This was the first time I was traveling solo outside of the States or Europe. I bought the requisite Lonely Planet Guide and focused on visiting Rajasthan.

Arriving into Bombay I flew over endless shanty towns; a vivid image of squalor and a precursor to the massive concentration of lives. Many a step in India entailed something or someone to contend with.

I was quickly introduced to Paan, made from betel leaves with an array of unknown ingredients, from a fellow traveler with Indian roots. It is placed in the mouth and chewed. This controversial item, with risks similar to tobacco, is sold on the street. The preparation is a show in itself, but the vendor’s smearing of the ingredients with his unwashed fingers diminished my curiosity and challenged my notions of sanitation. It would not be the last time I noted a different standard of hygiene from what I was accustomed.

I experienced culture shock daily: Seals on bottled water had to be checked carefully. I was told that kids refilled them with street water, then sold them. I was cautioned to insure my letters were postmarked at the post office, otherwise the stamp might be taken off and used again. The list goes on, but perhaps the most daunting was enduring bus rides with drivers who played “chicken” while evidence of this game’s risks lie on the sides of the road. It made me yearn for a country less confident in reincarnation.

However, the chance to visit Udaipur, Jaipur, Jodhpur, Pushkar, Khajuraho, and the Taj Mahal, amongst other extraordinary places and sights, was not to be missed.

This was my most challenging journey, a touch of dysentery notwithstanding, but the country’s colors, sounds, odors, flavors, people and chaos has an indescribable draw.

My last stop in India was Varanasi, where I debated most of an evening with two Irish doctors doing their residency there. We spoke at length about the people’s faith in the sacred Ganges vs. its dangers.

I continued on to Nepal.