Pune (pronounced poo-nee). A city about 4 hours drive from Mumbai. I had never heard of it, like so many other places here. To put it in perspective: 8 million inhabitants. Almost half of the Netherlands.
Why I’m here, no idea. That’s usually how life goes. You have to live it forward and it only makes sense in reverse. The only thing I know: you can fly to Goa from here.
The days in Lonavala, especially the nature and the quieter moments, did me good. After 2.5 hours on the train. Yes, this time in the right carriage and among the working people. Price tag: €0.15. Quite nice actually, and not frozen stiff from the icy air conditioning in first class. This time, 2nd class no AC, just open doors and among the people—that’s where you need to be.
Arrival 20:30. I checked hotel availability but hadn’t booked yet. Stress about not having booked anything? Not at all. I negotiate a bit and check into a decent 3-star hotel for one night. I freshen up and hop into a tuk-tuk to the “nightlife district.”
Earlier in Mumbai, I noticed that going out and drinking alcohol is for the elite. Prices of €5–7 for a beer are normal. I walk into a place called Publiq. And yes, here it goes wild—really wild. The music is deafeningly loud, from Indian house to sing-alongs. I don’t understand a word, yet the vibe is great and I look around in amazement. Heineken €7—I’ve paid more for my beers, I think. The fact that the atmosphere is good while not everyone is holding a drink shows you don’t always need alcohol for fun and a party. I dance along a bit, and after 3 beers I’ve already over-spent the cost of my hotel. I check out another place where it’s a bit calmer—it’s nice to see, but nothing special, not the night of my life. Back at my hotel around 01:30, I realize there’s not much else to do in this city. By now, with 5 beers in me, I book my flight to Goa—smoothly via my phone.
The next morning it’s rainy, so I relax in a fancy Japanese coffee place. I write my blog there, chat with two girls next to me—one of them tries matcha for the first time, and I’ve rarely seen such a sour face after a first sip of Macha. She’s definitely not joining the hype and says it tastes like spinach. Sometimes these little interactions with people are worth a lot and fun to experience. Simple pleasures.
I continue my day with a walk in the OSHO Park. Osho was a spiritual leader from the ’70s. Someone from the Mumbai hostel told me about him. An interesting figure, focused on meditation, lifestyle, and with a big following, especially after his move to the US. For those interested: there’s a documentary Wild Wild Country. I read a bit about him and always believe there are two sides to every story. It seems very commercial, but then I meet someone on the street who vulnerably shares how it helped him gain awareness and making more conscious life choices. The park and OSHO center are surrounded by massive villas. I even spotted my first Ferrari last night after going out. A lot of money in this area I conclude. Despite Osho’s teachings on spirituality, materialism, and foresight, he tied his popularity to this massive center here on expensive land and later I read about his 93 Rolls Royces. An interesting guy, and it’s fun to dig into this on a rainy day. You learn something new everyday. After a walk in the rain, I walk into a luxury hotel for a massage. A refreshing treat.
On the massage table, my thoughts drifting off, I feel my legs aching from all the walking these past days. Toward the end, a thought pops up to check my flight—and suddenly doubt kicks in about when I’m flying. You guessed it right… after the massage, locker open, phone out… my flight to Goa is not tonight but until Monday 05:00.
I may be refreshed now, but I definitely wasn’t when I booked it. I leave the hotel knowing I’ve got another day and night here. The plan was to fly at 05:00, be at the airport at midnight, nap a bit, then fly. That plan is now shifted with 1 day. I find a hostel nearby. By now it’s dark, and though it looks run-down, the reviews are good. I think: how bad can one night be?
I drop my bag and head to a little eatery around the corner. Simple place, plastic chairs, a vegetarian rice dish for €2.50. Halfway through, an Asian man comes down from the building upstairs. Flip-flops, polo shirt with “Mywaytravel,” chewing loudly on corn on the cob. He stands in front of me, about 1.65m tall. I, calm as ever, say nothing and just smile at this delightful little man. I instantly feel this will be hilarious. In broken English, he asks where I’m from: “Weh you fwom sir?” He guesses right on his second try—you should’ve seen his face. The whole place (6 people) had to know he got my nationality right. “I coet see, you vely tall.” He sits opposite me and I just know this will be funny. I can’t stop thinking of Mr. Chow from The Hangover when I observe him. Writing about him now still makes me laugh. Of course, a case of “you had to be there,” but I realize humor and laughter were exactly what I needed. Stephen made my evening.
Stephen is here for his son, who’s upstairs gaming and has just started studying here. As status-obsessed as he is, his son has to study at this Technology University in Pune, because so many CEOs come from here. Poor boy, I think—being a Vietnamese in Pune. But hey, it’s life experience for him and his father sweetly says he can always come back to Ho Chi Minh City.
Back at the hostel after a drizzly walk in the rain. I get into bed to write a bit. It’s shabby and more rundown when I start looking around, and I don’t understand the good reviews on Google. As I’m writing, I spot something that looks like a louse—and the thought won’t leave my head. I’m out of there. I pack my stuff—forget the money, I don’t care. You never see this face again I think. Before I know it, I’m outside in the rain thinking: bloody peaky Pune. At 01:30, walking in the rain, I realize this too is traveling. This too is part of the adventure I wanted to feel. And soon enough, I see the positive side and feel relief of my decision. I head to the hotel where I had the massage. After 350 meters in the rain, I take an extra warm shower and crawl—very clean—into bed.
Shab Raatri!
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