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!)

Neglecting the blog..

In just two short weeks I shall be home in Australia and will have reliable internet access. The blog shall then stop being neglected and shall in fact burst with stories of the adventures I've had up north and the places I've visited.

Have seen some incredible projects and organisations' work so will share some of their stories here too. For now, have a look at SKSN's website. Unstoppable people making the most incredible difference to many children's lives. Plus, these kids had such an energy about them!

And my transformation into an Indian woman is almost complete. A lovely girl Leela at SKSN painted my arm beautifully with henna and an old man with cataracts in Udaipur violently pierced my nose.

Look forward to sharing it all with you soon.

All is well.

Oh Delhi, how I despise thee.

And so the one place in India I've wanted to escape wouldn't let me out of her clutches. Delhi. Le Capital. The city of circles and numbered streets and blocks that no local Delhi-ite, rickshaw driver or good looking tourist like me will EVER be able to navigate. Sure, Mumbai's streets are renamed every thirty-four days and so noone actually knows what streets are called here either. However, every good Maharastran taxi driver will gladly take you to your nearest landmark. Bombay's finest men speed towards Regal Cinema for me. (NOTE: Having the local cinema as your nearest landmark is handy as everyone knows it and therefore can find your house. Also handy as it means I can sporadically decide to indulge in a 3-hour-long Hindi love-fest blockbuster anytime I please.) Delhi has no such Regal Cinema to guide a taxi driver's efforts. Instead they spend hours circling one-way streets. Lucky they are all wankers who refuse to turn on the meter and instead charge an exhorbitant flat fare. After they drive around for 90mins trying to find your hotel they generally regret not having earnt four times as much by having put it on the meter. Success! Although I cannot navigate your streets Delhi, this Bombay girl has at least won the battle of the taxi driver.

Mumbai 1 : Delhi 0

Delhi has order. Queues. Arrows painted on the ground directing traffic in one half of the train carriage door and other arrows directing traffic out of the other half. And Delhi-ites unquestioningly followed these absurd arrows. They lined up and waited patiently. Delhi-ites, join me and the masses at Churchgate station in Bombay and see how you fare lining up and waiting your turn. I've tried it. It doesn't work. And it's boring. Get a life Delhi-ites. Get some urgency. Get some Bombay spunk. Spend a week riding the trains with me in my beloved Bombay and I will have you rushing the crowds on the platform like a pro. I will have you so lost and tangled in a sea of passengers coming in and out and on and up and down from the train that you will feel as though you are caught in a rip in the salty ocean. But at least you will have some character.

Mumbai 2 : Delhi 0

5 foot trenches sporadically placed by the sides of dark road create an inconvenient and potentially fatal obstacle course for those visiting Delhi. Yes, the Commonwealth Games are coming. Let us build up! Up! Up! Let us build faster and taller. And let us do an incredibly shoddy job of creating barriers around the 5 foot holes we've started to dig and then gotten bored and moved on elsewhere. Walking home from Connaught Place we had to move to the footpath (how very un-Bombay of us) as the roads were exploding with Delhi traffic. Angry rickshaw drivers were driving erratically due to them being as frustrated as me about the one-way streets. Stepping onto the footpath we stepped into darkness. Walking along, my little sister stepped around a car (yes, a car parked over the footpath) and fell straight into a 1.5m trench. We used our brute strength (that we had accumulated from all the nutritious Bombay food we have been eating) to haul her out of the near-invisible pit of doom. Hobbling home in her blood-soaked thongs after just surviving a near-fatal experience she remarked that upon coming to India she had expected to die in an horrific car accident or get bed bugs. But she didn't expect to fall down a hole taller than her on one of Delhi's busiest roads. And so, although having only a few scratches from the ordeal, we will still remember the outer circle of Connaught Place as the death trap. Delhi has, however, earned herself half a point for the two young men who waltzed up to us all leaning into the hole trying to get Shannon out. They looked at us in a puzzled way. They looked at each other as if trying to ascertain if the other had been able to establish why four tourists were playing in holes in the dark Delhi night. Then one of the men turned to us and in broken English (and with appropriately fabulous hand gestures) directed us to 'go round!' the car. Oh derr. So Delhi, your two young sons (who must have originally been from Bombay to be that fantastic) gave us no help whatsoever but did amuse us immensely. Well done to you.

