“I’m off to India” said Geoff, a long time Chiang Mai resident. We were discussing our plans for Songkran, the traditional Thai new year in April, and he warned s that the heat, combined with the impossibility of staying dry anytime you went out, were powerful reasons for departing the area.

            The previous year I’d spent Songkran week in the northern province of Phrae, but there the locals had been relatively restrained; if you went about your business early in the morning, you could escape a dousing. Even in the heat of the afternoon, older people and mothers with little children on motorcycles could pass unscathed through gangs of Songkran revelers armed with every possible water-projecting device, But for others the water had flowed sublime , and I knew Chiang Mai would offer the same and then some. Consequently, I accepted an invitation from a Bangkok friend, Daeng, to spend the Songkran holiday at his mountain farm retreat in Chanhaburi, southeast of Pattaya.

The first morning, we lazed on the deck of Daeng’s house, admiring the view of Khao Soi Dao, The 1,500-metre mountain that gives Chanhaburi its distinctive climate. Daeng suggested going into town for a bit of the fun later on, but no one was in a hurry to move. The idle talk must have been too much for his wife, Noi, who casually approached Daeng from behind, and with a “Happy New Year” nonchalantly dumped a scoopful of water on him. Within seconds, everyone was reaching for buckets and ladles and heading for the taps.

            We merrily pitched tank water over one another from molded plastic scoops. But one can only soak the same people so many times before new victims must be sought.

            I felt decidedly mischievous, walking through the orchard with buckets of water ; planning a dousing for your neighbour would be unthinkable in most places,

But this was Thailand and I did not want to miss the opportunity to act out  childhood fantasies.

            We found Khun Wiroj, another weekend refugee from Bangkok, at the back of his house. One glance at this sodden bunch of Thais, Farangs and children alerted him that Songkran had come to greet him, but the assault was gentle. We poured rather than hurled, temporing our enthusiasm with respect.

            Getting wet at Songkarn seems to throw a switch inside one. It’s so hot and soaking everyone is so much fun that you can’t see any reason why anyone would want to stay dry.

           Like thousands of others all over the Kingdom, we put an empty 150-litre oil drum on t the back of Daeng’s pick-up, filled it with water and climbed on. Daeng took the wheel, turned on the air conditioning and closed his window. An open window is an invitation to a bucket of water on your lap and car upholstery.

            In the back, we prepared to exchange water with anyone on or beside the road. We soon approached groups of youths at the kerb, buckets poised, waving their hands to invite Daeng to slow down as we passed. Water flew in all directions. Everyone laughed and we moved on. Perched around the drum, we clutched for support as the truck cruised through the hot April air. Oncoming trucks full of expectant faces approached to the challenge, slowing as they passed. At the decisive moment, we let fly and immediately turned our backs to the wind and their return attack.

            The airborne water streaked across the gap and dispersed just before impact, saturating the riders. “Aaagh!” everyone shrieked. Our most recent opponents had been to an ice factory and a block of ice suitable for an elephant’s cocktail filled their drum. The chill was palpable, especially against the soaring temperatures of the season.

            As we approached the centre of Chanhaburi,  the soakings came more frequently. A mass off pick-ups cruised the streets, their occupants busily pitching water at everyone within range. Residents ran hoses from inside their houses to tanks on the sidewalk, while others connected pumps and sprayed anyone that passed by. Near the middle of town, traffic slowed to a crawl. The city’s Songkran procession, with bands, dancers and floats, made movement impossible.

            We admired the pageantry for a while, sharing the joyful smiles of Songkran around us. Unfortunately, we were no longer able to share water, as the oil drum was empty. We retreated to a side street and miraculously found an overhead tank filler used for water trucks. Fifteen seconds was all it took, and once again we headed into the thick of things. One more pass was enough, though. The traffic made progress painfully slow, and too often for comfort we got stuck near a truck with an icy water drum.

            Eventually, we got home cold saturated and tired. But the fun had warmed our spirits for the start of the Thai new  year.