Blissfully Lost in Bundi

Bundi is Rajasthan. Without the trashy tourists. Without the touts. Without the camel safaris. It is desert and culture and tradition. It is local markets and a slow-paced life. It is friendly people going about their day - oblivious to the happenings of the rest of the world. It is the perfect place to get blissfully lost.

However, with only one main road it would seem an unlikely place to get lost. Particularly when you are staying opposite the entrance to the city palace. But my delight in finding local areas (coupled with my horrendous sense of direction) allowed us to wander far outside the city walls. We wandered through markets offering coloured objects begging to be cooked up with masala. We had chai-dates with locals we met in the market places. We wandered through side streets falling in love with the incredible flourescent colours of the simple structures housing families of 12. We gathered quite a following as word quickly spread that there were two white people wandering in the suburbs who happened to have pens. 'One pen please?' Thirty-something pens later and we had lost our appeal. Without the potential to receive gifts, people ignored us and continued with their business - despite the occassional cry 'One photo please!' Yes, even in the back streets of Bundi, parents were desperate for their children to be famous in Australia.

Achy legs and impending darkness forced us to snap out of our wanderings. It's time to head home. Home is a simple hostel opposite the largest landmark in the town. But could we see it? No. Congratulations. We had managed to wander blissfully and somewhat naively out of the city walls and into the slums. But maybe, that is where the adventure began.

Taking a 'shortcut' in the direction (?) of our hostel (educated guesses are allowed when you're a tourist) we wandered into a quiet slum community on the roadside. The place was relatively deserted. Occassional stall owners generously pointed us in the right direction - further and further around twisting walls deeper into the darkness of the slums.

In the 'darkness' of the slum we uncovered a hive of activity. A busy swarm of children playing innocently and joyfully with make-shift toys. All attention was diverted from the games they were playing and averted to the two funny looking people in Indian clothes who had wandered into their den. We were overrun with beautiful children wanting to play with us, wanting to show us their homes and wanting us to take photos of them.

But we needed to get home. And then he volunteered. I can't remember his name (yes, I should have kept a journal.) But he said he knew how to get us back to the city palace and would gladly take us. So we followed him. The liberated, brave adventurer in me loved it. The cautious traveller in me was terrified. We were at the mercy of this young teenager. He seemed nice enough. But had he wanted to take us to his house and rob us he could have easily done so.

But it turns out, sometimes naively trusting strangers can lead to good things. He was nothing but the perfect guide enjoying the opportunity to practice his English. He adored being seen with his two 'friends' from Australia. He happily showed us around and asked people to leave us alone when we were mobbed. In fact, were it not for his slightly rude demands that I hurry up ('Madam, keep us please!') I would recommend his services to any lost and weary traveller.

Our generous guide took us through a weaving industrial slum to the scenic high road above Bundi. Beautiful view. Beautiful commentary ('here Fort', 'here palace'). We could see the City Palace again. Home! Hooray. Despite not being able to find the largest (and only) landmark in town for four hours, we had successfully navigated our way home. It was a short walk through a final slum.

This slum was alive with cricket matches - balls bounced off the narrow laneway walls. We felt far safer in the bright area - confident that we were close to home. However, our guide became quiet and nervous. The care-free, confident teenager, proudly showing off his Australian friends now wanted to go home. People called out to him 'Are you Hindi??!!' Clearly the answer was no. And so although we were beautifully welcomed into the Hindu area of Bundi, it seems our kind Muslim teenage guide was not so welcome. Thanking him generously by promising to remember him and by passing on a fair few rupees, he scampered out of the slum - back to the safety of his familiar territory. Will never understand how people who can be so generous and welcoming to two complete strangers - two foreigners - can be so hostile and dismissive to their own national brothers.

Blissfully lost, meeting delightful people. Bundi, you are delicious.

All is well.

A package of surprises from India

Indian postal service. Everything you've heard about it is true. No wonder I was anxiously waiting to see if my package of delights would arrive. Three months of intense shopping meant I couldn't carry it all home. In fact, even the strongest camel would have struggled with my load. And so I packed it all lovingly and sent it on its journey home to Melbourne.

And despite all odds, my bundle of brilliant bits arrived!

Now the benefit of buying copious amounts of goodies is that a month later you cannot remember what it is that you purchased and needed to have so desperately that you decided to pay exorbitant shipping costs just to ensure you would have them. It's like Christmas. And Holi. Combined. Presents galore. I felt like it was a surprise gift from my Indian self.

