In the morning when we get to AHOPE, we meet Nate, who works for AAI. He has brought over a new adoptive father, a man from the midwest who is adopting a little girl. We watch as he greets her, and sits calmly with her on the front steps of the house. They sit together in silence, and she looks up at him with wide eyes.

The lawyers from Makush arrive, and they are great with the kids. They sit with them, and hug them, and let them use their cameras to take pictures. They are unlike the people who came earlier in the week who looked at them as if they were aliens, and asked questions like, is it okay to touch them? and, do you worry about catching HIV? People like this need a good slap, and I will happily volunteer to give it to them. The lawyers play with the kids for hours, until they have to go, and we leave soon after.

We go on a quest for Korean/Japanese food, and we end up on another taxi to Bole Rd. Our driver tells us he will tell us when to get off, but he doesn’t and we end up at the end of the road. So we end up on another taxi, and then we walk for ages, looking for the restaurant. We are getting sunburnt, dehydrated and crusty, and eventually we give in and get a private cab. He takes us back to the last bus stop and turns down a side road we would never have found. By the time we get to the restaurant, it is closed, so we have to pay him to take us to another place.

The second place is Lebanese, and when we sit down, M asks for a bathroom. She is escorted away, and she returns a few minutes later with a stunned look on her face. It turns out that the man brought her to a bedroom, instead of a bathroom. When she realized that there was no hidden squat toilet, she had to ask for a BATHroom in Amharic. We all laugh at the thought that this man thought there was nothing odd about a white girl asking to go to a bedroom in the middle of the day. Then we order copious amounts of hummus and about 47 bottles of water.

On our way out of the restaurant, the four of us are walking down a small road when I say that it feels as if we are a gang. A big ferenge (white) gang. The whitest, most ineffectual gang in the history of time. As if to prove my point, when we turn the corner, a bunch of young boys playing soccer yell FERENGE! and try to play with us.

On our first day volunteering at AHOPE, T and I are assigned to sort through the medical supply closet with Tigist, the beautiful nurse. Supplies come in all the time, from families adopting through other organizations, and the closet is chock full of stuff. One plastic bin is almost entirely full of toothbrushes, and we find jar after jar of vitamins. We sort them by expiration date, putting them in boxes for 2008 and 2009, and chucking the ones that have already expired. We go through all the giant bins and manage to finish before lunch, but the triumph is shortlived, since more boxes will inevitably soon arrive.

In the afternoon, we go shopping. M and B teach us how to take the public taxis, which are Toyota Hiace vans in blue and white, with four rows of seats. Men hang out the windows of these vans, yelling their destination: Mexicomexico, or Piassapiassa. The taxis dont leave until theyre full, and by full, they mean three people in front, two in the first three seats, four in the back row, and people sitting on the back wheel.

We go to the Churchill St shops, since the girls say Mercado is too crazy. There is a short row of stores selling jewelry and art and other souvenirs; in the middle, there is a restaurant that the girls say has the best pineapple juice ever. We stop for some juice, and its so good that M and I each have two. I dont buy anything (which T thinks is a miracle), but the girls both get some small things.

For dinner, we go to an Indian restaurant on Bole Rd., one of the most famous roads in Addis. B doesnt think she likes Indian, so we decide that she just needs to know what to try. Our waiter is a man with a wide smile who helps us order, telling us we need X number of naan, and X number of dishes, and showing us which to eat in which order. I wasnt thrilled about eating Indian again, so soon after leaving and in another country, but the food is delicious and B does change her mind. Before we leave, I tell the waiter that we were just in India, and his food is just as good. He nods, knowingly, as though I have just told him I am not African, or something equally obvious and simple.

After dinner, the girls take us to Makush Gallery, just a few doors down from the restaurant. As we are walking up the stairs, the Americans in front of us start talking to T, and it turns out that they are law students from Northwestern who have been trying to get in touch with AHOPE for an adoption project theyre doing. They plan to visit the following day, and we check out the art, which is wonderful. I beg and plead with T to buy me some, but he says no, mostly because he is evil and wicked and hates beautiful things (me included, of course).

After the gallery, we are standing at Mexico Square waiting for our taxi home. Kids come up to us, begging, with the usual story: my mother and father dead, please, food. M gives our leftover rice to one little girl, and she sprints off into the night, with the other children at her heels.

