The ghosts came hesitantly at first, waiting for the handcrafted floats carrying heavily made-up girls to gain a little speed. They were mini-ghosts; children of the village passing quietly by in little bursts of color. As their sizes increased, noise and mischief levels grew proportionately. The clickety-clack of aluminum cans tied around the ankles of masked paraders mingled with the delighted shrieks of onlookers as they were poked with long, wooden swords, many of which very closely resembled male parts. The ghosts threw their hands up in mock attempts to scare their audience. The masks seemed brighter, bolder and more devilish than those worn by the children.

Interspersed with these masked villagers were other men and women dressed in camouflaged jungle outfits, exaggerated rice paddy costumes or in drag. They jumped and danced wildly about to lively music blaring from pickup trucks, some of it recorded, some of it performed live. One man threw around a gigantic fishing net, jokingly trying to catch the wooden fish in front of him, trailing on the ground behind another parader. It was about noontime, and these people had seemingly been drinking all morning—small wooden cups and vials were passed around, and the faint scent of alcohol hung in the humid air. On more than one occasion, a grinning villager approached me, poured a cup of foul alcohol and handed it over. Not wanting to risk offense, I always accepted the cup without pausing to consider its origins or past users—sometimes it is better not to—and downed it quickly to soften the burning taste.

The procession culminated in a huge party in the wide courtyard of the village’s main temple, Wat Ponchai. A stage of performers provided music for the many dancers—costumed, non-costumed and half-costumed, as some of the ghosts had removed their masks to better drink or chat with friends. Spectators seeking momentary respite from the still-persistent rain took refuge under lines of covered souvenir stands. Young Buddhist monks, clad in traditional orange robes, peeked their heads out from the temple’s windows to smile at the merriment. Ironically, the two of us, snapping our cameras away at this cultural explosion, were stopped more than once to be photographed by Thai teenagers, as if being Westerners made us instant celebrities.

In a side courtyard, we discovered another party going on among the older villagers. A small crowd had gathered to watch them dance: the women gracefully swaying their hands to the music; the men jumping and swinging each other around. We eagerly joined, delighting them with our mimicry of their movements, and more alcohol was passed around. No English was spoken, and it wasn’t needed. The common denominators of our bodies and smiles were enough to communicate with our new friends.

We might have danced in the rain all afternoon, but one of the women gestured for us to follow her and her entourage of lady friends to a small monastery a short walk away. There, I was made to pray on my knees before the Buddha with the other women—three short bows with three sticks of lit incense in my hands—before we all went downstairs to enjoy a feast of sticky rice, spicy cucumber salad and something resembling an omelet. The women stroked our arms, murmuring “Suay (beautiful),” and before we left them to their naps, one woman hugged us both tightly, inhaled deeply and repeated the compliment. Bellies full, we returned to the temple for more dancing, long foot massages and lots of commotion. Rockets were fired, a monk was carried around atop shoulders and men slid through the thick mud, Woodstock-style. Messy good fun.

When things quieted down and the slick brown earth reclaimed the streets and courtyards once occupied by dancing ghosts, we walked in a daze towards our homestay. The day’s sights, smells and sounds clung to us as strongly as the dampness to our clothing. In its mission to wash away the evidence, the rain continued its light drizzle on Dan Sai, but we knew our hearts and minds could never forget what we had witnessed and participated in that day: a festival of color and movement, an unquestioning acceptance of strangers, a small celebration of life.

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