New Year.
A time of renewal and celebration around the world.
Some people drink too much and stay up late to let of fireworks in the living room. Others wear tartan dresses and skip round a community hall after eating a sheep's stomach.
The Lao spend three days soaking each other with water.
We arrived in the capital, Vientiane, after a gruelling 24 hour bus ride through the switch backs and mountain passes on the Laos/Vietnam border. Tired, hungry and just a little grumpy, the bus dumped us 5km out of town, midst a pleasantly relaxed bunch of Lao tuk tuk drivers.
A nice Lao lady herded half a dozen confused and disorientated travellers toward her ride, like a mother hen. 'It is The Water Festival' she said. We had all read about it but nothing can prepare you. The 20 minute drive was like a ride on an out of control log flume.
The streets are patrolled by pick up trucks, the backs loaded with children and teenagers; and of course the compulsary 60 gallon drum of water, buckets and every type of water propelling armament that Chinese factories can get out of the door in time for the festival. A multi-coloured assault rifle hangs from every shoulder. Water bombs of every colour are primed and ready for launch at a second's notice. Plastic bags of talcum powder and flour, in a rainbow array, bulge from over stuffed pockets.
It is a warzone and you have to run the gauntlet of the long exposed boulevards where the ambush lies in wait.
But to be fair, it is a pretty rubbish ambush that spoils the element of surprise by pumping pop music into the streets while its fighters dance and revel in enormous puddles and beneath the deluge from the hoses that recharge their munitions prior to each assault. Despite this, the effect is devastating and the first attack came completely by surprise.
Past their position we came and out to meet us they charged. A wall of water surged from a dozen recepticles. Water bombs followed. In the hand to hand struggle that followed, flour streamed in clouds through the air and in the seconds before it was over we learnt the rules of engagement.
There are none.
There is no mercy. There are no prisoners. No quarter will be offered and no expensive electrical equipment will be spared.
We made it to the hostel, dodging and ducking a dozen gangs on our street alone. The only strategy that even remotely worked was the decoy. Clare walked 20m ahead and lured the attack while I slipped by in the melee. She sacrificed herself time and again and before long, she and all her possessions were sodden. But the computer and the camera survived and we took up a vantage point on the balcony to watch the battle rage below.
The next day one purpose of The Water Festival became clear. At the height of the hot season, the heat and humidity was over powering. We cycled round the city becoming increasingly uncomfortable. At first we evaded a road side soaking, by weaving in an increasingly desperate fashion into the oncoming traffic. But gradually it dawned on us that the festival was not to be feared, but embraced.
The electrics were treble bagged and the ruck sack was zipped tight as we plunged toward the nearest machine gun nest, spraying our precious bottled water in every direction. The challenge was accepted and we were drowned in the answering salvo.
Cool and refreshed, we laughed and danced with our Lao assailants.
We now understood just a small part of the meaning of The Water Festival to the Lao people.
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