Sooprise! It turns out that computers in Africa aren’t all they’re cracked up to be! I am having a difficult time uploading my posts to wordpress, and also doing it on a day that there aren’t rolling blackouts at the internet cafe. As a result, you will be getting my thrilling Addis posts in fits and spurts and will be getting very few pictures. DON’T BE SO GREEDY! The good news is that my thrilling Addis posts will surely change your life and you will become a more insightful and caring person after reading them. Or something.

On Sunday, we miss going to church with B because we can’t work out the water system in the house. I manage to take so long getting clean that M can’t go, and so we all meet B after church. At the church, we see an AHOPE family that has just adopted a boy and a girl, and the little boy is one of M and B’s favorites. He lets M hold him, but when his mother walks by, he immediately reaches for her.  We consider this a good sign.

After B finishes church, her missionary friends take us all to a nearby restaurant for some ferenge food. Ferenge is the Amharic word for foreigner (or white foreigner, I guess), and it is a word we come to know very well. The restaurant serves hamburgers, and I am unable to resist, even though I don’t really like beef.

Bs friends have been living in Ethiopia for years and years, and they run a printing company for Christian publications. After lunch, they take us to check out their new construction, because they want T to make sure it’s legit. It doesn’t look particularly legit to T by Western standards, but in Ethiopia, he figures it’s fine. Now, if the whole thing collapses, I figure they can blame him.

When we get home, we meet Abebe, who is the social worker at AHOPE. He wants to take us to both children’s compounds, and I virtually jump in the van. As soon as we arrive at the younger compound, we are mobbed by kids. One little boy clutches some chalk and demands to know how to spell our names, which he then writes in the concrete floor. T starts to play soccer with the boys, and I spend my time with girls draped all over me.

The younger kids don’t look sick at all, for the most part. There are a couple of kids with molluscum (which look kind of like warts) or head fungus, but I would never be able to distinguish most of them from any other kids. They are just as adorable and boisterous as the other kids I have seen walking around, and they are immediately full of love. B has a special friend we’ll call The Belly, who is about 2, all stomach, and the happiest kid I have ever seen. On the other hand, M has a special friend who is the saddest, she tells me. He arrived at AHOPE a few months ago and is miserable. Ironically, his name means Happiness. The complex is separated from the road by a blue metal fence, and from outside, it looks pretty ramshackle. Inside, it is brightly colored, with murals of Disney characters on the walls and bunk beds in the three bedrooms.

Then we go to the older compound, which is where the kids older than seven live. There is a new basketball hoop installed, and the kids are going crazy for it. I ask Abebe which kid is the boy I sponsor, and he points him out and asks if I want to greet him. Then he sees that the boy is playing cards, so he tells me we will do it tomorrow.  T starts to join in the basketball with the boys and B, and they are soon crashing into each other and balls are flying everywhere.

M sits with the girls, playing a game that looks like jacks, but with rocks. She invites me to play, and so I sit with her and the two girls who are playing. The girls are very patient with me, but are clearly horrified by my ineptitude. One of the girls puts the rocks all together so I can easily grab them, and the other tries to stress to me that I need to throw the rocks higher. She stares at me intently, saying, Up! Up! repeatedly, and trying to demonstrate very, very slowly. Unfortunately, the stupid ferenge can’t get a handle on this game before it’s time to go, but I leave anyway, delirious with happiness at the cute kids and horror at my hideous uncoordination.

We arrive in Addis Ababa and expect complete pandemonium, but see none. We cruise through immigration and customs with no problem at all and then grab our bags. The airport is surprisingly quiet, with very few people around, but almost immediately I am struck by the attractiveness of the Ethiopians. Ethiopians are pretty, I whisper to T, and it is a thought I will have a hundred times a day. The women are all eyes and cheekbones, and the men all smiles with bright white teeth.

Our driver, Yidnacachu, meets us with a sign saying AHOPE and takes us to his red van, with us blinking in the lazy sunshine. We sit in the back and T talks to him about football as I look out the window. Addis is a dusty city sprawled across a valley, with faded hills in the distance. The roads are newly paved, thanks to the Chinese, but Yidnacachu repeatedly apologizes when there is a brief patch of dirt road. There are huge piles of boulders alongside the road where the ground has been gutted. I am surprised by the relative quietness of Addis after India, and I like it.

