The Holi is a festival celebrated by Hindus and Buddhists alike here in Nepal. They love to refer to it as the Festival of Colors, and in some regions this can last up to two weeks. Supposedly this tradition harks back to the days of Lord Krishna and Radha, the original Goddess, and eternal love of Krishna. Legend says that Krishna had complained in detail about his dark sin as opposed to the Radha's fair complexion. To make light of the situation, his mother applied color to Krishna’s face, which explains today’s rituals during the Festival. This is why people’s faces are colored, the result of the pitched colored powder and water duels.
Last year, I was well aware of this tradition, but only this year was I an active, willing participant. Last year, I hid to avoid the colored powder and water being painted on my face. This year I was more than up for it. With a handsome arsenal of my own.
My weapons: 50 water balloons, each of them filled with purple colored water. Then there is the pump gun that can take a couple of liters of liquid. This would be my assault weapon.
Ready to storm the Kathmandu armies of kids Rambo style, I hear a commotion from the neighbor’s house. There’s a full house next door, and I hear the unmistakable splats of water balloons connecting. Hee hee hee. Time to be a good neighbor. I peak over the wall: yep, quite an assembly they’ve got there. Five adult women, five men, and another half dozen or so kids. Time for a rampage, I say.
A couple of water grenades that I lob into the parking area hail my pending assault. Splat. Splat. Now the neighbors are looking. Where did this come from? Ever so observant, one of the little kids spots me and minutes later, here come the balloons and buckets of water flying right back. Whoa. We’re going to have to lay low for a bit. Finally I see one of their guys on the balcony restocking his water balloons. I give him a wave. I have never seen the guy before. He says he lives in Chicago, that he returned home for the Holi. His English of course is perfect, I even hear a slight Midwest twang.
“You realize,” he grins, “it is fifteen people against one?”
“That’s okay,” I laugh, “I’ve got plenty of ammo.”
No doubt about that. Water is quite a commodity in Kathmandu. They are lucky if they can use drain water for their Holi battles. As an American, I have no such issue. In the end it’s a jet against rubber bands. And the rubber bands will eventually run out. Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Starve them. Long live the Empire. Dick Cheney rules.
Except now there are other balloons crashing against my wall. Darn, they land with such an impact that I am wondering if people mixed cement in them (some jokers actually do this). I spy a couple of men firing at me from the rooftop two houses away. A good ambush position, I have to admit, and quite a throw. What my neighbors don’t realize is that I actually have the range to hit them up there. Incredulously they watch as water grenade after water grenade hits the target upstairs, scattering whoever is assembled up there. A few bad grenades fly back, but they are losing water in midair - inferior weapons. I catch one limp balloon with my head.
The kids need to stay inside for this. It certainly looks fun, but a balloon in the face from that far away will send any toddler home crying, especially if he doesn’t expect it.
Finally the neighbors run out of ammo or decide it‘s time for a siesta. Time to take care of my own kids. Drenched and colored, I change my clothes.
Last year, I was well aware of this tradition, but only this year was I an active, willing participant. Last year, I hid to avoid the colored powder and water being painted on my face. This year I was more than up for it. With a handsome arsenal of my own.
My weapons: 50 water balloons, each of them filled with purple colored water. Then there is the pump gun that can take a couple of liters of liquid. This would be my assault weapon.
Ready to storm the Kathmandu armies of kids Rambo style, I hear a commotion from the neighbor’s house. There’s a full house next door, and I hear the unmistakable splats of water balloons connecting. Hee hee hee. Time to be a good neighbor. I peak over the wall: yep, quite an assembly they’ve got there. Five adult women, five men, and another half dozen or so kids. Time for a rampage, I say.
A couple of water grenades that I lob into the parking area hail my pending assault. Splat. Splat. Now the neighbors are looking. Where did this come from? Ever so observant, one of the little kids spots me and minutes later, here come the balloons and buckets of water flying right back. Whoa. We’re going to have to lay low for a bit. Finally I see one of their guys on the balcony restocking his water balloons. I give him a wave. I have never seen the guy before. He says he lives in Chicago, that he returned home for the Holi. His English of course is perfect, I even hear a slight Midwest twang.
“You realize,” he grins, “it is fifteen people against one?”
“That’s okay,” I laugh, “I’ve got plenty of ammo.”
No doubt about that. Water is quite a commodity in Kathmandu. They are lucky if they can use drain water for their Holi battles. As an American, I have no such issue. In the end it’s a jet against rubber bands. And the rubber bands will eventually run out. Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Starve them. Long live the Empire. Dick Cheney rules.
Except now there are other balloons crashing against my wall. Darn, they land with such an impact that I am wondering if people mixed cement in them (some jokers actually do this). I spy a couple of men firing at me from the rooftop two houses away. A good ambush position, I have to admit, and quite a throw. What my neighbors don’t realize is that I actually have the range to hit them up there. Incredulously they watch as water grenade after water grenade hits the target upstairs, scattering whoever is assembled up there. A few bad grenades fly back, but they are losing water in midair - inferior weapons. I catch one limp balloon with my head.
The kids need to stay inside for this. It certainly looks fun, but a balloon in the face from that far away will send any toddler home crying, especially if he doesn’t expect it.
Finally the neighbors run out of ammo or decide it‘s time for a siesta. Time to take care of my own kids. Drenched and colored, I change my clothes.
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