A thirsty Songkran participant takes a moment of reprieve from the steady onslaught of water, baby powder, and eternal childhood. Aaron Joel Santos photo.
Right as I started screaming, the water hit my face. I'd tried to sneak past the morning patrols—but these kids had people everywhere.
Now, halfway to a hangover cure, I was surrounded by devil children clutching their super-soakers, water buckets, and bottles of baby powder.
I knew I was fucked, but I raised my hands in surrender anyways as they closed in around me.
Drive by's, sneak attacks, and guerrilla warfare; during Songkran, water can come from anywhere. Sasha Willins Photo.
Chiang Mai is famous for Songkran. People from all over the world come to join the locals for the four-day throwdown.
Historically, Thais have celebrated Songkran as a metaphorical cleansing of past sins. However, the Songkran of modern times is more often a place to commit misdeeds than to wash them clean.
Across Thailand, something like 200 people die annually during the Thai New Year. One common denominator in all of these deaths is that Songkran is rowdy, and oftentimes dangerous.
The concept is simple: A whole city’s worth of people, tourists and locals, drop everything they’re doing, and proceed to have an orgiastic water fight—for days on end.
Make no mistake, this is not the squirt-gun fight of your local neighborhood pool. This is a full-on water war infused with alcohol, sex, music, and just about everything else.
The rules are few: No splashing monks, police (often overlooked), or pregnant women. A general ceasefire is declared at sundown, but from there, the debauchery is endless.
The weapon of choice is water, but people also employ baby powder to soul-crushing effect. Being splashed and sprayed, hell, even getting antiqued is bearable, but at Songkran, shit gets real once you’ve taken ice cubes to the face. In the US, this festival would be illegal to even propose.
On the first day, I jumped into the thick of it. I had no morals. I splashed little kids and old grandmas—they always returned fire. Screaming no, begging for mercy; nothing stalled the aquatic onslaught for those trying to escape.
TENS OF THOUSANDS IN THE STREETS, DJS ON EVERY CORNER THUMPING BEATS, NUDE SUPERMODELS IN TRUCK BEDS BLASTING YOU WITH THE HOSE.
After many hours of warfare, I returned to my guesthouse limping. It felt like someone had kicked my ass. I had fun, but I realize now that I committed too much to the fight too early.
Songkran is a marathon, not a sprint.
Escalating slowly, the violence progressed each day, gradually reaching fever pitch. By day three, there were tens of thousands in the streets, DJs on every corner thumping beats, nude supermodels in truck beds blasting you with the hose.
It gets exhausting. Songkran taught me that there can be too much of a good thing.
A Thai lady is helpless as lil' buddy makes it rain up on that ass! Recoverling photo.
On day two, I began to realize that I was in over my head. On my way to breakfast, a parade cut me off. Trucks, cars, tuk-tuks, and every manner of pedestrian were in various stages of water combat. The crowd extended past my field of vision, so I decided to try and cut through the chaos to get to where I was going.
Halfway through, someone tapped me on the shoulder. Upon turning, I had an entire five-gallon bucket of water thrown in my face.
Refreshing, in a "What-the-fuck?!?" sort of way.
The man holding the bucket threw an arm around my neck, pressing an open bottle of Thai whiskey towards me. It was only 8:37 in the morning, but during Songkran, if you can’t beat ‘em, you really have to join ‘em.
I accepted, and after pulling from the bottle, I handed it back, saying “thank you ver……”
——Thwaaak!——
I was cut off by a hard slap across the face—baby powder erupting everywhere.
Still stunned, the cloud settled towards the ground, revealing behind it a bikini-clad woman with powder caked around her palm, now gripping the bottle of whiskey I’d just drank from. She smiled and wished me a happy Songkran, forcing the bottle back into my hand.
Now fully caught up in the second day’s festivities, I’d made new friends. It was still before breakfast and I shuddered to think of how things would snowball from here.
I took another swig of Sangsom, and, scooping up some of the caked powder, I turned to a total stranger, and slapped him across the face. He smiled.
Sides are ever changing and treachery is common. On the wet streets of Chiang Mai, empires rise and fall in minutes. Flickr Creative Commons photo.
The Thai couple who had just assaulted me suggested we join their friends up in a truck. I agreed. Climbing up, the truck was full of alcohol, squirt guns, buckets of water, and from what I saw, a whole bevy of stimulants to keep the party energized.
I spent the rest of that morning terrorizing the streets with my newly-befriended militia. I really liked my new friends, and under their tutelage, I learned a lot about not giving a fuck.
