The Last Book I Loved: Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure

I am shitting my pants. Totally. Completely. And … well, figuratively.

One night before my travel partner and I are scheduled to fly to Mumbai, she ditches me for Berlin. The city, not the band. So I am alone in Ethiopia, having second and third and fourth thoughts about heading to India solo.

For starters, I never wanted to go there. Everyone says you’ll love it or hate it, and most of them hate it. Also, I once read an article that said India has more cell phones than toilets, so I imagine this as 30 straight days of ass pinching. It’s too intimidating. Too impoverished. Too India.

But my travel partner talked me into it. She promised that after three months trekking in South America and five months traveling through Africa, we would be armed and ready for India’s insanity. We would be tough chicks who never fall for scams. We would hoist our backpacks into the air with our pinkies. We would piss standing up.

Except that’s not me at all.

I’m just a girl, alone in a moldy Addis Ababa hotel room with an upset stomach and one last, crumbly Pepto Bismol chewable. I’m headed for a destination that scares the hell out of me. I’m scheduled to land smack in the middle of it all — slums, chaos, crowds and confusion — at 4 a.m. I haven’t booked a place to stay yet, because nobody will return my e-mails or phone calls. And I am doubting every decision of this trip, every moment that led me to this place, everything that involved quitting my job, leaving my family, saying goodbye to my dog, all of it.

That’s when I picked up Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure by Sarah Macdonald. My husband tucked the paperback into a random pocket on my backpack, and I’ve been lugging it around ever since. Every time I’ve been tempted to trade it in at a hostel book exchange in favor of a Steig Larsson or a noncommittal vampire novel, I’ve resisted and hung on to it anyway.

Written by an Australian radio correspondent, Holy Cow is the story of a woman who backpacked through India, hated it and vowed to never return. Eleven years later, her longtime partner convinced her otherwise. The book is a memoir of two years Macdonald spent with her boyfriend in Delhi, learning to love a country that frightened and overwhelmed her.

I read the book straight through. And then I read it again on my flight, while a Bollywood movie obnoxiously blared in the background. The writing was raw and honest, as the author practically splits open on each page. During a sampling of India’s “spiritual smorgasbord,” Macdonald plucks charm out of the confusion and finds friends among the foreign. It’s a story of second chances, of discovering beauty and joy where there was dislike and distain, of being reborn.

After immersing myself in Holy Cow, I felt as if I finally had permission to be uncomfortable and apprehensive about India. Or any country I travel through, for that matter. When I was done with the book, I thought maybe I’d find the good in this place. Maybe I wouldn’t. But at least I’d give it a shot.

So I did. It turns out that I’m one of those people who fell in love with India at first sight. I adored Mumbai’s vibrant city culture. I zig-zagged down the coast and up the other side, all the way to Kolkata. I found my way onto beaches, into ashrams and inside people’s homes. I visited holy temples. I prayed. I cried. I ate. I laughed.

And yes, I found toilets.