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Published: April 7th 2007
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On the morning of March 5, everything shut down. Buses stopped running. Stores closed shop. Tourists holed up in their hotel rooms, not daring to step foot outside. No, it wasn’t a terrorist threat or political riots, but one of India’s liveliest festivals: Holi, a giant multi-colored waterfight that brings anarchy to all of India.
We fell victim to Holi in Pushkar, a small but highly touristed town in Rajasthan. The town’s temples rise around the edges of a tiny gem of a lake; legend has it that the waters sprang from a lotus flower dropped by Lord Brahma himself. Pushkar is one of the region’s most sacred Hindu cities, guaranteeing that the festival would be celebrated here with great fervor.
That morning, we dressed in our grottiest clothes (not hard for backpackers), and decided to take a stroll outside to see what everyone had warned us about. Our plan was to get breakfast near the town center, a five-minute walk away. Afterwards maybe we’d join in the fun, but for now we hoped to slip through, unnoticed and dry.
After our first step outside the hotel door, we realized we didn’t have a chance. Everything was
wet and stained with bright colors: children, buildings, rickshaws, cows. But there was no time deliberate as attackers were approaching. It was a Nickelodeon war zone, and being dry, clean foreigners, we were the biggest targets around.
Instantly we were bombarded by a flurry of tiny blue hands eager to smear colored goo on us. Our assailants were no older than ten, and looked as if they’d gone through a Technicolor carwash. They shrieked with laughter as we scrambled free of their hold and took off down the alley.
Around the corner, we took a minute to recuperate and examine the damage. We were painted in four or five shades of pink, with dashes of blue and purple in the mix. After only a few peaceful steps towards town, we encountered another group. These kids were older and more sophisticated; some had color-filled water guns and water balloons, which they hurled indiscriminately.
Everyone seemed particularly intent on nailing the tourists. When we were spotted, people who were just fighting each other united to get us instead. Dumping an entire water bottle of bright liquid over our head and shoulders was a popular move (we spit pink for
hours). It never seemed to matter that we were already as colored as we could get—everyone wanted to reward us with their own layer.
By the time we got to the town center, we were unrecognizable. The square, too, had undergone a massive makeover: where holy men had set a fire ablaze the evening before as part of Holi tradition, there was now an open-air dance party. Electronic music thumped from hidden speakers while purple-skinned people stripped their shirts and danced in clouds of colored powder. Under the coating of color, it was no longer easy to tell the foreigners apart from the Indians.
Back at the hotel, we fought a new battle—getting our natural skin color back. Jenny was able to get most of the stuff out of her hair after a few showers. Randy’s underwear is still stained pink. We happened to meet the friendly “Overlanders,” another couple on Travelblog, who managed to publish their Pushkar Holi story a month before we did.
We didn’t spend long in Jaipur, the so-called “pink city” (the designation seemed pointless after Holi, when every city was a pink city). Wandering the chaotic, crowded old city was enough for
us; Jenny was ready to leave after someone nailed her with a post-Holi water balloon while she was riding in a rickshaw. And with Agra—home of the iconic Taj Mahal—as our next stop, we were anxious to keep moving.
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deleted_33373
hahaha...
sorry about laughing... :D I enjoyed your journal a looooottt! Obviously, you had a great time...glad to hear it. Hope you'll enjoy the rest of your journey, aswell.... Btw, happy Easter!!! cheers! Angie