In the end, a treaty was obtained. With the cold weather, the cats saw the advantage of sharing the basket with a hot dog.

Some people had a more intricate plan to gain access to my money. Piedro introduced himself to me in Addis Abeba, the country’s capital. Could he please practice his English? So I asked about his age (probably 16, but he’s not sure), his background (a refugee from Eritrea) and his family (he’s an orphan). Then Piedro invited me to a party where everyone would be dressed in folk costumes. I declined politely: invitations of this type are a well-known way to get robbed.

Like me, most westerners visit Ethiopia on behalf of a development organization. They bring financial and human capital to help fight poverty, diminish hunger and improve health. Subsequently, many Ethiopians have come to confuse westerners with a walking dollar sign. This seemed to stand in the way of acquiring what Mark Twain called the “broad, wholesome and charitable views of men and things” that I usually get in a different country. Only with the medical doctors I met for work I could actually talk about matters beyond money like religion, food and relationships.

I was brooding on this when I was boarding my plane back home with 17 young Americans. They turned out to be missionaries who had spent six weeks in a remote part of Ethiopia. Assuming they volunteered for an organization, I asked what kind of development work they had done. Nothing, they replied: their sole aim had been to spread the gospel. When a local man bitten by a snake came to them for help, the only thing they offered him was prayer.

Looking at the munching missionaries, I realized I now knew who buys all that gum in Ethiopia. I also understood my trip had been a success. For most Ethiopians, I might be just another rich westerner but for sixty medical doctors and their patients, my visit had made a difference.

I work for the Geneva Foundation for Medical Education and Research, a non-profit organization focusing on sexual and reproductive health. My colleagues and I provide health professionals in developing countries with trainings and help them conduct and publish their research. We often work together with other organizations and institutions. In Ethiopia, I represented my NGO as well as Oxford University. I was expected to gather health professionals, facilitate a digital training on a certain complication of pregnancy and reward the participants with a certificate.

There proved to be a few challenges. More people showed up than had inscribed for the trainings so there were not enough PCs available. Internet slowed down or halted completely. Plan B was to hand out CDs with the course material. But many computers lacked the software required for the training’s complicated graphs. Or the CD was not compatible with the brand-new Macintosh computers that had been donated by a well-wisher. Or passwords to allow updates were missing. Wireless keyboards and mice that didn’t match proved another problem. During my visit to Ethiopia, I became accustomed to running around in hot, stuffy computer rooms, explaining the course here, pointing out the proper side of a CD there and updating software everywhere. As soon as I had everything up and running, a blackout would mess things up. And generators never worked.

After the last training I sank to the floor. My Ethiopian colleague stooped over me. “That went really well,” he said casually. I nodded, panting and wiping the sweat of my brow. He shook his head. “Crazy Dutch girl.”

To say that India is intense is an understatement. It has a fascinating history, stunning architecture, colorful textiles, noisy transport, smelly spices, dubious snacks, scruffy street dogs and of course all kinds of people. I bought bangles from a Tibetan refugee, was blessed by a hijra, a transgender, and discussed Saint Nicolas on an elephant with a Dutch family from Delhi.

So much to see, so little time. Our journey started in Delhi and lead southwards to Bharatpur, Agra, Jaipur, Jodhpur, Zainabad, Ahmedabad and Mumbai. We traveled mostly by train, which is said to be The Quintessential Indian Experience. We were stowed away on bunk beds far from the window, which was too small and dirty to see the landscape. We discovered that Indian trains can run seven hours late. On several occasions, the toilet of our first-class compartment had overflowed. I had just read about exactly the same circumstances in Gandhi’s 1917 book Third class in Indian Railways. At least, now that India is developing, shit affects all classes equally.

It’s a country of extremes. We wandered from the Delhi slums to the most expensive, colonial-style hotel for high tea. Not far from the crowded Taj Mahal we visited Keoladeo National Park, a peaceful paradise for ornithologists. I saw a Hindu funeral cheerfully headed by a brass band. I drank the most delicious lassie that made me incredibly sick. I found consistency too, like in the bobbing heads, bossy bureaucrats and ingenious ways of transport. Throughout India, fashion was dominated by traditional saris for women and glittery slipovers with earmuffs for men.

I had not yet scored the type of hair band known as Love-in-Tokyo when a customs officer stopped me on my way out of the country. He looked at my passport. “Great name,” he said. Then he wanted to know my occupation and whether I had written a book. Slightly bewildered, I mentioned its title. “Ah,” he sighed, “great book”.

Who wants love in Tokyo if you can get such a compliment in Delhi?

Many westeners go to India for spiritual reasons. It’s not hard to distinguish them from the crowds of more prosaic tourists. The women often wear a sari, the supershawl ingeniously draped around the body. Searching men (fewer in numbers it seems) usually just sport dirty yoga pants. Some guidebooks say that wearing Indian-style clothes is a good thing, but it looks like mockery if it comes with distinctly unIndian behavior. I’ve seen baffled Indian families staring at a westener in a sari who was meditating in a crowded restaurant.

