Holi, Holi, Holi

Us: Sir, what will you do to celebrate Holi?
Indian man: Children, I am holy every day!

Yesterday was the Indian festival Holi, and it was probably the coolest street festival I've ever been part of. The only contender is La Batalla del Vino, in Haro, La Rioja, Spain, which I attended in July or August of 2002 with my buddy Ben. At that festival, we celebrated an economic bounty -- the amount of wine produced in the La Rioja region -- by drinking all night, then having an early morning water gun fight, only it wasn't water (it was cheap red wine) and we didn't shoot each other with guns (but with leather wine skins). For Holi, some among us (I'll not say who) ate bhang, then smeared each other with "colour" -- or fine, oil-based paint powder in diffeerent pigments, threw water baloons at each other, doused each other with buckets of blood-colored water, and shot waterguns as well. Either festival, the result was the same. We came out completely stained pink, intoxicated, and thoroughly satisfied. That's Erin, up above showing off her rainbow skin, who took all of these pictures, by the way, because she was the only one willing to risk her camera. So she gets the flagship photo for this post.

So the deal is this. We're celebrating various things. Spring, first and foremost, but I don't really understand that because the difference between one season and the next in India is so negligible -- it's hot, then it get's hotter, then hotter, then it rains, then it's hot again -- that it's unclear why the ancients would need a Spring festival (praying for cool weather, maybe?). We're also jamming because of this mythological figure called Prahlad, who was really into Vishnu, and who thwarted his heinous father King Hiranyakashipu by resisting a totally bogus execution at the hands of his skank sister Holika by chanting Vishnu's name over and over again. Got it?

This guy, who stood, dazed, outside of one of the housing complexes in Mahim where we played holi (you "play holi" by smearing colour on people, then dousing them, then dancing in the streets to Marathi songs), mumbling "Photo, photo..." -- undoubtedly too busy thinking about Prahlad and Vishnu to do or think of anything else.



These guys are generously demonstrating the transformative spiritual powers of bhang, the aerated balls of marijuana that are ground into paste and powder and mixed with lassi or thandi, both delicious cold dairy drinks, to produce a mixture that gets you LOADED and in the proper spiritual fram



Here's my friend Jocelyn getting smeared, early on in the revelry --



We played holi in Erin's neighborhood of Mahim, which has a huge Maharashtrian population (as opposed to the dozens of other Indian ethnic identities that exist in other pockets of Bombay). That meant lots of Hindus, and therefore lots of Holi as opposed to the Catholic neighborhoods of the city, like mine, where Holi ain't so big. Kids like these were getting really into it (to the point of violence, almost), as well as singing songs in Marathi and in one strange case, shouting Shiv Sena slogans at me. Damn cute, though, aren't they?



The kids were having battles -- one housing society versus another, lobbing waterballoons over the divisions. It was great fun...



A bunch of cheeky girls hit me and Benji pretty bad, so we launched a counter-ambush with all the boys on our side. It was like camp, except I never went to camp, but was like what I imagine camp was sort of like...



I'm gonna call these guys The Ghouls. They were allies.



After soundly routing the nefarious girls, we joined the silvery Ghouls in an impromptu dance party which featured that guy in the middle singing lead vocals on some Marathi folk songs, and lots of Bollywood style pelvic thrusts. We were all guys, thrusting at one another, but believe me, it was cool.



There was a sort of George Romero feel to the whole afternoon, and I'm going to end with a few photos that are particularly Zombie-like. This is Erin, me, and Jocelyn, walking Reservoir Dogs-style down the middle of the empty streets, looking for live flesh...



This is Erin looking cancer-faced...



And this is me, feasting on Jocelyn's brains RAAAAARRRGHHH!!!...

Ghoom

Just outside of Darjeeling is Ghoom, home to the Yiga Chholing Monastery, which I believe is the second-biggest in India. It was built in 1875 by Lama Sherab Gyatso. We took in a day of idols, bright colors, prayer bells, prayer wheels, and incense fumes.

The following photos are beautiful, but were taken by neither me nor by my camera. All credit goes to Benji. Enjoy.

The main idol, called the Maitreya Buddha, devoted icon of the "Yellow Sect":



The Buddhist paraphernalia, which looks a lot like an extensive tea set...



The books, which contains the words of the Tibetan Lamas. Each of these books is handwritten on parchment and wrapped in several layers of silk. It took the monk about 10 minutes to unwrap the book and show it to me. He was happy to oblige, though...



Prayer flames...



Paper lamps, Urns, Dalai Lama...



A backward glance at the gate...

D-Town

“My darling Darjeeling, oh what can I say,
Since you’ve been gone, the skie’s been Earl Grey,
Where’d you go, my pekoe? So spicy, so sweet,
Without you, I’m drowsy—I’ll crawl back to sleep…”

- Sour Mash Bandits

Yeah, I did it. I quoted my own band. But I wrote that song a long time ago, long before I thought I'd ever actually go to Darjeeling. I just liked the "Darjeeling" flavor of Twinings tea, and thought it sounded cool in rhythm with a Civil War-era fiddle part. I hope you guys did, too -- those of you who heard that particular song.

