Long way to go

The holiday of Holi, as celebrated (and I mean really celebrated) in Pushkar has two parts. The first, on the night of the 19th, was on a full moon. There was a ceremony in the main market square, followed by a big fire and then a lot of drums and dancing into the night. Unfortunately I was pretty sick in Pushkar, so I couldn’t stay out and enjoy it, but we watched the celebration from a rooftop restaurant with a great view.

The next day was the big color festival, where everyone smears and throws brightly colored chalk all over each other. “You want to play Holi?” Sure.

Holy shit, Holi was intense.

I woke up feeling terrible, stomach cramping and all that goes with it. But mind over matter, or so they say, so I headed out to play Holi. My friends were still sleeping, so I left my guesthouse alone and unarmed.

Immediately I was swarmed and told that if I want to play Holi, go back and leave my bag in my hotel. OK, done and done. Within minutes I was covered in a dozen different colors, and forgot I was sick. Big grin, instead.

That chalk has such a smell, wow. I don’t want to think about what it’s made of; I’m just glad I wasn’t allergic to it. Quickly enough the purple, pink, green, orange, yellow, became muddled as they were rubbed and layered together.

Holi is the one day a year when everyone can openly touch anyone anywhere, so the guys were all very charged. I had to shoo away many groping hands throughout the day; eventually I just kept my arms crossed over my chest. It was mostly the younger boys, 11, 12, that were the worst. However, if at any point you said stop, enough, people quickly left you alone. And people made sure I stayed away from the speakers, where the really crazy guys were, it was too much for me. First time I’ve ever heard that, heh.

After ten minutes I got chalk in my eye and headed back to my room to extract it. A few of the guys that ran my guesthouse (Rising Star, a lovely place) had been out in the square came back with me and ordered a round of bhang lassis.

By the time we finished them my friends were up, so I headed across the street to get them. I staggered into their rooftop restaurant covered in color; the white clothes I’d purchased the previous day were already pink and green. The other hotel guests finishing their breakfasts immediately started asking questions, and I recruited a few of them to come out with Ami, Jonathan, and I.

When they were ready (no bags, no glasses, but sunglasses ok), we got our bags of color and water guns prepped and ready in front of the building. Jonathan didn’t make it five steps before the local boys tore his shirt off; all guys end up shirtless on Holi, if they play. He tied his around his head, Rambo-style.

Someone had warned me that going to the main market would be too intense, but Nicola, a German girl who joined us, summed up my thoughts: “I didn’t come to Pushkar for Holi to not check out the action.”

We bypassed the local square and snaked around to the main market. The streets of Pushkar were totally deserted, save for a few people sitting in the shade, wishing us Happy Holi. At one point an old man, who had no color, beckoned us over to him. One at a time, he took color from each of our bags and smudged it on our cheeks. It felt like a blessing.

Then we turned a corner and heard music, saw the edge of the crowd. It really felt like we were going into battle; adrenaline surged.

The main market exploded in a Holi frenzy in front of us. A huge soundsystem blasted trance music, people dancing on rooftops, everyone drenched in color and water and pink ink than eventually ran into a purplish gray, flip-flips sticking in the muck that had yesterday been red dust and cow shit, ripped shirts being tossed over and across the dance space, and so much whooping: Happy Holi! and smearing color and water on faces, neck, chest, arms, swatting hugging hands away.

Carlin, also from Brooklyn, turned back immediately. I looked at Ami and Jonathan and told them I’m going in, it’s time to dance. This ended up being a bit tricky, as I tend to move my hips a lot, but didn’t want to give the slightest suggestive movement. You could say I did The Robot.

Then some guys pulled Nicola and I into a sidestreet and poured bottles of hot pink dye over us. It’s four days and seven showers later and I’m still tinted. Then they showed us where Nicola could wash out her eye, as one of her contacts was completely pink.

When we headed back out to the makeshift dancefloor, she pointed out a group of foreigners in which we could take refuge for a bit before heading back.

We staggered out of there like a warzone, ran into a group of American girls who offered us water, camaraderie, and an eye wash. I was spitting pink for half an hour.

We got back to the hotel, where I grabbed my camera to take some post-mortem shots. I’m a little bummed that I didn’t get any photos of the main chaos, because I’ve never experienced anything like it. It would have been cool to get pictures, but it was enough to just live it. I already lost one good camera to dust (last year's Burning Man); I didn’t want to lose another halfway through my travels.

My Holi photos are posted, and this random youtube video kind of gives you an idea of the main market.