At the guesthouse, we meet Genet, our housekeeper, who is a beautiful 25-year-old with perfect skin and a voice like a song. We also meet Mifta, one of our guards. We are put into a room in the back of the main house, with two huge beds pushed together with clean sheets and soft pillows. We think we like Ethiopia already.

Then the girls come. T had predicted that the other two volunteers would be hot American girls in their 20s, and he wasn’t wrong. B is a sassy 21-year-old from Anaheim, who is working at AHOPE on a missions trip, and M is a 24-year-old English teacher from New Hampshire who T thinks is my other half. We instantly like the girls, which is a good thing, because M is here for another five months, so if we didn’t like her, she would have to go. Lucky for her, we let her stay.

The girls have been having coffee ceremonies every Saturday, and B loves Ethiopian coffee, so we all sit and watch M perform the ceremony. She gently rinses the pale beans in her hands, and then roasts them in what looks like a wok. After the roasting, she bashes them with a mortar and pestle and then we drink. Glass after tiny glass of beautiful, dark Ethiopian coffee. I don’t even like coffee as a rule, but I can’t drink this fast enough. I expect to get all cracked out on the caffeine, but feel no real difference. Of course, staying awake might be proof enough that the coffee works, because I should be passed out from exhaustion by now.

Then, we walk down the road for dinner. The best thing about B and M is that they instantly include us and there is no weirdness about us being old, haggard and married, or brand new. So we go, the four of us and Genet, to a local restaurant. The girls order chickena tibs, which I thought was chicken but is really beef, fasting food (vegetarian dips) and shiro (heaven in my mouth). In Australia, we tried African food a couple of times and T always wrinkled his nose, but in Addis, he chows down big style. Even so, Genet spends the entire meal imploring us to be, be (eat, eat), even when we have our mouths full of food. So much for the weight I lost in India…

Our flight to Dubai leaves at 4.30am and T spends the hours beforehand ranting about how it is ALL MY FAULT and how we are leaving at an inhuman hour. He is right about the inhumanity, but wrong about it being my fault, since he refused to spend the night in Dubai, making the 4.30 flight our only option. Please feel free to inform him of this.

I tell him my concern about Emirates being such a good airline that they would have a million delightful movies that I would be unable to resist. He tells me not to be ridiculous, that we haven’t slept in a day and it would be foolish to stay awake even longer. I nod in agreement, and then sit in my seat. The first movie listed (out of 250+) is Juno and I tell him there is no way I will be sleeping. Instead, I spend most of the flight cracking up until he finally gives in and watches it himself, snorting with laughter from time to time.

When we land, the little boy in front of me starts to reach his tiny hand through the seats to touch mine. I whisper to him as we pull into the gate, and then his parents speak to us. They are en route to Houston, which means they have a long road ahead. Their son, who is about two, is delighted to be on the plane, and they’re hoping he will keep it up.

We get a bus for what seems like miles, across the airport. When we get to the terminal, there are people everywhere and I tell T it is easily the busiest airport I have ever seen. We push through the throngs of people to get to the bookstore, where I snatch up two English books and we run to the gate. At the gate, the man behind the counter takes our tickets but tells us we have to wait for our boarding passes. We’re getting an upgrade! I crow to T. He shakes his head sadly. No, they’re separating us and putting us right next to the bathrooms.

GUESS WHO IS RIGHT? Hint: it is the person who is always right. Yes! MEEEEEEEEE! We take advantage of Dubai’s fancy shininess to send a quick email to my parents and then board the Business Class! entrance (when one is speaking about flying Business Class!, it must always be capitalized with an exclamation point). Our seats are wide and soft and recline all the way back, which was especially good since the movies on this plane stink. I eat a CHEESE PLATE! for breakfast, with Real Western Cheese! Oh cheese, how I have missed thee. Paneer just ain’t the same. Anwar the glorious flight attendant gives me the aforementioned cheese, and he is my new BFF, partly because he has to be nice to me, and partly because I think he is gay. I am pretty sure he recognizes me as his queen.

