Water

I apologise for the delay in writing this. For reasons you're about to discover, my hands have not been dry enough to safely operate electrical equipment at any point in the previous week.

Luang Prabang is a sizeable town in central Laos, and home to two of the biggest national festivals. The first is in October and involves some kind of rowing race on the Mekong river; I can only assume it's like the Henley Regatta except with far fewer canapes and rice whisky instead of Pimm's. The other festival is new year water festival, which was celebrated this year on the 13th of April.

We happily albeit accidentally arrived in Laos just as the preparations were being made, and in speaking to our new Lao friend, Noy, we quickly became excited. But don't be fooled as we were by the word "festival" and all it's joyous connotations. What we had stumbled upon was much more of a "water war" than a "water festival".

On new year's day, the normally quaint and peaceful town of Luang Prabang is completely transformed into a anarchic water warzone. It's physically impossible to sneak twenty metres through town without being mercilessly attacked by hundreds of Laos children armed with water guns, buckets, bottles, and any other implement with which they can satisfy their sadistic urge to drench every living thing.

 

It's only the elderly that are spared the humiliation of a drenching. Out of a deep respect for them, they are permitted to walk amongst the watery madness unperturbed. The children are not granted the same right.

In fact, the kids here are surprisingly adept at warfare. They pick their ambush points carefully and surprise attacks are a favourite. I was absent-mindedly strolling along with a sandwich in hand, when suddenly I found myself surrounded by dozens of laughing children and a whirlwind of water. Before I realised what had happened, all that was left of the children was the distant sound of laughter and the pitter patter of flip flops on wet tarmac. All that was left of my sandwich was a soggy dripping mess which i could squeeze like a wet sponge. Enough was enough. We had no choice but to retaliate.

We resigned ourselves to the cause and sat stony faced in our room drawing up plans for the reactive strike. We prepared for battle in much the same way that the brave soldiers during the great war rallied themselves for a trench assault, and by that i mean we drink whisky.

The first battle plan was not particularly ingenious. We adapted empty water bottles by cutting them in half and lined them up on our balcony railing with the intent to throw cascades of water down on unsuspecting moped drivers and toddlers (War isn't fair). Unfortunately, after a few hilarious soakings, there was a huge telltale splash of water on the road in front of us, and pedestrians began to wise up and walk on the other side of the road. Disappointed but not giving up, we returned to the room and refilled. If the battle wouldn't come to us, we would have to go to the battle.

We charged into the street and were instantly soaked. Things had escalated in town. Water was no longer the only armament; now there were flour throwers, detergent sprayers and other random household object shooters. There were lone insurgents with burned woks, approaching from behind and then rubbing a charcoal like substance on the face of helpless enemies. We hadn't been engaged in combat for five minutes before we had been turned about five different colours. We responded with heavy fire and manged to push our position forward through the frenzy of soaked combattants and reach a tap.

 

If any of you have ever participated in a water fight, you will be well aware that control of the tap is the absolutely dominant position. It was certainly a reason for celebration, but our ecstatic faces quickly turned to frowns as we heard the slow rhythmic beating of a drum.

Everyone in Luang Prabang knows that the beating of a drum means one thing: You're going to get very wet. As the faint rhythm got louder and louder, people in the street began to scatter wildly. Buckets we refilled, hiding places were sought, and prayers were uttered.

The origin of the sound is basically the water fight equivalent of a tank. Well, as close to a tank as a pick up truck could ever be. Other than a drummer, the truck carries a giant vat of water, usually coloured red or green, and a dozen trigger happy and usually drunk teenagers armed to their proverbial teeth with buckets and water guns.

 

This cruel and usually drunk rabble travel down the road at snail's pace, laughing hysterically as they mercilessly soak the helpless pedestrians and cyclists they pass. It was not the first convoy of the type we'd come across that day but we were determined to make it the last.

Jogging along side the pick up we took bucket after bucket of icy red water on our heads. We saw an opportunity and all four of us managed to vault onto the back of the truck and were immediately taken in as members of the group.

Now it was us who beat the drum to signal others of their impending doom. We had a great day soaking others from our near-impenetrable mobile water fortress. The best defense is always to stay out of range.