Phi Ta Khon, Festival of Life

By Laura Siciliano - It began innocently enough: an introductory speech, a line of brightly costumed children, local beauty queens smiling at spectators. But the parade lines blurred as the long procession of colorful revelers turned their attention to onlookers, teasing them with phallic swords or grabbing them for a dance. The giant masks of the Phi Ta Khon festival, artfully carved from the trunks of coconut trees, dominated the muddy street with their menacing, ghoulish grins and, if you looked a bit closer, the smiling eyes of the Thai people behind them.

Phi Ta Khon refers to the masked “ghosts” that the villagers of Dan Sai emulate, but the procession is part of a larger traditional ceremony known as Boon Pra Wate. Its origin may involve a folktale regarding the pre-nirvana Buddha, and its modern purpose isn’t entirely clear—I heard from some that it is a rainmaking festival for the upcoming rice season; by others, a fertility festival (which would explain the abundance of phallic symbols). Nothing changes the fact that Phi Ta Khon is a joyous celebration of dancing, drinking and general mischief-making in which all are welcome to participate.

My boyfriend and I had gotten there by fate. Months earlier in Bali, a fellow traveler’s face had lit up when she heard we’d be in Thailand during the last two weeks of June. “You MUST try to go to Phi Ta Khon!” she had insisted. We were immediately intrigued to hear about the colorful craziness of this annual festival, not well known among foreigners, and I dutifully made a note of it in my journal.

Still, it wasn’t until we had arrived in Thailand that we confirmed the dates of the festival online, as they vary each year. We then solidified plans to travel northeast to Dan Sai, the small district of Loei province that hosts the festival each year. From Bangkok, we rode seven hours on a bus to Loei, about 520km away, and enlisted the help of a local driver to take us the remaining 70km to Dan Sai. Winding roads meant slow going, and over two hours passed before we reached the unassuming little village. Our driver dropped us off at the center of town, where we stood in the dark and rainy night like lost dogs with backpacks until two young Thais ran over to greet us in very limited English. Via their motorbikes and a rickety village pedicab, they helped us find our homestay, which we had reserved with the help of a booking agent in Bangkok.

Dan Sai proper has no hotels and very few guest houses, so many families open up their homes to accommodate the annual influx of festival visitors. Family members are often shifted around in these “homestays,” and for about $3 a night, we ended up on the floor mattress of our hosts’ young daughter while she slept elsewhere.

The morning of the festival dawned gray and wet. Our hosts prepared a soupy rice breakfast and arranged for a neighbor to drive us to the village’s crowded center. A mass of Thai faces, half-hidden by umbrellas, lined the muddy road beneath large banners I could not read. Early-risers had already secured seats offered by the modest bleachers assembled on the main drag, along which stone-faced policemen stood watch. Children lingered near their mothers in vibrant costumes of multi-colored cloth, holding the huge wooden masks they would don once the opening speeches concluded. The drizzling rain did not dampen the expectant mood.

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