The rest of the time, we sleep. Then we awake in time to see Ethiopia out the window. And, in spite of myself, I start to cry. SHUT UP! I have wanted to see Ethiopia since I was nine years old, and trust me, that was a LONG time ago. Oh, and also, I am a sap.

T and I are in the back of a taxi on the way to the airport, with the windows open so we can breathe in the thick tropical air for the last time. We are wearing seatbelts for the first time in months, which is good because we’re playing chicken with buses, veering around cars and flashing our brights at oncoming traffic. As we drive, I start to think about India.

India is a study in paradox and a constant assault on the senses. It is both maddening and endearing. It is filthy and spectacular. We have given beggars food and had kids share their food with us. I have wanted to punch a sadhu and hug a monk. I have had pervy men leer at me so creepily that I was afraid to be alone with them, and had women hold my hand so warmly that I didn’t want to let go. I have said my name, my country and no thank you more times than I can count. We have seen the Himalaya, the Ganges, the Rajasthani desert and the crashing waves and lazy backwaters of Kerala. We have taken pictures of strangers and been in strangers pictures. We have seen kids chase us to say hello and watched children cry when their parents make them greet us. We have seen the chaos outside the Golden Temple and the silence outside the Dalai Lama’s residence. I have seen more men peeing openly than ever in my life and seen women swim fully clothed. We have smelled the aroma of curry and the stench of urine. We have seen cows handfed chapatis and then watched them root through trash to find food. We have seen piles of rubbish and feces on the streets and the magnificence of the Baby Taj and Udaipur’s floating palaces. We have seen Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Muslims, Jains and Christians. We saw black dirt and belching smoke and more colors than I ever knew were in the spectrum. I ate the best food ever and still managed to lose weight. We have been followed, tugged on, and heard the desperate pleads of barefoot children and been asked for chocolate and pens by immaculately dressed kids just for the cheek of it. I have been driven to laugh, cry and scream in anger and frustration. We have shaken hands with innumerable men and kids and seen the shy smiles of women of all ages. We have seen dozens of people sleeping on the streets and we slept in the home of a wealthy family. We met Punjabis, Gujaratis, Rajputs, Keralans and Maharastrans. We have seen anger, resentment and lust and felt kindness from complete strangers. We have traveled in bicycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, taxis, cars, trains, planes and buses.

We got all this, even from our sanitized view of India—the white man’s English menu flashpacking version. We know a woman who saw prostitutes and a dead baby in the Ganges. We saw none of these things; maybe we didn’t look close enough. I told a friend of mine that India had beaten the hell out of us, yet still lured us back in. She said, you have to love those abusive relationships. She nailed it exactly. One day we are exhausted by the poverty and filth and poverty, and the next we are invigorated by the vibrance of the architecture and the sweetness of the people. I don’t know if we will miss India, or if we will come back. Either way, we will never forget it.

We leave Bombay in the very early morning for our flight to Cochin, cruising through the darkened streets. People sleep outside their shops, all lined up next to each other on thin mats. I start to think how unsafe it must be to sleep outside, but then realize that if everyone is sleeping outside, then it must be okay.

Our flight arrives at 8am and I immediately relax. The airport is tiny, with almost no one around, and there is a prepaid taxi stand. We pay to go to Fort Cochin and get in the back of the Ammbassador cab. The ride takes ages, but I dont mind, because I have the windows open and I can breathe in all the thick tropical air and look at the scenery.

We decided to go to Kerala because we repeatedly heard how nice it was. Kerala was Indias first socialist state, and also has a 92% literacy rate. Socialism + literacy = fun times! Cochin is outrageously green, with swaying palm trees and surprisingly little curbside trash. I give it my highest compliment when we are walking around town: it looks like Laos. The Fort Cochin area has wide, empty streets with colonial buildings and a canopy of green overhead.

At the far end of town, there are Chinese fishing nets dangling over the sea, and T and I take a walk past them and the men asking us to check out their fish. We walk along the water and I start to breathe more deeply, the way I always do when I am near the sea. We sit for ages on the rocks and watch the waves roll in, and try to eat our ice cream before it melts all over us, which is far easier for T than for me. On the way back to the hotel, a group of boys asks to take a picture with us, and we end up in yet another stranger’s photos. The best thing about the proximity to the water is the seafood, and our first night in town I eat chili garlic prawns that are so good, they almost make me cry. Another day, we sit at a waterside cafe and watch some dolphins frisking in the water as we drink lime juice.

