It’s criminally easy to take photographs in India. That’s the whole truth of it. There’s something at every corner and around every bend. Garlands of flowers adorning doorways. Hawkers peddling fruits and other goods. Walls splashed with texts and debris and layers of paint stretching as far back as anyone knows. Cows ringing bells in the streets. Burning altars and saris spread out like rainbows across market aisles. It’s frenetic and wonderful and curious and friendly, above all else.
And so it was in Goa, as we traveled through old Portuguese towns that felt faded and lived in. Over cobbled streets that buckled and waved with the passage of time. From the beaches that line its western edges to the inner forests and rivers and white-washed churches standing sentry on lonely hilltops and in sprawling empty gardens, everywhere we went we were met with something new and exciting and altogether unexpected. We were stared at and bumped against, crowded into small cars and buses with far too many other people. And we were invited into homes. Cooked for and cared for and sent on our way with stomachs full of love and naan and lots of curry. And that was better than OK.
India presents itself as a chaotic cliche of Asia, but it’s so much more than that. And because it’s so hard to explain, I’m just going to leave it there. Better to show it in photographs. And so.