I am Scrooge. Ms Songkran Scrooge, or so to speak.
I now dread the Thai new year celebration to the point that I would skip town if I could, or hide under the bed until the week-long celebrations are over.
My last sojourn into the wet festivities was about 10 years ago, when I joined a large group of mostly foreigners to experience Khao San Road at its finest. I could hardly walk from one end of the road to the other because of the crowds. Though it was all quite friendly, it felt a bit like competing in Wipeout Asia, having to make my way from start to finish in the shortest time, and surviving the pummels and spinning wheels and other obstacles that threaten you with a wet finish in the pool below.
Since then, I have become more and more dismayed from my observations of Bangkok’s Songkran celebrations. From within the enclosed confines of my car, naturally.
Songkran is no longer a festival to pay respect to the elderly and ask for their blessings with a gentle pouring of scented water into their hands, and presentation of hot-weather-related gifts such as soap and towels. It has become an opportunity for people to let loose their baser animal instincts, the hunter stalking their prey, to wait and ambush their victims. When gathered in a group, these instincts are heightened into “collective unconscious” as Carl Jung would have called it. Worse still, he says that these base instincts are some of the elements that are evident in hell.
So as I drove around town on errands during the long holidays, I saw images of what “hell” might be like: writhing bodies in wet clothing, faces caked with white paste like some freakier version of Beetlejuice or Heath Ledger’s The Joker, if anything freakier were possible.
Each group had as a requisite prop the largest speakers that they could get their hands on. These served to draw — like flies to a pile of dog poop — any participating pick-up trucks trawling the area, its bed packed with revellers armed with heavy-duty water pistols, a large water tank and plastic bowls to dish water over willing and unwilling victims.
The “flies” also came in the form of motorcycle “gangs” — young kids with a collective death wish, without helmets and ready to commit every traffic violation they possibly could. They sped and swerved, taunting the water-throwing groups, cutting in front of speeding cars, and running red lights with an arrogant laugh.
In some cases, these water-battle groups were not just confined to the pavements, but had actually taken over two lanes of a three-lane road in the dark of night, challenging fate and speeding cars/trucks/motorcycles like a convoluted form of Russian roulette. I also passed a number of accidents, as indicated by traffic jams and the presence of charity foundation ambulances, though the exact circumstances were not clear. It wouldn’t have been difficult to guess, however.
Admittedly, I’ve stayed away from the main festival centres such as Silom Road, Khao San Road, CentralWorld, Lumpini Park and RCA. I’m sure they must have been quite fun, otherwise people wouldn’t have been flocking there in numbers.
To each his own.
Another aspect of Songkran is the fact that Bangkok’s ubiquitous sidewalk food vendors have all but disappeared, gone home upcountry for the holidays. So unless you’re happy to cook at home, you’re obliged to go to shopping centres and join the queue for the numerous chain restaurants that feed the masses.
I am willing to cook once in a while, but not every meal every day, so I had no choice but to join the queues. Eating virtual Japanese food or Thai-style sukiyaki is bearable, and actually quite pleasurable when you’re really hungry.
What I found unbearable in every single one of my shopping-centre dining-out jaunts was the music.
I thought kindergarten kids singing Jingle Bells out of tune was bad enough, but a continuous rerun of five ramwong Songkran tracks by 50s Thai band Suntaraporn, punctuated with a high-pitched, nasal vocalist is insufferable. My utmost respects to you, Khun Srisuda. You have always been a part of my life, from the time my father tuned in to the radio for the 8am time check every morning to set his mantle clock. It was always your voice that led up to the daily time check, so much that my mother teased my father for having a secret crush on you.
Your voice is unique. But after two hours, I begin to cringe… and shape-shift. My hair stands on end, my eyes turn bloodshot, fangs sprout and nails turn to claws. My son quickly drags me out of the shopping centre, and we drive home as quickly as possible, racing with the zombie, death-wish gangs.
Happy Songkran? Bah humbug!
Usnisa Sukhsvasti is the features editor of the Bangkok Post.