The one problem with Cochin is the humidity. When we told our friend Deepak from Dharamsala that we were going to Kerala, his eyes widened and he told us it would be hot and sultry. Later, we laughed at the word sultry, but he was exactly right. Cochin was H-O-T. Our guesthouse, the Padikkal Residency, is nice enough, though too expensive for the basic amenities it offers. We have a big room without A/C, and at night, we stick to our flat pillows and have trouble sleeping.

Another thing I love about Cochin is the kids everywhere. They run around in the afternoon in their little school uniforms and beg me to take their pictures. What can I say? I can never refuse an adorable child. Most of the kids in the Fort Cochin area seem to to go to the Catholic Church, but we also see Muslim and Hindu kids out on the streets as well. The kids at the guesthouse are similarly adorable, calling out LOOK! LOOK! when we come back, wanting to show us the henna tattoos their mother did on their hands. The older one tells me quite seriously, FISH, or MONKEY, as he points to the designs. In response, I ooh and aah. The best thing these kids do is when we come back on Saturday at about 10pm and they are running loose in the house. The older boy, who is about six, is dancing around all over. I am surprised they are still awake, and the boy sings out I DON’T SLEEP UNTIL TWO! T and I are shocked and ask when he wakes up. His father, looking exhausted, answers, eight, as he rolls his eyes.

Cochin is full of Christians, to the extent that many of the rickshaws have JESUS emblazoned on the front of them. On the other hand, there is also a Jew Town. I say this not because I am racist, but because it is the name of the neighborhood, and to prove it, I have pictures. T and I walk down to Jew Town one day to wander the narrow streets looking for some spices. The shop owners are highly solicitous, and many of them try to lure me into their stores to buy clothes or jewelry, even though I have repeatedly walked by and told them no already. We cant go into the synagogue in Jew Town because I am dressed like a skanky American (it is too hot to wear clothing with sleeves, and I also have shorts, which means my shoulders and knees are all exposed, which makes me a big white slut).

In Jew Town, we stop to get some drinks and the owner orders me a vanilla milkshake. It is the best vanilla milkshake I’ve ever had; so good that I have to order two. We also end up buying tickets for the kathakali performance that night, because the owner promises us front row seats and we havent seen any local performances in ages. The owner is a liar, because when we arrive that night, we are in row 8 out of about 10. And the kathakali is painful to see and hear. In a nutshell, it’s mime with eardrum-breaking cymbals and cool makeup. The makeup takes about an hour, and for the second hour, we are left to listen to the CHANG CHANG CHANG of the cymbals, and we leave with agonizing headaches and a vow to never see local arts ever again. EVER.

The worst thing about Cochin is the heat, which is humid and sticky and causes me to sweat like a hog in heat (do hogs in heat sweat a lot? If so, then consider me one. If not, find another sweaty animal for comparison). People start to stare at me and say, So hot when I stagger over to speak to them. So, it turns out Deepak was partially right, though I would definitely say that Cochin was more sweaty than sultry.

We get into Bombay (yes, Collette, I know it’s called Mumbai now, but I like to be contrary) at night on another Shatabdi train, one that had TV screens but no food (those cries you hear are our sobs at having no delicious Shatabdi food). Since there are no rickshaws in central Bombay, we end up taking one of the Ambassador taxis to our hotel, cruising along with the windows down, feeling as though we are in a 1950s movie. Just when I start to think that the drivers in Bombay aren’t too bad, we careen through a six-way intersection and barely miss crashing into an oncoming truck.

Our hotel is a business hotel and is an endless maze of weird and narrow hallways, leading to a tiny but clean room with really soft sheets and comfortable beds. The next morning, it is a real effort to get up.

