On Rising Tides – The 2014 Phnom Penh Water Festival
Modern Cambodia is a fearful place. When I say fearful I do not mean that it is without hope, it has that in the eyes of every young garment-worker with an iPhone, no I mean fearful of a return, a slip, back to the bad times.
With an election on the horizon the people are now fearful of their government, in power under a single man for over thirty years, and their government, in turn, is fearful of the very people who may question that fact – which is everyone.
I met a ragtag group of soldiers once, that, after a few beers, let me check out their rusted old Soviet AK-47’s and Chinese pistols. When I ejected the magazines I was shocked to notice that none were issued more than three rounds. Three. That’s not even enough to adequately ring in the new year, let alone fight the hardened Thai or Vietnamese armies.
While this cripples the effectiveness of a soldier, it serves to keep them from loosing off rounds needlessly while drunk, and, more importantly, from playing any meaningful part in any armed revolution.
When I arrived in Phnom Penh for the 2014 Water Festival the city felt like a powder keg. The streets were barricaded at the ends of the massive French-inspired boulevards with mountains of razor wire and the click of polished boot heels rang out over the excited shouts of children and families.
I had driven in with Cassie on our tiny scooter, three rainy days north from the coast, and had run smack into these barricades with their endless rows of unsmiling cops, each time eliciting only a gruff finger, pointing us back the way we came.
It was obvious from the show of force that the government was sending a clear message to any would be Spartac-i, ‘Have your fun. Just don’t get any ideas.’
The Bon Om Touk, or Water and Moon festival, marks the change in direction of the Mekong and Tonle rivers that converge at the edge of the city. This changing tide signifies the end of the rains and the rainy season itself, a huge thing in a rice farming culture, and has been celebrated along the banks of the famed Sisowath Quay for hundreds of years with food, drink, and colorful boat races.
Now, the Khmer are a water people. Even those from the dry, arid scrubland of the north would still have sought out as children the muddy ponds, lakes, and rivers that cover this country for half the year. Many will live much of their life ankle deep both inside and outside of the home, and as such a boat race between Cambodians is about as competitive as a foot-race between Kenyans.
Each boat is low-slung, thin, brightly colored, and manned by a long string of 50-75 rowers – oddly facing front.
Most are built in their home province to strict specifications, 
trained on by the local crew, then shipped by truck or river to the capital for the festival. Pride and the honor of the village being no small part of the reason these dirt farmers give up their meager living to travel to the city to compete. It can be intense.
During the Angkorean era, the King would hold similar boat races using crews from various regions under his command and manned by different captains in his Navy. The races were less of a tourist draw then (no wifi) and more of a military show of force to scare the neighbors and nautical CV for an up and coming captain.
The militaristic feel of the former festival is not lost on the current iteration. They may not be preparing to go to war with the Thai but the police presence still lays heavy over the entire affair and jackbooted stormtroopers seem posted to each and every corner.
It’s not surprising. Prime Minister Hun Sen, the Lord Palpatine of Cambodian politics, had shuttered the previous three festivals over concerns for safety, namely his own and that of his tin-pot regime.
The Koh Pich bridge connects the aging waterfront of Phnom Penh to the glittering new ‘Diamond Island’, a mass of Chinese-backed casinos built atop acres of shifting sand reclaimed from the quay. Hastily constructed, they had begun to sink into the soft mud, their investors running further and further with each degree.
On the last night of the 2010 festival people had gathered on the island, not to gamble on the bells and whistles of crooked Macanese slot machines, but to cheer on their province from the bridge over the finish line. Men, women, children, all jostling to get a view of the big race. By all accounts the exuberant crowd quickly devolved into a crush of thousands, some trying to leave the island, some coming to it. Both sides pressing terribly against the middle.
The police, in a heavy-handed effort to clear the bridge, deployed a water cannon, only panicking the crowd further and worsening the inevitable.
Big crowds scare me about as much as they do the government. There is a raw power and unpredictability to them that terrifies me, and the few mob scenes I have been party to have certainly left their mark. It seems that a person may be smart, but a group of people are often mad, panicky animals.
When the downed power lines were finally cut and the bodies laid out to be counted 347 people lay dead, twice that wounded in a country with zero services for the disabled.
It takes a lot to shock people here. A LOT. But this staggering toll to what should have been a time of celebration seems to have struck a chord with an already weary populace. 347.
The incident rippled throughout the country. Anger seethed in the provinces, and the payout of $1,250 to families of the deceased, and a mere $250 to those losing limbs did little to assuage it. Fearing an immediate backlash against the government; paper investigative committees were formed, journalists were silenced, and the revolutionary leader-in-exile, Sam Rainsy, placed on a watchlist at all points of entry to the Kingdom to prevent an external coup.
The official reason for continually canceling the festivals, previously unbroken except by war, was to improve security and services for the 2-4 million people that flood into the city, often with no place to stay.
While minor improvements seem to have been made – the roving phalanxes of machine-gun toting soldiers proudly carry bright first-aid kits along with their imported German Heckler & Koch MP5’s – many felt the PM simply did not want to bring too many angry people into the city for a party that may well turn into a revolution.
On its return in 2014 things went smoothly, with none of the grenade attacks or stampedes that were feared. Families laughed and played in the large gardens facing the Royal Palace and lined the waterfront at night to see the lit up floats sail up and down the quay. Street vendors sold the traditional dishes of all things creeping and crawling as well as the festival dish of Ak Ambok, or coconut and banana rice. In short, it was a party.
The winners of the race hailed from the Mekong-straddling province of Kampong Cham, truly kings for a day after a series of hard-fought runs that saw more than one boat capsized in the strong currents.
The real King, accompanied by the Prime Minister and guarded by seemingly every copper in the Kingdom, descended from his throne in the Palace and walked the short distance out the massive front gate to his gilded pavilion on the water.
Lauding the winners he then turned to the gathered crowd and proclaimed with a wave of his gloved hand that the rains were over.
Hooray.
I couldn’t help but be skeptical. It sounded too much like the old story of Xerxes, King of Persia, having the sea itself whipped for its waves. Despite his golden regalia I doubted his ability to control the weather, and, after three soggy days driving to hear him proclaim so, it all seemed a bit absurd.
Yet as we mounted up our tiny bike, readying for the continued journey north to Laos, the clouds seemed to part and the sky brightened ever so slightly. The police removed the barbed wire barricades blocking the streets and families prepared to scoot, sometimes six or seven to a bike, back to their home provinces.
Unbeknownst to them, they would not be allowed to return next year, as the festival was to be canceled yet again citing the same concerns.
We would, however, drive straight north under clear skies for the next three weeks, never being touched by a single drop of rain – until entering Laos, that is. It would seem the King’s meteorological reach extends only to the edges of his Kingdom, not one bit further.
-Nick
