The best travel day of our lives happened on this trip. We both agree, nothing has topped this day on our adventures around the world.
We woke up in our damp, sweaty beds to the sun rising over the mountain on the left. Sitting on top of that mountain was the Burma Wife Temple. We could hear singing prayers and music in the distance. The flies were out in full force -- swarming our heads. I'll stick to the fact that it was because my pillow was 'janky', not because I smelled that bad. All of a sudden, that band of men we had a sleepover with in the Indian desert came and served us tea and breakfast in bed. Let me repeat. BREAKFAST IN JANKY BEDS. Yeah, we thought we were still dreaming too.
We noticed this old man sitting over by the fire who was dressed in all white. God? We ventured over to find out for ourselves. His name was Mangra. He was probably 65 years old and he had an instrument called the Rahmunta. I even asked him to spell it for me -- and given my ability to understand Indian-English, I'm certain that's correct ;)
He spoke to us in whatever broken English he could muster. We gathered he lived in a nearby village. But for some reason that was hard for me to believe because you guys -- his clothes were SO WHITE. Bright white. That shade of white where you may or may not need sunglasses to actually sit and speak with him. Either way, we bought into his story. Kate then asked if she could wear his hat... and play his instrument. No boundaries here.
Our lousy musical talents on the Rahmunta didn't last long. So we resorted to what we know best. Dancing. We proceeded to break it down with Mangra. We all sang whatever note hit our vocal chords and we flung our bodies around in the soft sand. Occasionally we would stop everything because we were laughing so hard. Then we would pick back up and continue on with the nonsense. We finally stopped after realizing how sweaty we had just gotten at 7 am in the middle of the Indian desert with a man named Mangra playing the Rahmunta. Say that five times over.
[super exclusive dance footy]
Our lousy musical talents on the Rahmunta didn't last long. So we resorted to what we know best. Dancing. We proceeded to break it down with Mangra. We all sang whatever note hit our vocal chords and we flung our bodies around in the soft sand. Occasionally we would stop everything because we were laughing so hard. Then we would pick back up and continue on with the nonsense. We finally stopped after realizing how sweaty we had just gotten at 7 am in the middle of the Indian desert with a man named Mangra playing the Rahmunta. Say that five times over.
[super exclusive dance footy]
Mangra most likely got sick of entertaining us. In broken Indian-English, I heard him say "Thank you. Thank you. I go back home now." But I'm fairly certain it was "I'm done with you idiot tourists. Get out of my desert." And Mangra, he got us good. We had just finished what we thought was an epic dance party. We were sitting there exhausted and sweaty. And he said he had to go. His hand was extended... you know what that means. Kate and I looked at each other.
"Wait, do we? Does he...? Uhhh, wait, is he real?"
"Uh, yeah I guess we do. Uhh okay how much. Wait, is his name Mangra? Is that even a RAHMUNTA?!?"
We forked over the cash. We all bowed to each other as if our friendship meant something. And off he went to his 'village'. I watched that bright white outfit disappear in the distance. Then I immediately retreated back to my thoughts. Was he real? Was this another facade for tourists? Did we just wake up alive and well in the Indian desert and have a dance party with a man named Mangra? Within minutes, I began questioning our whole morning. When I travel, I live for the authenticity of the experience. I kept trying to convince myself that our encounter with Mangra was exactly that.
"Wait, do we? Does he...? Uhhh, wait, is he real?"
"Uh, yeah I guess we do. Uhh okay how much. Wait, is his name Mangra? Is that even a RAHMUNTA?!?"
We forked over the cash. We all bowed to each other as if our friendship meant something. And off he went to his 'village'. I watched that bright white outfit disappear in the distance. Then I immediately retreated back to my thoughts. Was he real? Was this another facade for tourists? Did we just wake up alive and well in the Indian desert and have a dance party with a man named Mangra? Within minutes, I began questioning our whole morning. When I travel, I live for the authenticity of the experience. I kept trying to convince myself that our encounter with Mangra was exactly that.
I watched him become one with the horizon. His bright white outfit now apart of the rising sun. The further he walked into the distance, the more convinced I became he actually lived in a remote village.
We'll never know where Mangra came from. And we'll never meet him again. But that's okay. Authentic or not -- we still hung out with the coolest little old man in the middle of an Indian desert.
We'll never know where Mangra came from. And we'll never meet him again. But that's okay. Authentic or not -- we still hung out with the coolest little old man in the middle of an Indian desert.