Mumbai 3 : Delhi 0.5

Veda you could be just what Delhi needs to catch up to Mumbai's glory. Veda, a restaurant I didn't expect to find in India was exquisite. It was a warm, extravagant restaurant covered in wallpaper, velvet and leather chairs. The food was to die for. But I barely noticed the best tasting menu I have ever eaten due to being so blown away by the intricate interior design that made this an incredible place to dine. Chandeliers, candles, mirrors, over-sized thrones, a DJ pumping out a repetoire that would be found on a 'Chillout Sessions' compilation album. Oh yes. Please close the restaurant immediately so that I can move in here and live in velvety-red bliss forever. Keep the bar open though. A few more of your delightfully delicious cocktails would not go astray. And I lied about not noticing the food. This vegetarian-food-vaccuum was blown away. Gourmet, cosmopolitan Indian food. Who knew it was possible? And yet I am still salivating at the thought of the tandoori roasted, stuffed potatoes. Or the prawns baked in deliciousness for me to dive into. Veda, the most delightful restaurant in the world, you complete me. And you are in Delhi. Now, it would seem that Delhi, instead of Mumbai should deserve a point for holding claim to Veda. However no. It seems that Delhi is in fact holding Veda back. Veda would be twice the restaurant she is if she was able to flourish in a town like Bombay. Delhi, for your selfishness in keeping Veda all to yourself, I am deducting one point from you.

Mumbai 3 : Delhi - 0.5

And Delhi. How dare you try to use my love of Islam and her mosques to try and win me over?? An incredible place of worship where over 25,000 Muslims can gather to praise Allah - I could not have been more excited to see it. The mosque was simple and elegant. It had an understated extravagance. The arches and scalloped entrances were enchanting. And again, a religion that is so foreign to me, had me totally enthralled. Islam is more accessible to me in my little Christian bubble than Hinduism as it is focussed around one God. And although I am not a Muslim, I could appreciate the demonstration of love that motivated the Islamic community to construct, maintain and visit the mosque to worship and focus their lives around their God. Truly beautiful. Truly amazing. However Delhi, my adoration of this mosque did not quite get you another point on the board. What? Did you forget what you made us do in that mosque? Yes, you welcomed us warmly. You invited us in. And then you made us wear bright coloured, polka-dotted art-smock styled moo-moos. Homer Simpson style. In a place of such beauty, how could you make us look so hideous? And my questions aren't even motivated by a selfish desire to look attractive. My questions are motivated by a desire to not make every other pilgrim vomit at the sight of flourescent, circus-tent-shaped blobs of hideousness? Mumbai would never have done this to us. Bonus points to Mumbai for making us feel hot.

Mumbai 7 : Delhi - 0.5

And just when I wanted to run from Delhi and arrive safely in Bombay's predictably chaotic, yet welcoming arms.. I couldn't. Delhi was not willing to let go of me. Who could blame her really? Delhi's cool-factor increased seven-fold having a trending Bombay-ite like me roaming her streets. But I escaped. I made it through the construction madness to the airport. I made it through the non-sensical security checks. (Note: Brett Louise, stop trying to take matches on board. They cost rs 1/- for a pack of 50. A new pack at the other end won't bankrupt you and save you being felt up by the over-friendly security staff.) Yes. It seemed as though I had survived the Delhi experience to make it home to Bombay. But Delhi had one last trick up her sleeve. Fog. Fog like you've never seen. Fog like someone blew up a cotton-wool factory and it landed all over the capital city. Fog that made me feel like I was in a blizzard. (Note: It was freezing in Delhi. After Bombay's balmy 33 degree average, Delhi's 15 degrees had us all shivering. Cardigans came out. Long sleeve tops and leggings went on under our Salwars. Scarves were no longer a fashion accessory/sweat collector but a necessity to ensure ears didn't get frostbite.) And Delhi's cotton-wool, blizzard like fog meant that no planes could take off, no cars could drive on the road and it caused everyone to go insanely loopy. Flight cancelled. No chance to get home. Delhi, that was a low-move. SMOG trumps FOG any day of the week. Bombay, I'm sorry. You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. I promise to never complain about your sweet, sweet air that is slowly poisoning my lungs. At least it is not holding me hostage for days in an airport.

