Wet and Wild in Yangon
Myanmar (Burma)
It happens in the blink of an eye. The man darts out and dashes down the sidewalk towards me. My heart racing, I hike up my long, straight skirt and run like hell.
Glancing behind me, I see that he is small, but strong. I need only a minute and I will be in the safe confines of my hotel. But sixty seconds I don’t have; he is upon me.
Lunging at me, he pulls at my dress. I cry out for him to stop, even though I realize that he most likely doesn’t speak English. The streets are crowded this sunny April afternoon, but no one comes to my assistance. They simply chuckle and point at this hapless – and hopeless – foreigner.
My muscles tighten. Getting away is impossible, so I silently stand there and brace myself for the inevitable. And then I feel it: ice-cold water streaming down my spine. The frigid flow shocks my system, and is soon pouring down my head and my now-grinning face.
Laughter rings out around me, and there is nothing else to do but to join in on the fun. I turn to the man and extend my hand, a warm smile and my best wishes for a happy new year.
Thingyan, commonly referred to as the Water Festival, is Myanmar’s (Burma’s) biggest and most festive celebration. During the four days prior to the new year, and on the new year itself, businesses, schools and the government shut down for some good old-fashion fun.
No one can escape the water. Men, women, children and the elderly – everyone throws water on each other. Entire families stand guard outside their homes, joyfully spraying passersby. Whistles blow, music pulsates and horns honk as open trucks overflowing with young people armed with water blaze through the capital city of Yangon (Rangoon). Jeeps and trucks line up as revelers wait their turn to sing, dance and cheer when they delightfully get doused at specially constructed roadside pavilions. Children packing water pistols roam the streets, taking aim at anyone in their path.
Weapons range from water guns the size of an Uzi to colorful plastic hoses to simple containers. Each one is effective, with everyone getting a thorough soaking, whether they like it or not.
But the festival isn’t all about games and a good time. It is a chance for reflecting on the closing year and looking forward to a successful new year. The mistakes and misfortunes of the previous year are thought to be washed away with the water, and a fresh start is promised to all. It is a time for meditation, for families to get together; but most of all, it is a time for pure and simple fun.
Celebrations are running strong my last day in Myanmar. I prudently watch the animated street scenes from my hotel, fearful of getting my clean, freshly pressed travel clothes wet just before leaving for the airport. But even poking my head out of the hotel window is risky, as party-goers on the roof are spilling buckets of water onto unsuspecting pedestrians.
When it is time to leave, a taxi waits outside the hotel. Merely a few yards stand between me and the safe, dry taxi interior. I look left, I look right as I cautiously exit the hotel, and all appears clear.
Grabbing my bags, I dart for the taxi, but as I struggle with them a young water warrior ambushes me. Instinctively, I scream, “No!” It is too late; I am drenched.
At first I am slightly annoyed, but then I realize it is a fitting conclusion to my stay in Myanmar. And so I settle into the taxi, and ready myself for a new beginning and a new country: China.
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