For me personally, spirituality couldn’t feel more remote than when in India. Temples and mosques are so low-key that even chickens and goats can enter. When I ask about religiosity, like the difference between a red and yellow bindi (the dot on a hindu’s forehead), people giggle and reply that they have no clue. Several hindus told me matter-of-factly that they pray to Krishna and Jesus alike. Indian spirituality comes accross as eclectic, colorful and very relaxed and not at all as providing easy enlightement and straightforward solutions to all your problems. So do these searching westeners find more here than a huge bill for their meditation and yoga classes, I wonder?

In the temple, our prayer had finished in a few seconds. “Now you give money to the holy man,” commanded Raju, pointing to an impatient gentleman dressed in orange. Apparantly, ten rupies or fifteen eurocents didn’t just buy me the goodwill of Hanuman but also some fruit from the holy man. I doubt the Indian gods will fedex me a baby, but at least I had a banana when I left the temple.

Add the noise of shouting people, barking stray dogs and the horns of autorickshaws, cars and trucks. Then add the smell of rotting trash and feces.

People tell you hygiene is poor in India but unless you’ve been there, it’s impossible to imagine how bad it is. Delhi resembles a garbage heap. The streets are littered with plastic, rags, paper and rotting food. Cows, goats and pigs scavange the trash and add their droppings. People pick the filth, looking for useful things like cow dung for fuel. Then they add their shit to the pile. We saw rows of people emptying their bowels on the tracks of Delhi Main Station. They don’t use toilet paper but wipe their bottoms with their left hand, which they wash with a bit of water. Then they hand you a bottle of water, pat your train seat or shake your hand.

It took us only three days to get sick. We avoided a traffic accident in Delhi, bird flu in the Jain Bird Hospital, dysentry from a dubious train meal and chest infections from coughing rickshaw drivers only to be felled by a simple breakfast in a countryside resort. I stuck a finger in my throat and immediately felt better, but Spouse remained misserable. We moved to a hotel in Jaipur where the manager immediately took charge, pinching Spouse in her hand, providing her with dehydration salts, water, a heater and blankets, promising that, insh’allah, she would feel better soon. She will, but our initial enthusiasm to try out all kinds of food and drink is ruined. And I keep wondering: what are the statistics of falling ill a second time in India?

My grandfather was a hoarder: he collected and was unable to discard stuff even if it were worthless things other people would throw away. His five sons have the same tendency. I remember visiting one uncle’s house: small lanes meandered between mountains of stuff. My mother prevented clutter in our house by throwing stuff out when my father wasn’t around. Only one uncle, who went into therapy, managed to rid himself of the disorder.

It’s hard to pinpoint the difference between compulsive hoarding and owning a lot of stuff. My father couldn’t pass an open trash container without taking a peek inside, and would often take out things that he thought he could use. He would also pick up things from the street like rubber bands and lost gloves. My father had great excuses for keeping stuff, like a broken pencil that was a bit like the one of his late mother. He sometimes tried to organize, but would get lost in his boxes and suitcases filled with paper. Processing information seemed to be a challenge. Maybe that’s why my father wrote down everything – names, book titles, phone numbers, ideas, summaries of conversations. He had tens of thousands of these notes: too many to be of use, but he couldn’t part with them.

My father’s passion for collecting stuff frightened and embarrassed me when I was young. Only later I realized that the disorder was much stronger than him. To understand the way he gave meaning to things, I used the 74 gloves he had collected in a project for art school. Since his death I sometimes pick up things from the street in his remembrance, like a nice chestnut or a button. But once I get home, I throw them away. Just to make sure they won’t turn into weird birthday presents.

Occasionally, the disorder wreaks havoc. I was enjoying a coffee on a quiet Saturday morning when I heard the sound of a waterfall coming from my study. I ran upstairs and found that the room’s basin was overflowing. There was a distinct smell of detergent and I saw bits of purple fluff in the puddles on the floor. Something was blocking the drain of the washing machine: its wastewater was looking for a way out.

It appeared that Spouse had decided to wash our doormat. “Did you look at its washing instructions?” I asked. Yes, she did. “Did it say you could wash the doormat?” No, it didn’t. But Spouse had decided she knew better than Ikea. “There are other ways to clean a doormat,” I ventured while we mopped the floor, “like using a brush”. Obviously, I had no idea what I was talking about.

In the week that followed, Spouse spent her evenings either in the DIY shop or crouched behind the washing machine. She poured soda into the drain and poked it with  rods and knitting needles. To no avail. Occasionally, I parked our garbage container next to the washing machine. After each washing, I rolled 45 liters of rinse water to our bathroom, which I  emptied in the tub.

Spouse finally unblocked the drain it by sawing most of the pipes away. Apart from a small leak, our washing machine seems to be working properly again. The doormat is less lucky: what’s left of it will have to go. It will be the cleanest object in the garbage dump.

Spouse diving in Raja Ampat, Papua Indonesia, where marine life diversity is the highest on earth.