My old mistress, Mrs. Carolina, used to say about blacks weekending in her home town, “They’re either drinking, fighting, or fixing their car.”
It was a particularly racist thing to come out of the mouth of my lover, however the statement is very applicable to Thai men on this Songkran festival, despite the government’s media attempts to circumvent the yearly holocaust of fighting, drugs, drinking, motorcycle crashes, theft, revenge, wife-beatings and assorted other displays of human frailty.
Yesterday I was in Ban Nam Poo. Population 345 rice farmers and their family. The village had gathered at the sala next my my mother’s-in-law house. Mostly men. My wife asked if I wanted to join in the festivities. I listened for several seconds to the loud pop music drowned out my drunken kareoke singing. Somehow it sounded a little like the beginning of a football stadium riot and within seconds angry shouting sparked a fight followed by a wild motorcycle chase down a red laterite road into the trees. Blood, smashed bikes, and hurt feelings.
The new Songkran tradition.
I drank a beer on my own and poured water over my feet.
No one said a mean word and once the fray was over I drank with my friends telling them tales of New York. They all hugged me when I got in the car. They wouldn’t be seeing me for a long time, but I told them I’d be back with full pockets of cash.
They wished me good luck and that’s what I love about Thailand.
That their wishes actually come true.
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