The land of a thousand smiles

My arrival in Bangkok coincided with two theoretically opposed events. Most important to the international news media was the violent clash between the military and a group known as the red shirts, who were demanding the resignation of Thailand's prime minister. This led to blazing infernos, street closures, and an intimidating, heavily armed police presence, which included tanks rolling down the streets. Blocks away, but seemingly on another planet were the festivities of the annual Songkran festival, which commemorates the Buddhist new year. Traditionally, the festival featured the light splashing of floral waters to ring in the new year, but in the current Buddhist year of 2552, this has morphed into an all out, countrywide water war. Tourists and locals alike walk the streets heavily armed with high powered hydro weapons capable of killing small mammals. With the city under siege, it was not uncommon to see groups of supersoaker toting civilians standing side by side with m-16 toting military officers, everyone hoping that the latter wasn't as trigger happy as the former.

The streets were awash with entrepreneurs, cleverly marketing a combination of weaponry and beverages. The most creative would bottle the recently melted ice, which had been cooling the drinks, and sell it to evil minded party goers, myself included, who loved to watch the exacerbated facial expressions of people getting a high powered shot of ice cold water in the spine. Groups of kids congregated curbside around 50 gallon drums of water, which were perpetually refilled with nearby hoses. The majority of the vehicles who entered the area were on-duty moto and tuk tuk drivers attempting to pick up passengers and escort them out of the war zone. These unfortunate souls were the most heavily victimized, receiving violently thrown buckets of water in the face at each passing of a roadside mob of children. Meanwhile, roving bands of teenagers circled the streets in pickup trucks, the beds of which were equipped with their own 50 gallon drums of water, and a team of drive by artists who returned the onslaught of those on the sidewalk.

Adding to the madness was the tradition of smearing baby powder or similar substances on the faces of each passerby as a sign of respect and new years luck. With a population soaked to the bone, this quickly morphs into a citywide paper mache project, as everyone acquires a layer of crusty body armor, which is then washed away by high pressure water blasts and replaced again and again. By midday, the epicenter of the water fighting looks like it was infested with zombies or struck by an atomic bomb, with dusty victims strangely skipping around in the aftermath.

Providing refuge from the madness was an impressive lineup of cultural venues to remind people that the festival was a celebration of Thai culture, not just the opportunity to shoot your neighbor in the face. There was lively Thai theater, and a vivid puppet show reminiscent of being john malcovic, but the highlight was a b-boy performance to the soundtrack of traditional drumming.

Over the days, I found myself continuously under armed against kids the size of my thigh, whose guns were of equal size. The most memorable experience came on the final night, while wandering the many soi (alleyway) of the old town of Bangkok. After being viciously bombarded with water that would have solidified had it been any colder, I was invited to join the party of the perpetrators, a family of Nepalese shop owners. They had set up a sound system worthy of a night club in front of their corner store, blasting Nepalese and Indian dance music while dousing each passerby with a liberal amount of specially formulated ice water. I quickly realized that their store was conveniently located next door to an ice factory which resulted in the continuous addition of newborn-baby-sized blocks of ice into their bucket. There was never a moment when the bucket consisted of more water than ice.

When it was all said and done, Songkran (click link for video coverage), was one of the most memorable festivals I've ever experienced. What better way to build community than to shoot your neighbor in the eye with ice cold water during the hottest month of the year? Peoples expectations of personal space and liability issues would likely prevent this event from taking place in the U.S., which is a shame.

After an overnight train from Bangkok, which was invaded by an army of baby cockroaches, I touched down in Chiang Mai, which is known as the cultural capital of Thailand - due to an insane amount of elaborate Buddhist temples. For one week, I explored the city by motorbike, and driving on the left hand side of the road proved to be a continuous challenge. The celebration of Buddhist new years was still in full effect, and while wandering through Wat Don Suap, I was invited to partake in a continuation of the water splashing ceremony, this time much more traditional than in Bangkok. Following the lead of the young children ahead of me, I was given a tub of floral water and instructed to proceed on my knees. Shuffling along in a line, we made our pilgrimage, passing a line of seated elders, each of whom would take a handful from our bucket and gently pat us on the shoulders. Those who spoke English curiously asked me where I was from and wished me luck in the new year. Those who didn't speak English, whispered to their neighbors, probably inquiring about where I was from. At the end of the line, I felt like I had gone on a hajj, and realized that my youth is fading, as my knees were decimated from a mere 15 minutes of shuffling against the carpet of the temple.

At Wat Umong, I found my way into an area labeled as the monastery zoo, which featured a herd of some kind of deer-cow hybrid looking creature which the monks cared for. Upon entering their living space, I found the monks preparing to feed them with some kind of eggplant- cucumber looking hybrid of vegetable. While cautiously keeping an eye on one of the beasts who the lead monk described as 'crazy,' I joined in tossing the food to the animals and watched them corral them into their mouths with their snake like tongues. The crazy member of the group kept his focus on the strange farang (foreigner) at all times, often flaring his nostrils and stomping his feet - much to the delight of the monks.
From the cultural capital of the nation, a one hour flight south to Phuket quickly delivered me to an entirely different kind of atmosphere...