Together, we rained down vengeance on the city of Chiang Mai. Every time we triumphed in a waterfight, we drank to celebrate. Every time we were defeated, we'd take a shot to regain our lost honor.
A few hours after our meeting, the truck broke down. We were inspecting the engine when one of Chiang Mai’s actual municipal fire trucks rolled up right next to us.
In Thailand, all buckets are not created equal. Colin/Sarah Northway photo.
“On duty” only in an abstract sense, the firefighters were all smoking and drinking, having their own party. A larger and better-armed party.
Looking down at us, broken down and faded, the fire squad saw only weakness.
The first person hit by the fire hose was rag-dolled off the truck and ejected to the wet concrete. I tried to crawl off the tailgate to safety, but the firefighters were on me.
The gush of the hose caught my shoulder—the sheer force pulled my body upright and 90 degrees in the opposite direction. Taking the full force of the hose to the chest, I began to dry heave. Then I vomited all over myself.
TAKING THE FULL FORCE OF THE HOSE TO THE CHEST, I BEGAN TO DRY HEAVE. THEN I VOMITED ALL OVER MYSELF.
The firetruck turned the hose on my comrades. I listened to the drunken screams of pain, agony, nausea and confusion that were the byproduct of the hose's wrath. It was terrible.
After we were crushed, the partygoers on the fire engine began high-fiveing each other. Before leaving, one of them came up to the ruins of our vehicle and dumped an entire bag of flour onto us.
Half-knocked from the truck, I laid there in a flour-caked pool of whisky, beer and vomit wondering if this Songkran thing was such a good idea after all.
During the Thai New Year, rules are more of a suggestion than an absolute. Good times with old friends. Sam Morse Photo.
Sometime during day three, I completely lost track of where I was or what I was doing—just a long binge of diesel smoke, cheap Thai beer, baby powder and swamp ass.
JUST A LONG BINGE OF DIESEL SMOKE, CHEAP THAI BEER, BABY POWDER AND SWAMP ASS.
After rallying my friends from back home, we went out to party on the third night of the festival. Under the dry cover of darkness, we made our way to the northeast corner of the Old City to an area that’s famous for its scorching hot venues.
I don't recall the name of the club, perhaps the Banana Bar, but once we were there, the horns and percussion took over. A collective fever overwhelmed the club—one of pounding feet, sweating bodies, and an ecstasy that steamrolled the crowd like a wave of adrenalin. The rest of the evening was a blur of vibration, whiskey, and the warm regard of old friends.
The neighborhood kids that be runnin' this shit! Flickr Creative Commons photo.
The morning of the fourth day of Songkran, I emerged from a rough slumber with a throbbing headache. The night before had been great, but now all I was left with was a depleted wallet and a sharp sense of nausea. I was hungry.
I knew the corner store had food, and it was still early. Maybe the little kids that patrolled the neighborhood wouldn’t be out with their guns and buckets.
I made my way to the guesthouse exit, and, scanning the street, saw that the coast was clear. I made a run for it.
I was almost to the store when a little buddy I had not seen from my perch raised the alarm. Little devils emerged from everywhere; I was hungover — and now — surrounded.
The neighborhood children closed in, encircling me on all sides. They looked at me as a predator looks upon its prey:
No mercy.
At the last second, I screamed, “Nooooooooooooo!!!”, but it was too late.
From every angle, I was assaulted with water, ice, powder, and god only knows what else.
I had just wanted a bag of chips, but instead, there I was—hung over, sopping wet, and feeling like dog shit—almost sobbing on my knees in the middle of the street. Numerous Thai children laughed and pointed at me.
I wasn’t hard-core enough for these kids—or for Songkran.
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About The Author
stash member Sam Morse
TGR Editor-at-Large. author of The Ski Town Fairytale and creative behind The Bumion. Lover of steep-and-deep lines, long trails—and hot springs waiting in the distance.
Binky
February 25th, 2015
editor: flour not “flower”
Sam Morse
February 25th, 2015
On it Binky—thanks for the edit.
I Hope you enjoyed the piece!
Olaus Linn
February 25th, 2015
Another great piece Sam - I want to check this thing out now! We used to have a thunderous water fight on the last day of school every year when I was in elementary school and I picture this festival as that plus everyone and their grandmother, plus motor vehicles, plus booze and sex. I’m in.
Jenna Mahaffie
February 26th, 2015
^^savage!