And congratulations Indian self, you have outdone yourself in everyway. Yes, mailing over 60 Bollywood posters home was one of the best ideas you have ever had. Now my walls can be smattered with Bollywood goodness - bling, romance and outdated fashion. Kareena and Aishwarya greet me every morning. And Aamir in all his perfectionist glory looks over me when I sleep. Not that any warm-blooded woman could sleep with that 8-pack on the wall above her bed.

But somewhere in amongst the posters and chappals were my deliciously desirable bed linens that had been waiting to cover my bed since I first laid eyes on them in Jaisalmer. They look exactly like the linens I slept under for two months in my Mumbai home. They are kitsch and fabulous. They are offensively bright. They are delicious.

And I couldn't wait to curl up in my Melbourne home under my own piece of India. They smelt like India. I slept like a baby. A content, Mumbai baby.

And the next day I scratched. I itched and itched and itched. Apologies to the mosquitoes I wrongly accused of biting my feet. Once the bites travelled up my ankles and to my calves I had a moment of de ja vue. Yes. I had seen these bites before. I had felt these bites before. These tiny, tangy bites. Bed bugs. Bed bugs who had delighted in delving into my skin on the trains in India and on the suspicious 'clean linens' in the hostels I stayed in while exploring Rajasthan. These bugs were also enjoying a nibble on my legs in my bed in Melbourne. Yes, these little ones enjoyed sharing the journey with Aamir, Kareena and Aishwayra.

Unlike India, my Melbourne home has a washing machine.

All is well.

I wish I may, I wish I might, never leave Bombay - not even for a night!

Alas, my secret (or not so secret!) desire to never leave my beloved Bombay did not eventuate. As yet, no Bollywood film star has romantically danced across the sunset towards me with gallant proposals of a filthy rich life of luxury and Indian romance (teamed with vacations saving the poor of course). No Indian laws have changed making it possible for me to remain in Bombay indefinitely. And so, I had to pack up my bags, nauseously get into a black and yellow metal box on four wheels and depart my Indian home. But, I was not going down without a fight. Bombay, I was saying goodnight not goodbye.

And so, how to guarantee my return? I would have wished upon a star but my city's eye-stinging smog tends to hide even the brightest ball of solar fun. I hung around Shahrukh Khan's house (that's a blog in itself!) hoping to be cast in an upcoming film necessitating my return. (No film offers unfortunately - but have made great friends with his security guard which could be handy for future casting attempts.) As a true Bandra girl, I knew only one option remained - Mount Mary's.

YOU CAN SEE THE ACTUAL CHURCH IN MARY'S REFLECTION.

Mount Mary's is a beautiful catholic church in the leafy 'Queen of the Suburbs', my home turf, Bandra. Pilgrims come to visit Mary in the hope that she will grant them their most fervent desires. I learned quickly that worship is not done in a standard fashion on the Mount in Bandra. Wax is the way to Mary's heart. For a few rupees you can buy a wax figure of whatever it is your heart desires. A husband, new house, better intelligence, spare limbs, good health for a sick friend, a larger pair of breasts. All of life's necessities.

And so I bought my wax figurines and offered my gifts to Mary. And the whole time I tried to be a believer. Not a believer in Mary - I'm already strongly that - but a believer in the rs 30/- wax figurine that would bring me back to Bombay. I certainly haven't learnt in my time going to church that the way to get things you want is to flatter Mary with candles? But, it really works. It happened to a friend of a friend of mine. She got a husband, house and car all within one year. Mary was obviously feeling quite generous on that day. But the secret is, that you have to take it seriously. It is not something to be mocked. Or laughed at. And most importantly, you can't tell anyone what you asked Mary for. It's like blowing out the candles on your birthday cake - spill the beans and the birthday magic won't come true.

A PLANE TO TAKE ME HOME TO BOMBAY.

So let's just keep it a secret between you and I that I did mock this a teeny weeny bit. And yes, I may or may not have giggled while offering my wax figurine to the beautiful marble statue. And, oops, I've clearly told you what I asked Mary for. But hopefully, the key point will be that Mother Mary now knows what my deepest desires are and will grant them. I want to return to Bombay. (And I want a good looking, Bollywood husband!)