COMMENT On Monday and Tuesday last week, there was a celebration among some Myanmar workers on Jalan Alor. That was Thingyan (often pronounced as ‘Thanjan’), or the Burmese New Year or Water Festival, which happens every year in April. It is a very important celebration in Myanmar, where it goes on for days on end.

Of course, the Jalan Alor celebration, happening at a couple of Chinese-owned shops, is a scaled-down version of the event, happening in full public view, but behind a barrier of tables and movable counters, after working hours (that is, in this case, around midnight). Namely, clients and outsiders were not necessarily welcome except as viewers.

I had been watching for nearly two weeks quite a few videos at Myanmar shops showing Thingyan celebrations in previous years in Yangon. They are all music videos: typically, there is a stage with a singer (male or female), and women in traditional costumes dancing in the traditional Burmese way, with a small band or orchestra at the back.

In front of the stage, people may parade on foot or at the back of pickups, and as they do so they are hosed with plenty of water. It is like going through a corridor lined with several hoses constantly spurting water.

I have been told by a friend that the scenes I was watching had been filmed outside Yangon, as inside the city proper it is tricky to say the least to stage a similar show. I also assume that many people would be displeased at the idea of being hosed on their way to work or to do their errands.

In a couple of videos large hoses - of the type that firemen employ - spurting very large amounts of gushing water were also employed. Being hosed with strong jets of water must feel like getting punched. No wonder in many countries hosing is a common method of torturing people.

It turns out that on Monday evening I was invited to join the party. I had to leave my shoes and socks in a safe place (indicated to me by a Chinese guy watching over the event); my bag was put inside a plastic bag that was then tightly shut and hung from a rafter.

These precautions turned out to be necessary. As soon as I had joined the small but very committed and lively crowd of youngsters, I got generously hosed, and then a couple of children took a good deal of pleasure as they threw bucketfuls of ice-cold water on me. The hosing was not unpleasant (water at room temperature). The bucketfuls of ice-cold water were another matter, however.

Of course, as soon as it was noticed that I flinched, to say the least, at the cold water, I got even more cold water.

The trick, I was later told by friends, is to get drunk so as not to notice the effect of the cold water (my technique, developed on the spot, was instead to get hosed immediately after getting a bucketful of cold water. At least the hose spurted reasonably warm water). It is not a difficult trick to pull off, as there was a plentiful supply of Carlsberg for free: I could hardly finish half a can before another can was literally pushed into my hands.

I then took to discreetly passing on cans given to me to friends who I happened to spot in the midst of the crowd, watching us splashing in the water.

More onlookers than participants

The music was at times traditional Thingyan music (Burmese music that has a somewhat monotonous beat), at times a very funky rhythm. At any rate, the lyrics were always in Burmese. The people looking in - and often taking pictures as well as shooting videos - were a much larger crowd than the people actually dancing, made up of Myanmar people, locals, and foreigners.

A friend later told me that he had watched me and I had looked ‘stupid’ (sic). I guess I did. Everybody around me, bar a single older Chinese gentleman, was from Myanmar, and generally much younger than I, at least until two tourist couples were also invited in. The young people were also, I am afraid, usually better dancers than I.

It turns out that several Myanmar people I know happened to see me there, though I was too dazed by the constant stream of water, the music, and the general cheerfulness and energy, to pay much attention to what was going on beyond the tables and counters serving as barricades cordoning off the area.

We were not inside the shop proper, but on a wide flagstone pavement right outside it. Inside there was a deejay sitting in front of a laptop, a couple of loudspeakers, chairs, and some Burmese snacks, besides potato samosas. Just as with the beer, I was encouraged to eat as much as I wanted.

Taking part in the event was very much akin to dancing wildly and for a long time under a giant showerhead together with other people. The constant dousing was not altogether unpleasant, though I never quite took to the bucketfuls of cold water (at one point a guy arrived, hauling a huge block of ice that was at once put inside the water container. Apparently the water was not ice-cold enough).

There was a certain mild segregation between men and women, and of course, young men were much more plentiful than the women. Perhaps, for the standards of many places in the West and elsewhere, it was a well-mannered event.

The event nonetheless ended as a couple of young men got very drunk and, unsurprisingly, started a fight inside the shop. Then the music went off and the shutters went down at once. I must add however that the party-spoilers numbered only two men, from what I saw.

Dancing on the slippery flagstone pavement constantly doused with water was tricky. I never faltered (maybe, who knows, that is why I looked stupid) or even lost my balance. Quite a few young men, nonetheless, slipped and even rolled on the floor, again and again, as they jerked their bodies quite wildly. They were obviously enjoying themselves enormously, but I could not help feeling slightly worried.

I got quite a few kisses on the neck and on my head. Not from any ladies (these usually looked on fairly demurely and kept their distance from the men) but from several of the young men. I guess that being a mat salleh who does not mind dancing with young Myanmar people means I belong to a category apart.

One drunken young man insisted in feeding me some Burmese-style salad himself (not entirely unlike Thai papaya salad, though not so spicy). Namely, he virtually forked some of it into my mouth, and then in turn I had to spoon-feed him some.

Later I asked friends if they had also celebrated the Burmese New Year. I got some amazing answers. As the vast majority of the Myanmar people I know are not ethnically Burmese, but instead Chins, who are usually Christian, I was promptly told that Thingyan was a Buddhist and Burmese festival. The message was that no self-respecting Christian Chin would usually take part.

I was mildly surprised at this response. However, I pressed further, and eventually my interlocutor would admit, with a broad smile, that in Myanmar they did take part in Thingyan. And obviously enjoyed it too.

Roland, a young Chin friend, told me quite openly that he always took part in Thingyan back home, together with other friends in his hometown, whether or not they were Burmese.

As we were sitting at a table at one of the Myanmar shops in town, while we drank beer and watched videos of previous Thingyan celebrations, it became clear that Roland knew the lyrics of several of the songs featured in the video (all of them, of course, Burmese songs sung in Burmese only. The Chins have their own languages, unrelated to Burmese, as well as of course their own songs).

Youth music cuts across ethnic lines

Roland, as it turned out, was not the only one who knew Thingyan songs, especially as a couple of the songs became hits among young people all over the country. I have learned to appreciate the fact that, whatever differences may subsist, if there is something that does cut across ethnic and religious barriers in Myanmar/Burma, that is certainly youth music.

There is a distinct national youth culture that is centred on Burmese music, often shared by youth from all the different ethnic groups. Iron Cross, for instance, a rock band, is usually popular with young men all over the country. Nonetheless, as I celebrated Thingyan at Jalan Alor, I did so with an exclusively non-Chin crowd, as far as I could discover.

FRED ROSEN has been gallivanting around South-East Asia for quite some time now. He is interested in foreign communities in Malaysia’s large cities. He has also been writing about Malacca, both in the present and the past, as well as other ancient port cities in the Indian Ocean.