Some facts about Darjeeling Tea:

- Tea is sold there in grades -- the best being FTGFOP ("Fine Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe"). Sounds silly, right, like I'm making that up? I'm not. I bought a whole bunch of it.

- The tea is also organized like virgin olive oil or wine vintages -- in the order that the plant of origin emerged in the season... but it's misleading. "First Flush," or the first tea buds to appear on the bush, is actually of a lower quality than Second Flush, the buds that appear after the first are picked.

- The proper way to judge the quality of one's tea, like there's a quality-judging method for wine is to hold a handful of loose tea leaves up to your mouth, crush it in your fist, and blow hot air into it, then smell. Then you can say things like, "Mmmm, earthy!" or "Wow, can you smell the strawberry/oak/chestnut aroma?".

The day after we got to D-Town, we had a meeting in the schoolyard of the Red Cross school, where Tom (pictured below, center), the organizer of the Rickshaw Run, explained to us the proceedings of the day. There would be a parade. There would be a marching band. We should stay in line. Afterwards, there would be a soccer game against the local teenagers. We would lose. There would be tea and cakes afterwards.




The people of Darjeeling, unbelievably warm and friendly as they were, lined the streets and the apartment balconies...



They shouted from the roofs...



We made our way triumphantly out of the schoolyard...



Up the road, all 35 rickshaws...



Traffic jam...



Benji, lounging on the roof...



Me, as such...



We picked up hitchhikers, who threatened us with serious physical bodily harm until we let them ride with us, then eventually drive. They subjected us, in addition, to loud, out of tune singing of the "Dhoom Machale" theme song from "Dhoom 2: Back in Action," the Bollywood blockbuster. That last part might have been me, actually.



The band marched gloriously...



And continued to strut long after things ended...



Then, this dirty-minded Frenchman debauched Sally by putting her in a horrid, anatomically-incorrect pose with his rickshaw. Note the fluids dripping out of the wrong side of Sally.



For an article about the Run, check here. I'm on the far left, wrapped in a blanket, eating cake and drinking tea.

Also, if you'd like to read my article about (among other things) the soundtrack to Bollywood blockbuster "Dhoom 2: Back in Action," click here.

Love,
Robbie

Tiger Hill

"Darjeeling" means "Tiger Hill," but the actual place called Tiger Hill is outside of the city. The tourists clamor there in caravans of jeeps around 4:30 in the morning to watch the sun rise, but as soon as it's up, everyone leaves again, even though the view looks like this:



That white smear in the top-middle is the peak of Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest mountain in the world. If you turn your head to the left about 40 degrees, on a clear day you can see Everest, but just the tip of it. It was so beautiful, so breathtaking, so sublime, that all I wanted to do was drink Old Monk rum mixed with coffee, get cocked, and do donuts in my Rickshaw on top of Tiger Hill.

So first we took some wholesome group pictures...



Then got down to serious partying with the lairy Brits from the Run...



Songs were sung, and Nepalese tea-wallis groped...



Poses were struck...



Rickshaws were rolled...



And this, regrettably, is the best action shot of Sally we got after doing a hand-break turn and getting her on two wheels, with Rogier hanging from the other side...

The Final Assault

The final approach to Darjeeling began before dawn. I think it began in Raiganj, but it might have been Deogar. The whole day of driving was about 350 km. We reached Siliguri by lunch, packed in a thali and tea, then hit the road...



Our map was in tatters... Rogier and I model...



Final pit stop for petrol, with an extremely small gas station attendant...



In honor of the occasion, Rogier donned nederlandish colours...



and foisted them upon Sally as well, but she did look all pretty, garlanded in marigolds as she was...



and we made our way...

Darjeeling Road

After a brief interlude, back to the updates of the long-post-dated Rickshaw Run.

The final 70 miles of the Rickshaw Run, from Siliguri to Darjeeling, both in West Bengal, took us about 5 hours. That's slow for a rickshaw, but actually not terribly slow. It was a climb of about 3,000 meters, if I remember correctly, and we found it necessary to stop for tea, cigarettes, and breathtaking views literally around every curve. This is the panorama, with the road snaking up through the hills. Notice that it's not some sort of barren mountain pass. There were lots of little villages to pass through.



It did, at points, look a bit like the Great Wall of China...



One of the most immediately noticeable changes, going up to Darjeeling, is the simple fact of how people look. They are gurkas, or people of tribal Nepalese descent, and they look nothing like Bengalis or any other Indians. "Did you notice," said Rickshaw Run cameraman Rich after we had reached the top, "how incredibly fit the girls were on the way up here?". And he was right. They are a beautiful people -- high cheekbones, wide, curious-looking eyes, bright clothing.

Something about this woman hauling her marketables up the hill seemed pretty picturesque:



The railroad tracks of the famous Darjeeling Himalayan Railway (or Wes Anderson's "Darjeeling Limited") run right beside the road...



We saw the train twice, waiting for it to zigzag across the street, and rode it later, once we got to D-Town.





A man, lounging...



Houses, hanging off of the cliffs into the abyss, which was filled with fog and blurry vision...



And it was here, along the road to Darjeeling, that we got our warmest welcome to date. The locals waving to us, stepping out from doorways, shouting, smiling... It would continue for our whole stay in the Northeast, but it was quite pleasant, especially on the way in...