T wants to go to the local market and the old Victoria Station (now called CST or something), so in the morning we eat the hotel breakfast (some dry toast with jam, egg and weird Indian breakfast pastries) and hit the road. As we approach the market, a one-armed Muslim man offers his services as a guide. We refuse until we get inside the market and see a sign that says visitors must have guides. A man tells us to use the guide, and sure enough, we see the man about five minutes later at the spice shop our guide recommends. The market is interesting enough, but it’s no Victoria Market in Melbourne, and we start to feel a little voyeuristic, just wandering around. So we head outside and are immediately face-to-face with a little boy with his hand out. He keeps making signs for food as he follows us down the road, so eventually I tell T I am buying some bananas for him. I give the kid two bananas and he gives me a look that says, Are you kidding me? Where’s my friggin’ money? I turn away and take two bananas to the old woman, begging on the street. As I bend down to give them to her, she takes my hand and squeezes it gratefully before kissing the bananas. Now, that’s the kind of response I like!

After the market, we walk over to Victoria Station, mainly because T is a nerd and wants to see it. The roads are wide and leafy, and we pass all kinds of ornate Victorian buildings before arriving at the station, which is bigger and more ornate than any of the others. We walk inside briefly, but most of the time we stand outside, staring at the giant clock.

Were a little worried about getting actual taxis as opposed to the cheap-o rickshaws that were used to, but since we have no choice, we pop in one going to India Gate. We are pleasantly surprised to see that the fee is 30 rupees—less than a dollar. Suddenly, we decide that Bombay might be better than we thought.

We’re standing at India Gate, a giant Arc de Triomphe-looking structure, looking at the boats in the harbor, when a man comes over to me. He starts telling me how nice my face is, how friendly I am, and how I have such a nice smile. T sees this dude talking to me and veers straight over, just in time to hear the man ask if I want a friend in Bombay. In my head, I am thinking, Sure, as long as it’s not you, freak! But I say, Um…sure, instead. In no time, I am giving him my email address and promising to recommend him to any friends I have going to Bombay. As we walk away, T starts mumbling about how he can’t believe I gave him the right address, and I try to explain that I’m not good under pressure and I couldn’t think of fake one fast enough. What should I have put instead? youaresupercreepypleaseneveremailme@yahoo.com?

We spend most of the afternoon in a restaurant called Leopold’s, where I befriend some nice guys from Singapore, who are in town on business. One is Indian, and he starts the conversation by looking at my Lonely Planet and asking in that charming Anglo-Indian way, Does this restaurant feature in that book?

We take a walk around the area, going from India Gate past the University, and then past the Supreme Court and into a giant field where everyone is playing cricket. Bombay seems to be like the love child of New York and somewhere more tropical, like LA or Miami. There are swaying palm trees and beaches, but also tall, cosmopolitan-looking buildings that T say make it look like a real city, unlike Delhi.

After watching the cricket in the park, I decide to go to Chowpatty Beach and get some ice cream. We get in another 30-rupee taxi and cruise along the coast up to the long, sandy stretch of beach. The beach looked nice enough, but our guidebook warned that the water was toxic, which made the empty waters make sense. We get some ice cream and started walking along the sidewalk by the water when a bunch of kids appear out of nowhere and started grabbing at my ice cream. T tries to shoo them away and I immediately revert back to being 10 years old, trying to keep food away from my siblings. In my most mature act in ages, I take the cone and try to shove it all into my mouth. Meanwhile, T is trying to be stern with the jumping kids and ends up making them all burst out laughing and run away, as I stand, horrified by the fact that I just tried to consume an entire ice cream cone so that beggar kids wouldn’t. It is not the highlight of my life.

After I begin to recover from the shame, we get in another taxi to go back to Victoria Station. We have seen a movie theater in our book that shows American movies, and since I am not sure if Bollywood movies have subtitles, and I am not in the mood for music, we stupidly decide to go see Jumper, the worst movie ever made. The only redeeming features about Jumper are the fact that the entire theater stands for the national anthem at the beginning, everyone goes out for a smoke break at the intermission in the middle, and the back row is the most popular by far.

After the movie, we go downstairs and get sandwiches and chips at the Subway stand inside the theater, and start to walk home. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Obviously, as soon as we get outside, we are surrounded by another bunch of jumping kids, trying to snatch the food from our hands. We eventually get the food crammed into T’s backpack and walk back to the hotel, but their desperation has killed our desire for food.