The Holi festival lasts over two weeks here in Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna. A Holi place if you will.

March 28th is marked with bonfires. An ancient ritual used to signify the burning of an ancient god, the death of an evil man. Though I'm unsure of the history, I am eager to be witness to the ceremony.

A shrine sits in waiting for the fire. It rests atop a massive pile of these discs shaped out of cow manure. Plate sized patties of shit left to dry in the sun, the sacred fuel for this sacred fire. Held together with wood and rope, the pile reaches four feet high, 8 feet squared. The Idol waits. The fire is not set to light for another hour so Martin, Neel, Jochem, and our two Indian friends from Dehli head to check out their hotel as they are eager and excited to show us the digs. We share whiskey and coke, but the devout Hindus deny our offers. Happy to enjoy the festival and need no extra celebration help, stating that being so close to this temple, and here in this town is intoxicating enough. So we finish our drinks and head back to watch the blaze. We approach as the flames just start, and as we reach within 20 feet we can feel the intensity of the heat. A crowd has gathered and the energy is palpable, the smiling faces and wide eyes lit from the fiery light. I feel the trickle of sweat down my face as I near the blaze, trying for the perfect picture. I snap a few portraits and by now its beyond hot, too much to handle.

We vacate the area, having seen enough. We head back to our hotel roof top to celebrate this foreign festival further. Three is a crowd, 5 is a group, and 10 is a party. We have drinks and music and within no time the dancing starts. We keep it authentic and move to the music as the locals do. Hands in the air, twirling and dancing like a bollywood star. The moon is full and the cool night air brings an amazing vibe that persists into the night. A Magical night with an International group. Sweden, Germany, England, America, Holland, Canada, Spain, Brazil.

I'm woken by the sound of drums, the shrill cries of excitement from the street. I'm groggy eyed from a late night atop the roof, dancing Indian style till the early morning hours. I have the same eager excitement as I get on Christmas morning, ready to run down and get the festivities started. I shower quickly and don my pure white clothes. I rush through the streets to grab a quick bite to eat, trying to avoid the mob of Indian boys with buckets of paint water.

I wolf down a spicy dish and I'm back to the hotel, managing to avoid the barrage of colour that awaits. I'm up the stairs and preparing my artillery for the showdown. I have paint water balloons, a water gun with colour water, bags of the Holi coloured powder. I am wearing my yet to be painted canvas of white. The first splash comes when I least expect it. The stream of dark green water hits my back and neck from below. Beneath me two boys have staked claim in the courtyard and shoot up towards me on the first floor balcony. The others have woken, eaten and are readying themselves too for the battle. Its time to show these young lads the advantage of higher ground. I race into the bathroom and fill the shower bucket with water. I creep around the side of the hotel, and with perfect aim I drench the first with a direct hit. Powder follows and before long, the attackers vanish, admitting defeat.

We convene as a group and the coloured water balloons are filled. A second round of battle begins and the street crowd below dodges the raining colour. A mad looking mob of coloured men surround the gates of our hotel, keeping us from making our way down to the street level. So we continue our attack from above. The bandits loose interest and wander down the street in search of easier targets to drench in the dark red soupy water.

We reach the ground and fan out in army style, keep watch and scouting a path. The war has just begun and we are in the trenches. The first bucket lands on Neel's head, the first fatality of Holi. His entire left side is marooned. We return fire and manage some damage in our rival colour green. As we work down the street the attacks are unavoidable, and soon we are smeared, painted and drenched head to foot in the rainbow colours of this amazing festival.

We hailed a taxi to the next town over, but have missed the prime action. We wander the streets and view the temples, wishing the passersby a Happy Holi and Hare Krishna. The occasional blessing of colour is given from the people, a gentle rubbing of powder across the forehead, against the cheeks and atop the head.

We end our day with a group photo and a final dousing of colour to each other, marking the end of a great Holi. We retire to our rooms and attempt with little success to remove some of the deeply stained colour.

I sit here in Dehli on my way to Dharmsala with green paint in my nails, and the light tint of yellow still on my ears. My face has a purple hue, but I am cast no strange looks. Well, no more strange looks than a big white guy in India gets. The colour is a symbol of my participation of this great holiday.

I am so happy to have been a part of this time here in India. From dancing in temples, to soaking locals in colour, I feel like I'm blessed to be a part of this.

I'm off to see the home of the Dali Lama, and to view the Himalaya mountains. A dream of mine since I first heard of these magnificent mountains. I am dreaming of the snow capped peaks.

I am also dreaming of home :) After the mountain retreat, I will be boarding my flight home. These past weeks will mark the perfect end to a great experience. One I will never forget.

Thank you all for letting me share such a great time in my life with you all. Love you, Miss you.

Tommy