A city of opposites, from waterfront dining to street beggars

BOMBAY, India — "What country?" asked the man chopping coconuts behind the Oberoi Hotel on the Bombay (also known as Mumbai) seafront.

"USA," I said, as he handed us the coconut and two straws.

"Ahh ... Mr. W. Bush ... Bad man. Bad for Muslims. Afghanistan lost. Iraq lost."

Then he looked up at me, smiled and handed me a little plastic bag of coconut slices to take with me — a gift for the Western visitor.

American foreign policies aren't popular around the world, but Indian people seem to love Americans, and here in Bombay, India's biggest and most international city, there's a friendliness that seems refreshingly out of place.

With just one day to spend here, we're sticking mainly to a neighborhood called Colaba, a travelers' center on the southernmost peninsula with great shopping, good hotels and within walking distance or a short cab ride to the waterfront, the Taj Mahal Palace hotel and major art galleries and museums.

Bombay is not everyone's favorite city, but I'm finding it less spread out, far less hectic and more walkable than Delhi, with better shopping and hotels, and if I had it to go over again, I'd spend more time here.

Anyone who comes to Bombay will be confronted with the sight of people living in disturbing conditions.

Bombay has some of India's worst slums, but they are not in areas where tourists normally wander, and a traveler's encounter with the poverty will more likely be one-on-one rather than in mass doses.

After having dinner with some Indian friends last night, we walked to the Gateway of India on the waterfront, a favorite gathering spot for locals and tourists. A small boy lay motionless, face-down on the pavement. He may have been sleeping, but he looked as if he wasn't breathing. People walked around him as if he wasn't there.

A group of women with babies in their arms sit on the curb outside our hotel, begging, and this morning, while out walking, I noticed that several families had made homes under the the porticos of a crumbling Victorian-style building.

These are disturbing scenes, and not to be taken for granted. Yet here in Colaba, at least, Bombay pulses with an energy I didn't feel in Delhi, and seems to have much to offer the curious traveler.

Three-wheeled auto rickshaws are banned from this part of town; there are no cows in the road, yet there's no forgetting this is India.

I bought a few gifts at a government shop called the Central Cottage Industries Emporium, and it took 20 minutes to complete the transaction.

The clerk gave me a receipt to take to a cashier's window. The cashier stamped it "paid" and told me to take it to the delivery window. There, a man handed me a piece of paper with a quote from Mahatma Gandhi about customer service, and I waited while he wrapped the package.

A few blocks away from our hotel on a side street off the Colaba Causeway — a busy street lined with shops and restaurants — are a Hindu temple and a Muslim mosque.

There's a Quran in the drawer in our room and a prayer rug in the closet.

Street vendors set up shop in the afternoon selling jewelry, scarves, beaded purses and other trinkets. With some hard bargaining, they'll usually accept half their asking price.

Tonight, our last in India, we plan to walk to the Taj Mahal Palace hotel on the waterfront and splurge on dinner.

I still haven't decided what I'll do about the ladies and their babies sitting outside.