Excerpts from Song Kran Battle Log:
4/11 1020 -
On the corner outside the internet cafe are two men: one is a farang (westerner) with wild blond hair and a crazed look in his eye, the other a grinning hipster Thai. They each have flowers strung around their necks. They are busy dumping buckets of water on the heads of people unlucky enough to be seated on motorcycles or in the backs of trucks stopped at the red light. Tomorrow officially begins Song Kran, Thailand's New Year/Water Festival, but the tension and soaking have incrementally increased daily. Last night the palpable nervous energy in the streets, tense silences amidst laughter as groups of teenagers on summer vacation eye each other looking for aquarian arms, an atmosphere similar to Mischief Night in the US. While I have yet to get thoroughly soaked, I have been squirted with waterguns the last two days and I feel the bucket about to drop. There is no denying my ensuing fate. But, it's not all fun and games. As my mother reminded me via email this morning, without a trace of sarcasm,
> As far as the water festival goes please be careful.....
> I've heard that if you get hit in the head with a water
> balloon, in just the right way, it can detach your retina.
> So try to stay dry.
Thanks for the concern, mom, glad to know you're worrying,
but water balloons are eschewed in favor of more effective methods such
as hoses, buckets, and pump-action water cannons. On the other side, here
in Chiang Mai, the unoffical capital of Song Kran, there are said to be
seven fatalities
4/12 1315 -- Ambushed in the apartment building's driveway
by children far too happy to get a farang wet. I was hit in the leg and
lower back, Paul was just grazed, but then a drive-by strafing (middle-aged
men and women shooting water out of the back of a speeding pickup) delivered
us both mortal wounds. Must stop to imbibe spirits.
1530 -- Been recruited to a roadside sniping mission. We've got heavy
artiliary -- a hose, garbage cans, and buckets -- but my accuracy is poor.
Our cans of beer seem to be of great fascination and are confiscated.
Whisky is forced upon us. The first blood of the afternoon is shed as
I cut my hand on a metal bucket (I would survive the night). The real
casualty is my hat, a Laotian baseball cap with the insignia "Mofork,"
which disappears on the head of an underaged, oversmiley member of the
family commandeering a motorbike (especially dangerous amidst the crossfire).
1720 -- Encounter insanity in front of the shopping mall. Walls of techno
rhythms reverberate from towering speakers and move hundreds of ungulating
bodies from which hang soaked clothing. Hoses three centimeters in diameter
spew forth torrents upon the crowd, bucketfulls are exchanged with grins,
and some sadistic geniuses somehow have access to ice-melt. I find myself
dancing. So strange, so wet.
1835 -- Ambushed! An older farang approaches with a handshake, claiming
to be the father of Jerome (thought to be a friendly -- an english teacher
college buddy of my associate, the good doctor). In confusion, my guard
is down when, pinned in the simple wrist-lock, I am subjected to the blast
of an alleyway watercannon. Unfortunately, the old man's legs were broken
before the allegedly humorous nature of the incident was explained to
me.
2340 -- After further festivity celebrated within walking distance of
home base, we retreat for the evening. It is revealed that we have an
intruder in the apartment however, a framed print of a pseudo-artistic
black-and-white photograph of a tabby cat on a windowsill, which is forcibly
removed by my associate with gusto and daring over the seventh floor balcony.
The next morning "Bisley" the cat and certain still-soaked unmentionables
which met similar fates are awaiting us in the lobby. Bisley looks noticably
disapproving.
4/13 1055 -- The good doctor and I contrive a plan to beat
Thai hospitality to the punch by getting thoroughly inebriated before
leaving the apartment.
1310 -- We stave off hunger pains to sufficiently complete the pre-emptive
strike.
1425 -- We succumb to the remainder of our fate and are soaked by the
neighborhood children immediately upon exiting the building. And so it
continued for four more rotations of the earth -- an unending cycle of
water, alcohol, and rest. On several occasions embarressedly stood in
the doorway of restaurants, a puddle forming around our feet, before being
waved in understandingly. Each night the party at the shopping mall was
kicking, each day the area adjacent to the walls that encircle the old
city was a toxic typhoon of greenish moat water. When it ended, reeling
from the pitch of the event and relieved I would not have a high-pressure
stream of ice water dripping down my back to thoroughly chill my nether-regions,
I wondered whther the sort-term boost that the economy receives in the
sale of alcohol and implements of soakage could possibly counteract the
effect of Nothing Productive Happening for a good week. I wondered at
the good-naturedness of the Thais (I, a pacifist, nearly started the only
fight of the week). I wondered why people were so cruel to the motorcyclists
whose lives could end from an ill-timed splash in the eyes. I wondered
what destination could be so important that the motorcyclists were forced
into taking that mortal risk. I wondered how I could start a similar holiday
in the US.
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