I became canary-yellow. My camera? Yellow. Chameleons, having shed their typical skin for indigo-emerald-vermillion-violet, painted the square. Puffs of bright chased on the breeze. Hot. Sweaty. Pleasure.
Holi has hit huge in Russia. The festival of colors is extremely popular with the youth culture across this country. I mean, who doesn’t want to spackle your mates multi-color? Holi powder is colored rice flour, or a synthetic equivalent. Here in Ulan-Ude, suppliers are selling 3.5 ounce bags at $3.00 a pop. An expression you hear often in Russia is: “Деньги на ветер”, which means spending money on the wind. I imagine many a sober minded grown-up here has uttered that expression in judgement of Holi. It is a racket, they are making money hand over fist, but, try quelling youth’s enthusiasm for a grand time! When the central square of your city becomes a frolicking rainbow mass of adolescent exuberance, you catch the wave.
I caught the wave, with a bunch of bright smiling teens/pre-teens who I met in the party on Soviet Square. They happily included me, quite pleased to have someone highlight their high jinks. In Russia, sharing is second nature, and I am always impressed with the generosity with which I am treated. Holi was no different. The crew I hooked up with made sure I had Holi powder to throw. Everywhere I looked, young people furnished Holi powder to whomever lacking. In Russia, people make sure everyone has fun. For photographers, Holi holds fantastic visuals, and the likelihood of maiming your camera. I know many of the photojournalists in Ulan-Ude. They were all up front, shooting from the stage, protecting their money-makers. Having thought about it, I knew the middle of the action was the place to be! Nikon D-60 resurrect!
Holi transports everyone back to the joy of youth. You forget worries and laugh with strangers. It crosses barriers that are generally uncrossable. Life becomes a kaleidoscope of movement, vivid colors and grinning teeth. Possibly Holi is hot tinted nirvana!
My embed with the kids was indelible. If I see them around town, will I recognize them without the bright sheen of Holi pasted faces? The only one who didn’t crack a smile was Lenin, looming over Soviet Square in Ulan-Ude. Inside his stone facade, I wonder, was he red with indignation, or green with envy?