by Phil Goldman

[Dateline: Bangkok] Thousands of Thai Nationals have taken to the streets, armed with high-powered squirt rifles, hoses and buckets – completely soaking everything in their way. Songkran, the three-day, nationwide Thai Water Festival has begun. All business and traffic has come to a standstill. You are advised to please remain indoors or inside your cars – unless you are prepared to get seriously wet.

Our bus was under attack from all sides; we were forced to stop. I watched the waterfight through the sheets pouring down the windows. The streets and sidewalks were filled with laughing, screaming Thais drenching each other. I had to get out there. I ran down the aisle. The driver jumped up from his seat and got in my way, “No, no, is too dangerous!”

“It’s only water!” I said.

He shrugged an “it’s your life” shrug and opened the door. I got off and within seconds I was soaked. I tore off my t-shirt and threw it in the bus. As soon as they saw my hairy white body, every single Thai in town stopped dead, pointed at me, and screamed (what I believe to be), “Get the monkey!”

They hit me with everything – every bucket, hose and rifle pummeled me from all directions. There were full frontal assaults, hit and runs, sniper attacks, at one point a small truck with an oil drum filled with ice water drove past and dumped it on top of me. Between waves of attack, children squirted me in the groin with their tiny guns, then ran off laughing. I ducked into a storefront for cover, or at least where I wouldn’t be quite so exposed. The grinning shopkeeper there handed me a hose. I shot back, but it was no defense against such an onslaught. Dropping the hose, I ran to a slightly more protected area – a beauty salon, which, as it turns out, happened to be filled with young, dripping wet girls. My half-naked, hairy body proved absolutely irresistible to them. (They probably never got the chance to touch a body quite like mine. These were “nice” Thai girls after all, but it was Songkran , their big chance to let loose.) They surrounded me with small basins, bowed politely, asking permission, and then gently poured some water over my head. (This is the traditional Songkran way – over the years the festival had evolved from polite, quasi-religious dowsing to full-scale war.) They carried out tins of perfumed powder, which they mixed with water, making a thick, sweet, white paste. They rubbed it all over my body. Within seconds, I looked like I’d been covered in plaster; my chest (and back and shoulder) hair formed endless clumps of tiny, pasty, dreadlocks. It was a good look for me – the White Aboriginal Rasta Monkey God. The world was mine.

The girls were pressed in tight around me, massaging and giggling. Lots of giggling. They didn’t even seem to mind getting their fingers caught in my hairy tangles. Even I started giggling (I usually don’t). One of the girls grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me to face her.

“You kiss me! Now!”

Hmmm , I thought, cute Thai girl in cold, clingy, wet clothes wants to kiss me. Hmmm…

As I leaned in to her, she lifted her hand to her mouth, placing her thumb to her lips and extending her pinky towards me. Her friends told me I had to kiss the pinky. Only the pinky. I protested, but even in the throes of this sodden bacchanalia, they were still nice girls, after all. I kissed her pinky, then the other girls extended theirs. I was obliged to make the rounds.

Before I could finish, the driver had managed to get the bus through the crowd. He pulled up in front of the salon and blasted the horn to get my attention. The door slid open and he reached his hand out to me as though he was saving my life.

“We go! You get in! Now!”

I quickly finished off the last of the pinkies and hopped on the bus. The driver handed me my t-shirt, which I waved to the girls like a white handkerchief from the doorway as the bus slowly pulled away, then stopped again, stuck in traffic. The waving soon got old, my arm grew tired and the girls lost interest. They turned away, I went back inside the bus

I dripped back down the aisle and spent the rest of the air-conditioned ride soaking wet, sitting in a puddle of my own making. The driver was right, as it turned out, the festival had been dangerous – by the end of the trip, I had the sniffles and felt the beginnings of diaper rash. Though for days after, my skin was soft and smooth and smelled just as nice as a nice Thai girl.

This entry was posted on Friday, February 27th, 2009 at 9:13 pm and is filed under Great Stories, Men's Travel, Third Annual Solas Awards Winners. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.