Mumbai

How many impressions per second can a human have?
How many can he handle?
Leaving iran is one.
Taking a plane on an overlandtrip is two.
After thirty days showing your hair in public again is three.
A difference of 15 degrees in temperature is four.
And then the counting stops.
Then we see a marriage, a boy on a horse, people sleeping on the streets, not five, not twenty, but hundreds of them, we see advertising in the streets again in stead of khomeini and khamenei, women with naked bellies, dogs, a lot of dogs, cars everywhere.
The trip to the hostel takes us a little hour in a little taxi.
The poverty is immense.
On the way to our first Indian meal for less than a euro a child is lying stretched on the street.
In the eyes of the other travelers I see something hard. Something`s closed.
Maybe a few days of Mumbai make you like that.
In the eyes of the Indian men (didn`t have contact with a woman so far, but it`s only our second hour in Mumbai) I see a joy, a playful smile.
Maybe years of Mumbai make you like that.
I know and see that I know almost nothing and that I`m happy I`m born where I`m born.
We didn`t turn one but ten pages in one time.
It`s a hard transition. From Iran tot India. But being three months on the road makes the shock a little less.
And the missing part (Pakistan) will fit in somewhere. Maybe in a few years, maybe in going back. Insjallah.
I know nothing anymore.
I go to sweat and sleep.