travel

The rippling sound of giggles, screams and laughter had more power than the waterfall’s babble.

About 10 women stood in a circle, holding hands. They were waist deep in the greenish water, bouncing up for one second before submerging themselves all at once. Their sari fabrics billowed and ebbed with the currents, swirling in a cacophony of color.

These ladies were modest enough to wear their clothes into the water, but practical enough to leave their panties behind on the dry rocks.

After about 20 minutes of bouncing and delicate paddling, the whole scene devolved into splashing and dunking. Their laughter was practically electric, impregnating the air with lightness and joy.

India does a lot of things well. Unfortunately, coffee is not one of them.

Ever since I arrived in this country, I have tried — and failed — to find a decent cup of joe. I’m not talking fancy steamed soy milk sugar-free almond lattes here. I simply want coffee grounds that have been introduced to hot water.

Every time I sit down at a restaurant or find a coffee stand, I ask if they serve filtered coffee, REAL coffee. And every time I’m given the traditional Indian head waggle.

Inevitably, I am given a cup of weak, instant Nescafe, and that’s just not gonna cut it for this caffeine fiend.

At my hostel in Mysore, I decided to give it one last go. “Coffee? Tea?” asked the bellhop. “No charge.”

“Sure, I’ll try some coffee,” I said.

The bellhop proceeded to bring me a tall glass of the palest, saddest brew I’ve ever seen. It looked like coffee that had given up on life, coffee that needed an intervention, suicidal coffee.

The bellhop thrust out his open palm. “Twenty rupees.”

“You said no charge,” I reminded.

“Ah, no charge for the coffee,” he said. “Twenty rupees for me to bring it to you.”

I grudgingly forked over a bill.

That beige coffee-ish liquid wasn’t working for me, so I decided to pull out all the stops. I asked the bellhop for a cup of hot water.

See, I have a weapon — a top-secret stash of Starbucks Via. Yes, it’s instant, but it’s the lesser of all instant evils. I have been carrying these packets around the world for nine months now, carefully rationing as I go and saving them for dire circumstances.

In Mysore, I was ready. All I needed was a cup of hot water.

“No hot water,” said the bellhop. “Is not possible.”

“Why not possible?”

“No hot water.”

“But you have water to make coffee, right?” I said.

“Yes.”

“But no water if I want hot water.”

“Exactly.”

“Where can I get hot water?”

The bellhop flipped his hand noncommittally. He shrugged, “Out there. Outside.”

So I asked the manager where I could find a cup of hot water. The manager exchanged words with the bellhop and chastised him in rapid Hindi.

The bellhop grimaced at me. “Fine. Two minutes,” he promised.

Thirty minutes later, a tall glass with hot water arrived in my room.

Thanking the man, I tipped him 10 rupees.

I tore open the Starbucks packet and poured it in at once. The powder swirled, danced and swelled as my spoon made a current through the hot water. Soon the clear liquid was a satisfying, rich brown. The aroma of roasted beans and warmth filled my nose. I was just about to lift the glass to my lips when …

The bellhop rapped at my door.

“Do not drink that, madam” he said.

“Why not?”

“I have done something bad,” he said, hanging his head in shame. “The water is not safe for the drinking.”

I handed him the cup and he pivoted on one foot. Then my Starbucks — and questionable water — disappeared down a mildew-encrusted hallway.

One packet down.