I could seriously spend all day walking around India, photographing all the signs that crack me up.
But I don’t have all day — so here are just a few that struck my fancy.
I like how this one is so detailed.
Please stop with the fire crackers in church!
Yes. Definitely beware of white college students from Seattle.
Helpful fashion tips from the local police department.
For the last time, please take off those filthy shooes.
Most people don’t realize that southern India is peppered with Christian churches. And by “most people,” I really mean “me.”
While I knew India was a unique stew of religions and philosophies, I somehow left Christianity out of the recipe. Thankfully, traveling around Goa has enlightened me — in just a week I’ve already seen enough stunning places of worship to rival the biggest European cathedrals.
Here’s the story: The Portuguese came into town a few hundred years ago, tore down a bunch of Indian temples and built churches there instead. No, that wasn’t very nice. But wow, do the Portuguese know how to build a church.
The structures are a peculiar marriage of simplicity and ornateness. Toothpaste white exteriors give way to elaborate carvings, excessive gilding and grandiose pulpits. The result is nothing short of spectacular.
This one was broken. (I didn’t do it!)
Wow.
Mumbai was sensory overload. The sights! The smells! The potatoes!
All carbs aside, I’m glad it was my introduction to India, because this city and I immediately got off on the right foot. After a particularly trying month in Ethiopia, coming to India felt like I was finally waking up from a long, deep sleep.
The Artist Formerly Known as Bombay is a gorgeous place, saturated in color and fragrance. Garbage trucks are pink, the streets are hung with silky sari fabric in deep greens, blues and reds, statues are festooned with necklaces of orange marigolds, and purple boats float in the harbor.
The good streets are laced with the scent of fried potatoes, chili peppers and blooming flowers, while the bad streets smell like dog shit. But everything was so overwhelmingly whimsical and charming, it was easy to forgive anything less than wonderful.
Here are some photos from my first day in town.
Maybe I’ve been in the developing world too long and have become immune to suffering — because I didn’t even notice the dying donkey on the sidewalk until I stepped over him.
The donkey’s gray fur was matted with sweat, urine and dirt. Chunks of skin were missing along the length of his legs. His mouth trembled with a large pink lesion, and his eye was weeping fluid. He panted. His ear flicked. He looked about two breaths away from death.
My friend Tanya stopped, pressed her hands against her heart and made sympathetic noises.
Then we walked on. There was nothing we could do.
After lunch we walked past the donkey again. I shook my head and turned away. He looked dead. We were too late.
But Tanya whipped a plastic grocery bag and a bottle of water out of her backpack.
She situated the bag underneath the donkey’s snout, careful to avoid covering his nostrils, and poured a small bit of water inside the bag. The donkey’s eyelid fluttered ever so slightly.
The donkey no longer had the energy to move his head, but the side of his mouth tried to slurp the water. Slowly, slowly, he emptied the bag.
Again, Tanya filled the plastic with water and tipped it enough to drain into the donkey’s mouth.
By now a small crowd had formed around us. People who were hurrying to catch the bus, vendors from local stalls, women with babies in their arms, taxi drivers, businessmen on their way home from work — they all stopped. One man said the donkey had been there for three days, but this is the first time anyone paid any attention to him.
My friend Deborah started on water duty, while Tanya and I carefully hoisted the donkey’s head and neck up a few inches to give him a better angle for drinking.
One leg kicked. Then another.
“Water makes donkey strong!” said a man on the street, who stopped to watch the commotion.
Another man walked along the sidewalk and picked handfuls of grass and weeds. He brought these greens to the donkey and laid them beside his head.
Two more men lifted the donkey a few inches off the ground, then positioned him a few feet away on flatter, less rocky ground.
“It’s better,” one man said, nodding to the donkey. “More comfort.”
The donkey guzzled nearly four liters of water and looked remarkably better. He still didn’t have the ability to stand, but he no longer looked pained. Tanya looked up the number for a donkey rescue organization and told them how to find the dying animal.
It was a valuable lesson for me. When I thought there was nothing I could do for this poor donkey, there actually was. And it also demonstrated how action becomes inspiration, and inspiration becomes further action.
I don’t know if Tanya saved that donkey — but she certainly made an impact on every person who stopped on the street and witnessed her compassion. And that includes me.
Thomas was someone I met on the street — an Ethiopian man who was so kind, I was certain he had an ulterior motive.
But if there was a sinister side to Thomas, it never emerged. Instead, he was just incredibly nice to my friends and me. He showed us around town. He took us to a famous restaurant for authentic Ethiopian food. He helped us navigate the minibus system throughout town. He negotiated a price for our bus tickets down south. And in a whopping show of hospitality, he invited us back to his cousin’s house for the coffee ceremony.
After all, Ethiopia is the place where coffee was born, and this is the place that does it best.
The coffee ceremony takes place every afternoon in just about every home, restaurant and cafe in the country. This is the main social event of the day.
First, long wisps of fragrant grass are spread across the floor. Hot coals are fanned with a piece of cardboard. A round metal pan is placed on top of the coals, and fresh coffee beans sizzle and pop as they roast.
When the beans are ebony black and shiny with aromatic oils, they are ground into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle.
Meanwhile, a kettle of water has come to a rolling boil over a squatty pot of coals. The grounds are combined with the hot water inside a black, clay pot, where the brew soaks and steeps for several minutes. When the coffee is complete, it is poured into espresso-sized china cups.
After the first round, the pot with the coffee grounds is refilled with more hot water. After the grounds steep for several more minutes, a second round of coffee is passed around.
Then there is a third round, completing the ceremony.
Really, it’s just about as far from instant coffee as you can get.
In contrast, my typical coffee ceremony involves me sleepy-eyedand grumpy, spilling grounds all over the kitchen counter and shouting “@#$%!!” when the Mr. Coffee drip machine takes too damn long.
I prefer it the Ethiopian way. It’s a slow process, but it is satisfying. As the coffee is prepared, there is time for conversation. The coffee is shared and enjoyed. The taste is richer, evoking chocolate and caramel.
It is coffee the way it was meant to be savored. It is a ceremony.
Beyond the coffee ceremony, the regular Ethiopian brews and the soy macchiatos (yes, soy!) are reason enough to visit this country. Check out this gorgeous coffee.
