Bring on the dancing boys

On our second day in Jodhpur, we found ourselves in the middle of a festival to celebrate the birthday of Lord Brahma. If we thought India was chaotic at the best of times, then you should see the narrow streets of Jodhpur during a riotous celebration.

Someone told us there were about 150 floats on the streets, and this was probably true. The narrow street we walked through was packed with people watching, dancers, dervishes (whirling of course) brass bands, drummers, paraders and floats full of heavily painted and slightly bored looking gods and goddesses. The deities were beautifully dressed and sat on cart that seemed to be made of hammered, patterned metal.

The atmosphere was incredible. Behind huge speakers of wheels blaring Hindi music were groups of young men dancing like this was the party of the century. The appropriate style of dance for festivals seems ot be a sort of knees-bent bump, grind and thrust, which must be done with full enthusiasm and no shame. I tried to imagine fifteen-year-old kiwi boys dancing like that. Wouldn't happen.

Getting through the street was intense, especially when a stoned sadhu grabbed my hand and tried to drag me for a dance (Indian women were watching, not dancing) and I had to be very forceful to get it back.

There was one surprising moment when I felt a stange feeling at the back of my neck and discoved that both L and I had been piled in shaving cream.

Even more surprising though, was when I got pushed off the pavement by a reveller and landed with one foot in an open sewer. Yes, they have them. and yes, it was utterly repulsive. The sole of my foot to my ankle was coated.

I bought some 90 rupees sandals at once. (At once meaning 40 minutes later after traipsing around for 40 minutes with a foot covered in shit.)

This is India. Gods above the ordinary folk and shit on the streets.