This weekend I chucked ice cold water over a small child, squirted coloured dye on the white dress of a kindly lady and smeared coloured powder into the hair of an elderly man. Now, you would be forgiven for thinking that I am a monster, a terrible person who shouldn’t be allowed to mix with others and certainly someone who should not be on a voluntary placement. And you would be right. All of those things would be abhorrent, if it wasn’t actively encouraged.
This weekend I travelled up to New Amsterdam with the other volunteers I came away with to celebrate the Hindu festival of Phagwah, or Holi. Holi is the spring festival of colour which is celebrated at the end of the winter season on the last full moon day of the lunar month (thanks Wikipedia). It is commemorated by having a huge public water fight and covering each other in coloured dyes and powders. The significance of this is so that when you are all finished, you look the same as the person next to you. There is no distinction between colour, religion or race. We are all the same – covered from head to foot in coloured dyes and powders.
We took a short taxi ride up to the local Mandir, where we understood that a huge bonfire was to be lit, ushering in the start of the festival. We knew that it was going to be a bit messy, which is why I had scoured the stores in Georgetown the day before, trying to find an old white t-shirt to wear. I had found one, but it looked like it had been pulled from the depths of a horror show. But we soon fixed that, bleach is a wonderful thing.
We were lucky enough to be invited into the Mandir and were welcomed with open arms. The ceremony was fantastic, simply sat on the floor, listening to singing, chanting and some great music with drums and harmonium. The Pandit delivered his message, a mixture of tolerance to all and peaceful messages for living a happier life, and then went outside to start the biggest fire I have ever seen. It was as tall as a three story house, but unfortunately it had been raining during our time inside, so it took a little while to start going. I say a little while, because the 40,000 litres of petrol kicked it off quick smart. That was some sage thinking. Good old arson...
Then, it all seemed to go ‘a bit Lord of the Flies’, or so I thought. People were running around, throwing things at each other. I was about to curl up and continuously shout “please don’t hit my face!” when I realised everyone was smiling and laughing and having fun. The festivities had begun. All ages were involved, old and young, men and women, covering everything and everyone in water. The drums kept playing and the music continued. It was a huge dance which you couldn’t seem to stop taking part in.
Now, bear in mind that we were fully clothed in ‘non Phagwah’ stuff. The white t-shirt was still in my bag, as were everyone else’s as we thought all the water and powder shenanigans started the next day. Wrong.
I tried to avoid the water. I was unsuccessful. I thought I could use the Kate Adie approach. Hold a camera and say “I’m just taking some pictures”, but it didn’t wash. I suddenly realised that it was either I get the camera destroyed, or put it down and get involved, which I did. I highly recommend it, but do remember to take your wallet out of your pocket too, especially in a country which is pretty much driven with paper currency. Paper mache money never quite works as well.
We were driven home by our new friends, as they refused to let us get a taxi and waited for the morning to start over again.
On Sunday we were meeting up with a teaching colleague of a volunteer and celebrating with her family for the day. When we arrived, we were greeted with smiles, generosity and the largest breakfast imaginable, and then subsequently didn’t stop eating (or receiving warm-hearted graciousness) for the rest of the day.
The first part of the day is to walk around the village, collecting people to join your celebrations. Everyone follows a band, who sings and plays music and occasionally stop at houses to be fed and watered. You sometimes get the occasional flat bed truck which drives around and throws buckets of water over people. It is like being a kid again. Next you are supposed to cover yourself in the mud and ash from the fire of the previous night, but as the mud was a little toxic we just opted for the ash.
The second part of the celebrations was after lunch; this was the powder fight with dyes and water pistols. Again, all ages were involved, you go around the town visiting all your friends and neighbours, covering them all in different coloured powders and wishing them a ‘happy Phagwah’. It is really very difficult to try and describe how welcoming and friendly total strangers can be. I guess that is why it is referred to as ‘playing Phagwah’ because, that’s just what it is like, playing.
The family looked after us like we were their own; their friends and neighbours turned into our friends and neighbours. It was all quite lovely. And I thought it took a long time to wash out all 
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