They came with bells on.

Four day weekend, House in the mountains, Pagan festival, greatness.

For the last however many blogs, I have griped about the traveling. The bus, train stations, waits, stop and go, no sleep travel. You get the picture. It took me well over 12 hours to get where I was going. But, worth it – it was.

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The cabin (which was free somehow) was amazing: big, three floors, bay window over looking the snowcapped coniferous trees and mountain peaks. Real wood floors and real glass glasses. Well, la di da. The fact that the place did not have heat, water, and the electricity was totally unreliable couldn’t beat the fact that it had a bay window. It also had enough beds for the mob of us – no floor for me this weekend. Sometimes it’s just the simple things.

For two nights and a day, we worked hard at emptying the town of its grocery stock (the village was not really ready). Unfortunately, the walk to town involved hiking up/down a couple of hills – in the snow – that were steep enough to turn back sherpas. Trips for wood were painful. And, I was wearing clogs – on the theory that they were better than sandals. (Side, funny note: a buddy pulled me aside at some point during all this to tell me, ‘man, the story of your life is inappropriate footwear’. True.) I never stopped seeing my breath all weekend.

Once well stocked with wood, food (that didn’t need electricity or water to cook), and drinks. We settled in to kill time till the festival on Sunday. Thanks to one guy, the theme music became an awesome Jazz CD on repeat. This place was not a hip hop scene.

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Sunday morning came in a hurry and we had to rush to catch the minibus to take us to the festival. The festival of fertility – I think that is what it was for (pathetic, I know) – was awesome. Drums beating, assorted grilled street meats, homemade wines were mixed in with musty, furry costumes worn by musty, furry men. The bells on their belts made sure that there was not a moment of peace.

Guns don't kill people.
Eight year-old kids on roofs
with hand-cannons do.

One added benefit of going to this is that I am pretty sure I am not due for a heart attack any time soon (insert: pagan wood knock) for two reasons.
One: people were firing guns off at frequent, irregular intervals. The instinct to run slowly melts to an instinct to duck, which fades to a mild cringe, and finally you just make eye contact with a buddy, smirk and say, ‘this is crazy’ or ‘what are we doing here, man?’.

Two: I jumped into a river. It should be noted that this village is in the mountains, it is March, and I had to run across snow to get to the river. This requires more explanation:

Me, getting dunked.

At the end of the whole shebang, there is a hay hut with a guy inside. They light the hut on fire, with the guy inside. In some sort of faux rescue they drag the guy out and toss him in the river. Well, as word circulated that people would be in the river (and perhaps more importantly that people would be watching the people in the river), a few of us discussed joining them. And, in a mix of group-think plus burst of blissful youthfulness, I joined. It was great. One of the locals was even nice enough to dunk me completely under.

Post river, I danced the horo (the traditional thing that is always coming up) in the streets with a ton of other people. We celebrated, grin permanently painted on, clothes more than damp, clogs slipping on and off, and not totally sure what we were celebrating. It was good.

After all this, it was: taxi, hike, taxi, wait 1 hour, bus, wait 4 hours, train, wait 2 hours, train, taxi, home. Tired.

Monday: work.

Hope all is well,
Mark

[Special thanks to PCV James Tully for the pictures.
I forgot my camera at home. Shocker, I know.]

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