My Friend Vinny

It’s been 4 days since I arrived in Bombay and I just can’t seem get into the swing of things. Don’t get me wrong – there have been some amazing highlights. Watching the sunset over Chowpatty beach was pretty awesome; sampling the city’s culinary delights without so much as a whiff of the squits has been a huge victory; and I’m particularly tickled by the huge interest I’m attracting from the locals. I can’t seem to so much as walk up the road without being stared or pointed at. I’ve even been asked to have my photo taken with some of them! You’d have thought they’d never seen a blonde-haired, white girl before.

On the downside, my jet lag hasn’t shown any signs of abating and while insomnia and I may be familiar bedfellows, not even I can tolerate this much sleep deprivation. So yesterday I decided enough was enough. It was time to call in the cavalry…

My friend Vinny is a budding Bollywood writer/director and he’d come out here a few weeks ago to do a bit of moving and shaking. Vin’s a sweet and sensitive kinda guy and I felt sure he’d be able to soothe my soul and get me back on track. We met for dinner at a bistro in Bandra, Bombay’s swanky media district and we wiled away the hours chewing the fat and the fine food while watching all the beautiful people go by. 

Afterwards, we set off in search of a mobile phone store as I desperately needed to save on the extortionate costs I was clocking up on my Blackberry. And that’s when I met Nihal.  The man was a telecoms genius. Within minutes he had me up and running, having negotiated all the boring paperwork, liaised with the network and even sorted me out with a few cool ring tones. I was now the proud owner of a charming retro brick of a phone and I was bloody impressed. I liked Nihal and I knew his can-do spirit would come in handy. I determined then and there that I would be back to mine his marvellous mind…and I’ve since dropped by to quiz him on everything from where to eat to who to go to for travel tickets – I’ve even asked for his steer on the best brand of laxatives (but that’s a whole other story).

It had been a great night. Vinny had done the trick. I had the spring back in my step. So I decided to reward his efforts with a nightcap back at my hotel. But that’s when the happy-go-lucky Vinny suddenly transformed into the voice of gloom and doom. For 30 minutes without pause, my normally sunshiney friend regaled me with every horror story and rip-off scam that Bombay had going. So now I know that I should never, ever step into the back of a Bombay police van, even if I’m directly requisitioned to; walking on the city’s pavements is a major no-no as that’s where the local rats like to hang; only the plain stupid and mentally deranged actually eat the fish here – oh, and blonde-haired women are widely regarded as prostitutes by the local population (so that explains all the attention I’ve been getting).

By the time I made it to bed, my head was spinning. Thanks to Vinny, I knew I was in for yet another sleepless night.

Bombay or Bust?

I’m a heavy smoker with an irrational fear of flying so I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of my long flight to Bombay. But with a full box of Nicorette patches and enough sleeping pills to sedate an army, I managed to endure the journey without too many altercations.

As I stepped off the aircraft and began the marathon pilgrimage towards passport control, baggage reclaim and beyond, I felt a Zen-like calm wash over me – I had come this far without so much as a hint of a hissy fit. I gave myself a great big mental pat on the back. This was personal growth - the perfect start to my Indian Slummer adventure.

Alas, this newfound composure wasn’t to last.

I’ve been to India before, in 1994 during a summer break from Uni. But back then I didn’t have a clue about just how poverty stricken this country was. It had taken me a good 3 weeks to acclimatise – I had never seen or smelt a place quite like it. I remember being utterly overwhelmed as I took in the sights of people brazenly shitting into open sewers and whole families living cheek-by-jowl in makeshift huts by the sides of busy roads. I thought these images would be forever etched in my psyche. But I guess 18 years is a long time.

As my Kamikaze cab driver carved a suicidal swathe through oncoming traffic and hurtled headlong into the cacophonic chaos of downtown Bombay towards my hotel, the memories of ’94 came flooding back. Suddenly, I felt bitch slapped by the reality of my situation. The idyllic India bubble had burst leaving behind a knot of anxiety and panic.

I’ve now checked in at my hotel. It’s basic, but clean. I can’t really complain. I’ve managed to calm myself down. But still, as I lie on this strange bed, coated in cold sweat and smoking like a Russian prostitute, I find myself utterly confounded. What on earth am I doing here? Who am I trying to kid? I’m too old to change. Queen of Serene? Me? My arse! 

Who Am I?

Most people would call me high maintenance. From my carefully coiffed curls to my manicured toes, I like things to be just so. And when it comes to dirt, mess, even the faintest whiff of anything remotely funky, I turn virtually apoplectic. To call me a diva is an understatement - I’m a fully-fledged, tiara-toting, pampered princess. So when I decided to jack in my top-notch job and sign up for a 3-month backpacking tour of India; my friends and family thought I’d completely lost the plot.  Nevertheless, here I am.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I’ve come here to “find myself” – after all, I’m pushing 40, divorced, childless and I won’t lie to you, I’m more than a little bit jaded by way my life has unfolded so far. But actually, I’m not in the slightest bit lost. I know exactly who I am. I just don’t particularly like myself. I’ve tried therapy, spirituality and seriously considered cosmetic surgery. But the monotonous hum of self-loathing continues to form the soundtrack to my life. I could carry on crying into my cornflakes, but I don’t think “victim” is a look an almost 40 year old should rock.

So I’ve swapped my skinny jeans and stacked heels for some baggy bottoms and a pair of flip-flops. I’ve scraped off the make-up that masks my misery, surrendered my curls to a thicket of wild and unruly frizz and become an Indian Slummer. I feel naked and alone and for the first time in my life I’m facing up to myself. I really don’t like what I see, but I’m hoping a lot will change in the next 3 months.