Delhi, 2.may.99 When I went to Ireland, I was surprised, shocked, amazed, enthralled: at just how very green everything there was. And it made me feel sort of stupid. After all, that country is famous world-over for its greenness. It's the Emerald Isle. I even expected it to be green, and still, I was surprised, shocked, amazed, enthralled. Because nothing could have prepared me for just *how* green it was going to be, notonly in quantity but in quality. And here in India I find that same peculiar surprise: surprise at being surprised at something I fully expected to find. Only here it's not the greenness... it's the dirt. This country is grimy to the grain, permeatingly, permanently, preniciously, gross. The dirt you can see, as well as the kind you can't, running the range from untidy all the way to downright pathogenic, and most often, both, and everything in between, the sort of general situation that makes even virgin forests loom with suspicion. Of course India is a great and fascinating place, very worth visiting, and all the dirt in the world (most of which seems to be stockpiled here) wouldn't keep me away; it just takes some getting used to: So step over the sewers, they won't hurt you; in fact you're welcome to use them if the powerful urge strikes. The world is everyone else's toilet, why not yours? Just watch where you put your feet and you'll be fine. And really, is it so very terrible that the cows shit in the street? I mean sure, they've been eating plastic and garbage, you can see them doing it all the time, so that might explain their occassional and explosive fits of diarrhea, but really now: that splattering splop coursing out onto the road and thoroughly pasting over the animal's broad backside, that stuff has been digested *four* times... it couldn't get any cleaner, so don't let it bother you, just as it shouldn't worry you that he's doing it right in front of a restaurant street stall. See the cook standing there, the chubby one wearing what appears to be no more than a ratty loincloth which seems to have escaped the rigors of laundering through all it's many obvious generations of service to his family? The cow's activity certainly doesn't bother him... he couldn't look less concerned. He just stands there, oblivious, occassionally scratching his belly with his spatula. That looks like a nasty rash doesn't it? I bet it itches like hell. Oh, you're hungry? Shall we then? No there's no point in finding another place, they're all the same. Don't worry, it's sure to be thoroughly cooked, the sputtering oil will see to that. In fact I bet that oil hasn't been changed in months, so it ought to be good and hot by now. Hold on, I'm going to wash my hands... I'm back... Wow, already? He must have had these ones already made. No, I don't, nobody knows, it's a secret recipe that all of India uses. Do you like it? Really? I don't taste oh THAT! Don't worry about that, that's just car exhaust. Leaded gas is so much cheaper to make, you see, and it mixes better with kerosene. No, it's safe, it's been more than cooked, it's been *exploded*. Nothing purifies like fire, you know, that's why they burn their dead. You haven't seen it? Oh, but you must! We'll walk down to the river this afternoon and watch the cremations, OK? Yeah, and they sweep them into the river, except for the children and priests of course, they're already pure, so they get put in the river whole... oh that reminds me: I need to get a bottle of water. So easy to get dehydrated here. What? You're not feeling well? That's too bad! Why don't you stop by my room... it smells a bit funny in there, but I've got some antibiotics you might need... ...and that's how it is. You can shower all you like, carry around bundles of antimicrobial wipes, wear white cotton gloves, wear a radiation suit... it won't help a bit. And I suppose it's a testament to the vast richness and magic that is India, that it's worth braving all the myriad daily sepses to be here. After all, a little dirt can't hurt you, can it?