XIX. Thai Water Nymphs

We were forced to stop. The bus was under attack from all sides. Hundreds of Thai Nationals had taken to the streets, armed with high-powered squirt rifles, hoses and buckets, soaking everything in that got in their way. Songkran, the Thai Water Festival, hit and it hit hard. Everybody was drenching and getting drenched. On the sidewalks, in the alleys, taking up the entire main road – nothing could get through. I was heading back to the jungle from a visa run. I took the early morning bus, thinking I might make it home before the waterfight started. The bus hadn’t left early enough and now we were stuck in some small town on the way.

I watched the festivities through sheets of water pouring down my window. I had to get out there. As I ran down the aisle, the driver got in my way. “No, no, is too dangerous!” he cried. (Every Thai in the tourism industry feels compelled to protect foreigners.)

“It’s only water!"

I got off the bus (they’re also very easily swayed). Within seconds I was soaked. I tore off my t-shirt and as soon as they saw my abundantly hairy, white body, every Thai in town stopped shooting each other and screamed what I believe to be, “Get the monkey!”

They hit me with every hose, bucket and rifle, pummeling from every direction. During small pauses in the pummeling, children would run up and squirt me in the groin with their tiny guns, then run away. I ran to a storefront for cover, or at least where I wouldn’t be exposed on all sides. An old laughing shopkeeper handed me a hose. I shot back, but it was no defense against such an onslaught. I dropped the hose and ran next door to 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 these girls, who probably never got a chance to touch a body quite like mine. These were “nice” Thai girls, after all. But it was Songkran and this was their chance. They surrounded me, some carrying small basins. They bowed politely, asked permission, then gently poured some water over my head. (This is the traditional Songkran way – over the years the festival has evolved from polite, quasi-religious dowsing to full-scale war.) Other girls carried tins of perfumed powder, which they mixed with water, making a thick, sweet-smelling, white paste. They circled in on me and rubbed it all over my body. In seconds, I looked like I’d been covered in plaster; my chest (and back and shoulder) hair formed endless clumps of tiny, pasty dreadlocks. I was the White Aboriginal Rasta Monkey King.

The girls dropped their basins and tins and pressed in tight all around me. We giggled, they massaged. They didn’t even mind getting their fingers caught in my dreads. I died and went to heaven. Then, as if the hand of God had come to let me know I was having too much fun, a small truck drove by with an oil drum full of ice-cold water, which was dumped all over us. It cooled our passion but only temporarily – one of the girls grabbed me with a wild look in her eye.

“You kiss me now!”

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

As I leaned in, she lifted her hand up to her mouth. She placed her thumb to her lips and extended her pinky towards my mouth. Her friends told me I had to kiss the pinky. Only the pinky. I protested, but they were not easily swayed, not being in the tourism industry. Even in the throes of this sodden bacchanalia, they were nice girls. I kissed her pinky, then all the other girls extended theirs. So I made the rounds.

Before I could finish, the driver 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.

“You get in! Now!”

I quickly and regretfully kissed the remaining pinkies and hopped on the bus. The driver handed me my wet t-shirt, which I waved like a farewell handkerchief as the bus pulled away.

I spent the rest of the air-conditioned ride soaking wet, sitting in a puddle of my own making. The driver was right, the festival had been dangerous – by the time I got home, I had the sniffles and felt the beginnings of diaper rash. But for days after, my skin was smooth and soft, and smelled just as nice as a nice Thai girl.