Over the weekend I was researching transportation from the airport in Mumbai to the Cruise Port as we would rather go straight to the ship rather than do the city tour of Mumbai (after returning from Agra). Note: We are going to India 4 months before TAJ MAHAL. While checking out different sites, I found this 2008 post from CruiseCritic -- it really made me laugh (and also made me change my mind about the taxi). Hope you enjoy it:

Originally Posted by Out2See
PART I:
LOST IN BOMBAY-NOW-CALLED-MUMBAI
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?”
I should have known the answer was no because it was the 78th time I had asked the question within the last hour and still no one had responded. What started out as a dream trip to India turned into a nightmare on the runway at LAX some twenty-eight hours before. We were comfortably secure, roaring down the runway about to lift off on the first leg of our journey when the pilot hit the brakes and the plane returned to an outdoor hanger where it would need to cool down before the 18 hour flight to Singapore. We had plenty of time to make our connection to Bombay-now-called-Mumbai in order to make the ship by six p.m. Or did we? As they say in India, “OY!”

When it was clear we had missed our connection to Bombay-now-called-Mumbai, the airlines promised they would have us out on the first evening flight. We thanked them profusely but told them that the ship was leaving at six and the evening flight would make us miss the ship by a mere five hours. The next stop for the Serenity would be in Salalah, Oman after two days at sea. If we missed the ship in Bombay-now-called-Mumbai, we would have to get to Oman ourselves.

When we arrived in Singapore, we were greeted immediately as we exited the plane by an airline representative who gave us tickets for an Air India flight that would get us to Bombay-now-called-Mumbai at three p.m. Plenty of time to get to the ship, right? We were free to wait in the VIP Lounge until the flight was called. As they say in Oman, “OY!”

Our Flight to Bombay-Now-Called-Mumbai would be quite full.

We have a snack and a drink while we wait the two hours for the connection. Thank goodness, the plane is on time and we arrive in Bombay-now-called-Mumbai safely. It’s three p.m. and we have three hours to get to the ship. And surely there would be someone there from the ship to fetch us. But then, how would they know what happened to us since we weren’t on the flight on which we were suppose to be.

The luggage came quickly and completely. Immigration was easy. We had
paid almost a hundred dollars a piece for our Indian visas which worked out to be about $35 an hour for the three hours we would be in India. I asked the man at customs man how far it was to the Port of Bombay-now-called-Mumbai and he looked at me as if I had asked directions to Toronto.It was only about a hundred feet from the baggage claim to the taxi stand. I kept looking for the Crystal representative but they hadn’t waited the five hours we were late in arriving. I went to the taxi stand where a man pointed to the “Taxi Rental Room.”

I said to the dispatcher that we need to go to the port. He seemed to understand what I was saying and told me it would be “Four hundred fifty! Four hundred fifty!” Thank God he was talking about
rupees which turned out to be $15.00.

The driver on the left is telling the other driver that he can't take me because I would break his poor car. He may have been right. I was given the number of a cab to find outside in the taxi line. All of the cabs were identical. Miniature cars, blue body and white tops, were crammed together, not in straight lines – more like an unfinished mosaic of every which way. A bevy of young men, all in white shirts buzzed like bees between the taxis – seeking out the new arrivals and asking for a tip. The tip was mostly for the fact that they were there and wouldn’t leave you alone until you gave them something. There was a problem. Our cab was too small. It was an extra small blue and white car rather than just a small blue and white car.

Another car dislodged itself and kicked up a cloud of dust in the dirt parking lot. The driver was handed the address that we were given. He looked at it as if it said “Toronto” and walked back to the main office. We had now been at the airport for half an hour. The bees surrounded me as I followed the new driver back to the window. He took his instructions. I asked him if he knew where we were going. He looked and smiled. We tied our hanging bag to the top of the car, stuffed any open space with our suitcases. I was alone in the back seat with bags and Steve sat to the driver’s left – they drive on the left in India.

I gave the bee-bearers a tip and they cheered as our caravan of one kicked up a cloud of dust and pulled out into erratic streets of Bombay-now-called-Mumbai. The air was brown and an amazing variety of vehicles from bicycles to tuk-tuks to little cars, big cars and pedestrians. As Steve said, the lines in the street seem to be only suggestions.