Mumbai 57 : Delhi - 0.5

Long live my smoggy, predictably chaotic, energetic, beautiful, colourful Bombay. This girl has had her allegiances tested. And my loyalty has remained intact. Delhi, you didn't even put up a good fight. Scorecard might as well read Mumbai 2,003,009,433: Delhi 0. Bombay is home.

All is well.

North Indian Escape

And so I shall return on Wednesday with stories of my delightful escape to the Taj Mahal and my chaotic adventures through Delhi to show my nationalistic pride on Tuesday at the Republic Day Parade at the India Gate. You'll be glad to know I have seats less than 100m away from the Prime Minister. Perfect opportunity for me to tell him all about my plans to become Indian.

Happy to be spending the 26th of January celebrating all that is fabulous about India. Won't miss Australia Day for a second. Too much goodness, generosity and energy to be had here in my new home.

Viva India.

Hinduism: a love affair

At the start of this Indian adventure I was fascinated with Hinduism. I got overly excited by the kitsch flourescent orange Ganesh statues that lined the trashy tourist stalls along the Causeway. I have been embarrasingly fixated on the flashing fairy lights and diamontes that adorn the shrines in people's homes in slum communities. I have travelled 3.5 hours on a train to go visit the holy Godavari river on the off-chance that it really is holy and I would be healed from my mozzie bite epidemic. (I will never know if the Godavari would have healed me as I decided that a few mozzie bites were better than catching something far more toxic in the rubbish and waste filled river.)

I feel I have also been bribed into loving Hinduism as every time I visit a temple I am given sweets. Yes. They bless, then share with me delicious sugar filled delights. Wandering along the street stalls in Nasik I went into a frenzy over the bright coloured beads, bracelets and other holy trinkets that are supposed to bring the Hindu Gods closer to you. Then there is just the sheer quantity of the Gods. Who could not be impressed by a religion with over 6000 Gods?!! (Hmm so it's more like 300 but that didn't sound quite as earth shattering.) Hinduism is so foreign and abstract to me. And I admit it, I have been a little bit in love with Hinduism.

Love affair is over. I am now angry with Hinduism.

A morning at Elephanta Caves was all it took for the entire love affair to crash and burn. I have reboarded my feminist bandwagon and have been enraged at the submission of women. Women, who already find themselves confined in Indian society, are reminded in the carvings at Elephanta Island that they must play the understudy to the males in society. Hindu stories of their Gods lay the foundations for women to play a submissive role to women. Take one such carving of Shiva and his wife Parvati. Shiva and Parvati were spending a chilled evening at home, relaxing with a glass of red and playing an enjoyable game of dice. Shiva won the game – but only by cheating. Parvati got on her moral high-horse and didn't want to play with him anymore as she felt his cheating ripped the fun out of the game. All mighty Shiva responded by demanding that she continue playing and told her that in life you lose lots of battles and that you should just get used to it and continue fighting. Good advice. However the authorised Government guide who took us for a tour told us that this is an important carving as it reminded women of their place in society and that they must follow their husband's direction even if he is cheating. In other words, do what your told even if it's crap. Shiva, I thought you were cool.

Look, maybe I just have an issue with the carvings at Elephanta because one depicted Shiva fighting off the demon 'ego'. Yes. Elephanta purports to tell us all that having an ego is a bad thing. Well Elephanta obviously doesn't know how amazing I am.

So Hinduism. I issue you with a challenge. I dare you to make me fall back in love with you. Get out the sweets, the kitsch figurines and the peace and love. Win me back.