8am. The day is starting cold, gray and damp. Even so, I am very excited about this immersion in an all-new experience, my attitude helped by a good night's sleep.
How these tent camps work. Think of a hotel. Now imagine those stacked-up rooms all spread out in a camp, with numbers on the tents, locks on the front flaps, beds, tables, (generator) electricity and bathrooms inside each tent. When this event is over, it's all packed up and moved to the next huge event in India, and there are many. Only the poop stays behind. With no sewer system here, I was curious where all waste goes. It stays. While this is called a luxury camp, it is adequate at best and that's quite a luxury under these circumstances. There is a dining tent where we are served breakfast lunch and dinner. There's a slight nod to American tastes at breakfast, otherwise only Indian vegetarian food is served and it's really good.
This camp sits on a bluff overlooking a serene and beautiful part of the Ganges River. We went down the steep steps that lead to the riverbank to watch people from here immerse themselves in that holy river water. For most, that symbolic bathing is the focal point of the Kumbh.
It was quiet there, but not around the bend in the river. Around that bend were tent camps, tent temples, tent police and fire stations, tents for as far as I could see. These are mostly simple pilgrims and holy people who come as families to this once every twelve years gathering. Their tent cities and campsites are nothing like ours, often enduring real hardships to be here. With only one exception, all I could see and feel was joy and happiness.
The exception happened as Marty and I stood at the very edge of the Ganges in a press of people. Both of us taking photos of the bathers, but only Marty was shooting when an angry guy went off on him hard about no photos of the bathers. Marty sort of blew him off when he made a grab for Marty's camera. Marty jerked it away and screamed at the guy, which made him back off a little. Then both of us began pointing out - aggressively - all the cameras around us. He moved away. I'm sorry he wasn't there when an Indian man handed Marty a camera and humbly asked if he'd photograph him as he bathed.
Later we were walking along the riverbank but perhaps twenty yards up where the crowd was somewhat thinner. An Indian photographer passed us carrying two very high end cameras. Marty said - Getting any good shots? The guy responded, but I walked on. Then I realized Marty wasn't with me. He was still talking. As I walked back, the two were hugging. Here's how that hug happened. Marty asked the guy some questions. He told Marty he now lives in New York and he said he's a photojournalist. Turns out Marty recently received an email from his son's best friend saying that a dear family friend, a longtime UN photojournalist, was going to be at this Kumbh Mela. Marty emailed the man suggesting they meet. No response. That's the photojournalist Marty bumped into today, among a million people. His name is John Isaac. Worth a Google.It's now 4pm here and we're both walked out. But the sun is now shining, the mud is drying and the camp is filled with happy, excited talking.
I'll add photos to these recent postings when I get Wi-Fi access. Maybe not til I get back.
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