As we flew into Bombay-now-called-Mumbai we noticed that the edge of the airport was littered with tin shacks raising up from the mud. Hundreds of people living in dire poverty with planes landing a hundred feet above their head every fifteen minutes. Obviously we missed the National "No Car Horn Day" because it was a non-stop symphony as we drove through the streets. We had only one near miss on the plane, now we were having them every ten seconds.

We passed hovels next to Luxury Hotels and one long traffic jam. The only person who seemed to have no notice of it was a man on a bicycle delivering his eggs.

Once we were in the flow of traffic, we were able to relax and look at the city. what strikes you is the incredible, uncountable number of people. The men are all in drab work clothes -white shirt and neutral slacks, while the women dress traditionally and colorfully. If you look at the picture below, you'll se a billboard on the right with a picture of a man. There were pictures of this man everywhere you looked with only Hindi writing to identify him so we still don't know who he is.

The driver never changed expressions or looked anywhere but forward as we crawled through the streets. He seemed to be in a trance. Bombay-now-called-Mumbai is a high energy city, filled with smells of food, people and gasoline. Beggars reach out to businessmen and all defy the
traffic that will not give way to them as they cross against the oncoming cars. A red light is also a suggestion.

After an hour and a half in our cell on wheels, we both started to get nervous. Very Nervous! As they say in Bombay-Now-Called-Mumbai, "Oy!'


I kept asking the man how far we had to go and he shrugged his shoulders. How can you tell someone how to get someplace if they have no odea where they are going in the first place. All he grunted out was, "Far! Far!" We had been in the cab an hour and forty five minutes and it was still far.

The ocean was on our right so I knew at least we were within the realm of possibility of a floating ship somehwere near. We turned a corner, into another traffic jam and I called out the window of the car, "Help!" The policeman came over, followed by another policeman and soon we were surrounded by the the entire Bombay-Now-Called-Mumbai Police Force. And I would you believe - none of them spoke a word of English. We had less than an hour to reach the ship. I took out a post card card with a picture of the ship on it. I pointed to the card and begged him to take us to this place. He beamed a glow of acknowedgement. He understood and barked his orders to the driver. I understood his broken English enough to hear, "Take them to the post office."

"No, the ship."

While reaching for the card, I found out Crystal Cruise papers that listed the number of the port agent. Hooray! I borrowed the driver's cell phone and got the port agent on the phone. He spoke Hindi and told the driver where he needed to go. The driver finally nodded that he understood. As the driver was holding the phone, I looked at his watch was a half hour faster than mine. How could a time change be only a half hour. And we we're traveling West. The time change would be backwards not forwards. Then I realized that India has its own rules about time zones at it was a half hour later than I thought. We started our journey again with less than forty-five minutes to spare. A short traffic jam abated and we turned in front of high brick wall, painted a faded green. Steve screamed, "Cruise Ship Terminal."

Our driver stoically headed the car through a high arch and we were stopped. Our visas and passports were demanded, taken and we sat - not knowing if we had found the right place - or if we were about to be arrested a spies dressed as exhausted tourists. Time was running out. They would be pulling the gangway. I jumped out of the cab and ran to a little hut, passed a group of boys who were tearing up the concrete. I looked like Lawrence of Arabia during the third day of his ride to Aqaba. I walked into the little house where an impressive looking army man munched on some pita bread and copied our passport numbers into an enormous book. The age of computers had not reached the piers.

He stamped the passports, had a sip of Orange Slice and nodded that I could leave. I ran though the gate looking for the Serenity and she wasn't there. The World, a residential cruise ship was in front of me and then a long empty stretch of pier. As I turned around to get back into the cab, the Serenity was behind me, a hundred yards away. and the gangway was still attached. Barely.

The nice tent had been taken down along with the hand sanitizer and the basket full of mints. We pulled up to the terminal, gave our driver (who looked as stunned as we were) another few rupees and he unleashed the bags from the roof of the blue and white. We gathered our bags and ran up the gangway where we we told we could leave them and they would be taken care of. We made it. We were on the ship. We kissed the steel superstructure. We could go to our room. We could take a shower and the get the thirty hours of travel out of our pores.

We arrived at our stateroom, met our Stewardess Miheala and she handed us our lifejackets. "Lifeboat drill," she smiled. I was happy to hear the words "Lifeboat drill" as opposed to the words, "You missed the ship!" As we say in Brooklyn, "Oy!"