THE ROAD TO BUNDI

The northwestern Indian state of Rajastan  is filled with ancient city forts.  One of the lesser known of these is the town of Bundi.  We went to Bundi hoping to find a low key version of some of its more famous brethren like Jodphur, Jaipur and Jaisalmer.  However, our travels are not always about the destination...just as often  the journey is every bit as interesting.

Palace above Bundi

A tortured narrow ribbon of blacktop.  Lurching along, dodging potholes large enough to swallow an unwary cow.  Patches on patches cover what little remains of the road that is not potholed. 

Rock walls stacked in horizontal mortarless works of art undulating over the Rajastani desert. Corralled tailings  from local sandstone quarries… the building blocks of India’s ancient monuments.

 Overtaking a lumbering overloaded truck, dropping two wheels onto the rough rocky road shoulder.  Equally overloaded truck bearing down on us.  Averting a collision of unimaginable proportions, our driver wrenches the wheel to the left.   Another  imminent disaster thwarted.  I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful that I will live to see another day.

Rounding a bend in the road, the blacktop disappears entirely.  We inch along a rough dirt track. Bouncing and jouncing down a steep incline.   A lush river valley opens below.  Mine tailings give way to verdant green rice and vegetable fields that provide nourishment for India’s teeming masses. 

Ahead,  a tractor trailer combination piled impossibly wide and high with rice stalks straddles the road.  Cattle and goats blocking the road, hungrily eye the passing feast.  A wily cow,  narrowly missing a one way trip to the butcher, snatches a mouthful from the passing load.  The cow, oblivious to its narrow escape, munches contentedly on its ill gotten meal and appears to grin as we pass by.

 In a cloud of dust we bump back onto the patchwork quilt of asphalt which expires as we enter a small village degenerating into a rough path of rutted dirt.  The rice fields give way to mud shanties the color of the surrounding dirt.  A mother pulls the veil of her immaculate crimson sari over her mouth, nose, and babe in arms as we trundle past in a haze of brownish-red dust.  A small girl washes dishes by a pump that is the town’s water supply.  A wizened mustached Rajastani man with a gigantic multi-colored turban squats, surreptitiously relieving himself by the roadside.  A chai shop is occupied by several men with skin browned by the intense desert sun.  Pigs, goats and cows  meander across the road unaware of impending death from passing vehicles. 

Our driver is a study in what not to do.  He lugs the motor mercilessly. He is either clueless about the concept of downshifting or feels that anything below third gear is for wimps.  He passes other vehicles when he should not.  His body odor is akin to a dead goat.  This smell is unrelenting except for when he farts... the odor of rotten cabbage, old ashtrays and dead skunk.  His teeth apparently have never been brushed and when he smiles it is like looking into the mouth of a corpse long buried.

Behind us the the sun has lost the blazing yellow of mid-day, now  muted to reds and oranges as it slowly sinks into the haze of the western sky.  

We are nearing Bundi, an ancient desert fortress town.  Traffic slows, then stalls. We are treated to the belching exhaust of  un-tuned diesel engines of countless trucks, buses and automobiles.  The setting sunlight filters through dust thickened fog that chokes and blinds.  At last, we turn off the main road, dropping into Bundi; marveling at the old palace and fort that tower high above in the waning light.  We wend our way down narrow streets to find our hotel, a converted palace, to a much needed bed for the night.