backpackers in the 1960s, then snowballed in the 1990s. Today, Goa has more than 2.4 million visitors annually, of which about 350,000 are foreigners.

Far, far from the beach umbrellas

Away from the coast, Goa has a whimsical charm. Narrow roads lined by palms meander past fallow fields and sleepy villages. Small towns such as Loutolim and Chandor have magnificent colonial residences, some of which can be visited by appointment.

Near Colva, the town of Margao has a humming covered market. Officially, it opens at 8 am, but long before this traders flog fruit on the street.

Inside the market are butcheries and traders selling jaggery, sweets, flower garlands, vegetables and spices. There's also an amazing avenue of chilli ? yes, great mounds of chilli tower either side of you. Sneezing would be catastrophic.

Few visitors miss the former capital, Old Goa, about half an hour's drive from Panaji. Originally called Gove, the city was established by successive Muslim sultanates in the 15th century, before it was seized by the Portuguese in 1510, who called it Goa and established it as the capital of their colony. Today, many splendid buildings stand as testament to a city that once housed 250,000 people. Palace ruins are visible, as are the city walls and the Viceroy's Arch, which was built by Vasco Da Gama's grandson, who became viceroy in 1597. There are also churches and cathedrals ? some still in use, others ramshackle relics.

Panaji itself is laid-back and low-rise. Its streets are lined by handsome buildings with red-tiled roofs, window shutters and overhanging balconies.

The old quarter, Fontainhas, is particularly evocative with alleyways wriggling across the hillside like the roots of a strangler fig. Like Colva, Panaji has experienced an influx of workers from other states. One of these is Bindu Vaz, marketing communications manager at the Marriott, Goa. Originally from Mysore, Vaz says she'll never leave. "I worked in Mumbai for many years and there's no comparison. The lifestyle here is great, there's no congestion, it's a great place to raise a family. I don't think I'd ever live anywhere else."

It's an understandable sentiment. Many outsiders become immersed in the ebb and flow of life here: in the 1960s it was the hippies while today it's people seeking an investment beach home.

In the evening, I head to one of Colva's beach restaurants. I order grilled fish as my stomach's tender. Two days earlier, a prawn curry eaten here subsequently blazed through system with particular spite. Rodriguez explained to me that this was the sign of a very good meal. "Maybe the prawns were out in the sun a little long, but that's what gives our dishes such a great flavour. You won't taste food like this anywhere else!"