120 - Happy Friggin' Holi! (Kathmandu, Nepal)
EVERY YEAR, HOLI (A.K.A THE “FESTIVAL OF COLORS”), an ancient Indian festival observed mostly by Hindus and Sikhs, bids a fond farewell to winter. It celebrates Vishnu’s victory over Hiranyakashipu (i.e. good over evil). Winter’s gone. Spring is here. Feel the love. Spread the cheer. Play. Laugh. Forgive. Forget. Holi is the time. And let’s not forget a bountiful harvest. Bring the rain. Feed the crops. Hug the world. Giveth props.
People celebrate by dousing one another with water and plastering friends and strangers alike with a shitload of colored powders, especially red. A massive water fight in Technicolor. It lasts for a night and a day, beginning on the last full moon during the Hindu calendar’s lunar month at winter’s end. Thamel’s streets were jovial chaos on the 1st of March.
I had no clue and hadn’t bothered to check for upcoming festivals. I only learned of the impending celebrations after a bag of water narrowly missed my noggin on a casual stroll the evening before everything kicked off. The assassins attacked from a nearby balcony. I was not amused, assuming some random asshole decided to take potshots at a hapless tourist. My irritation soon turned to curiosity, followed by resignation. As a tourist HVT (High-Value Target), you have two options. Cower inside your hotel room, or take up arms. I couldn’t hear myself think over the war drums banging in my head. If they wanted a war, I was going to give them one. Blood for blood, motherfuckers.
I was defenseless. After a few inquiries, I found what I needed. My arsenal included two water pistols (one large, one small), around eighty small plastic bags (water bombs) manufactured for this day, a packet of red powder, a dry bag (for reinforcements), and a thirst for revenge. I would not be a victim.
My maturity level regressed thirty years in the span of hours. I put on rain gear, filled my backpack with assorted weaponry, and went out to pick a fight. My desire for mayhem was unrequited. The folks who earlier thought it prudent to begin the festivities prematurely had vanished.
Cowards.
I had to wait till the morrow to satisfy my bloodlust. I spent an hour and a half filling up 30-40 small bags to serve as my ammo dump. I figured these, along with water pistols and red powder, would suffice to keep me in the game for a spell. My sleep was fitful. As any soldier will tell you, it’s almost impossible before a battle. That night was no exception.
I awoke the next morning, donned my battle dress, and began my street patrol. Shops were closed, and I saw few vehicles, but the tension was palpable. You could cut it with a dull knife. From my room, I’d spotted folks on rooftops gearing up for Armageddon. I made my way towards the center, dodging a few bombs along the way. A group of young Nepali males barely noticed as I approached, until I unleashed a water bomb fusillade into their mist, scoring a few direct hits. Johnny Tourist’s ambush left them disoriented… for a moment.
The moment passed. Retaliation was swift and brutal. One miscreant edged close enough to smash a bag on my head. Can't stand the heat? Get out of the kitchen. I retreated… but only temporarily. I had no choice. If I wanted to push on to Thamel’s center, I had to press through. So, I dipped inside my bag for more ammo, took a deep breath, and hit the throttle. I may have screamed, "Chaaaaaarge!"
As I released my payload, they ducked inside a doorway for cover. More soldiers soon emerged with an unmistakable look of vengeance, though I avoided the worst of it as I sped past. I wasn’t finished. As they were rearming, I removed a water gun from beneath my jacket and ran to the doorway. They never saw it coming. Johnny Tourist: 2, Random Nepali Miscreants: 1. After my guerrilla attack, I fled the scene, running so hard I nearly vomited. The last time that happened, I was 15 years old and had just thrown half a dozen eggs at a rival “gang” on Halloween. You’ve come a long way, son.
I moved on. The rest of the morning took a similar tact. I was in constant fear of being hit from above by fraidy cats firing from the safety of balconies and rooftops. They were untouchable. It was impossible to gain access to their positions. Come down and fight like a man, woman, or non-binary.
Pussies.
Besides rampant aquatic warfare, there were roving bands of Nepali youth wandering the streets screaming, ”Happy Holi” and smearing wet, colored powder on anyone in their path.
I was in their path, and by day’s end, I had enough color in my hair and face to supply Crayola for a year. The smearing wasn’t always done with the gentleness one would hope. Some reveled in smashing powder on your face, in your ears, and, unfortunately, in your eyes. It hurted… a lot.
One nefarious little shit found great amusement in packing powder in my eye like he was plugging a hole in the dyke. Mess with the bull you get the horns, you little fucker. Remember that dry bag? They’re ideal for keeping gear dry in wet situations (rafting trips, trekking through the rain forest, etc.). They’re also great for holding water. I filled mine with two gallons for rearmament. Desperate times. Desperate measures. I spied Pooperface standing next to his friends. I opened the bag, sneaked up behind, and let loose… Gotcha! After the ambush, I did the only thing I could think of, an Irish jig. It was a real crowd-pleaser.
I spent an inordinate amount of time weaving through the crowds while squirting unsuspecting locals from afar. Utility poles, corners, slow-moving cars, and other revelers all served as camouflage. On average, it took ten or more squirts for someone to figure out where the onslaught originated. After every round, I’d either duck, turn, or stare straight ahead with a “What? Who me? I'm just an innocent tourist” expression. The Oscar goes to…
Bystanders couldn’t get enough. They found my antics hysterical. I think they were a little surprised the lanky freak with face paint could get so into their tradition. I’m pretty sure I made the local news. Numerous Nepali reporters pointed cameras in my direction. When in Rome…
The day wasn’t without unsavory aspects. Females who got in on the action often found handprints on their breasts and asses. And remember the hooligans I mentioned? On the way back to the hotel, I was forced to watch in horror as those same scallywags took things to a whole other level.
I deduced their water source had dried up, or they were too lazy to make round trips. By then, they were scooping water out of the gutter, filling buckets and bags with liquid disease. They were merciless. If you were ignorant enough to drive your motorcycle or bicycle through this area, you were met with a cascade of shitwater.
I've seen some foul things in my time, but this stopped me in my tracks. I sat there for twenty minutes as pedestrian after pedestrian (locals and tourists alike) were inundated with some of the nasty brew imaginable. I maintained a safe distance and made utterances like, "Ooooh, that sucks!", "How's that taste?', "Good lord!", "Poor Bastard!", or "Hepatitis is yummy!"
It wasn’t pretty.
Things got out of hand. Not everyone saw the fun in being soaked in pooh-pooh water. One gentleman objected fiercely and was beaten for his insolence. I watched in shock as this guy wallowed around on all fours in a puddle of sewage while members of the Water Assault Squad kicked his ass… literally. A bucket to the head, foot to the back, fist to the face, and a few more blows ensued. Lucky for him, the police arrived and put an end to the offensive. I was thankful. In addition to preventing further harm, it provided an open lane to my hotel.
Happy Fucking Holi!