Loi Krathong
as seen in the Marquette Monthly April, 2020
By Kalil Zender
The river before me is wide, slow, and patient. Thick green foliage crowds the banks and shallows, making a watery jungle for carp and snake fish and perhaps even a few giant water lizards. Sticks, plastic bottles, and leaves float on the surface in an almost imperceptible current, seeming to stand still on this glassy murk. No ripples here, no waves. This river has seen the rise and fall of kingdoms. It has been the watering grounds for wild tigers and elephants, and it is the life behind all the villages and settlements up and down its banks for over 800 miles.
Today is the festival called Loi Krathong, and hundreds of people have gathered along the banks of the Ping River. They come here asking, praying to be cleansed by the water in one of the most important Buddhist holidays in Thailand. Loi Krathong is a kind of yearly baptism, an opportunity to start fresh.
I stand on the bank. At my feet, the gnarled roots of a huge Bodhi tree lay exposed, as if painted onto the worn, packed dirt. In front of me, a throng of strangers scrambles down to the water’s edge. They are boisterous but respectful. Reaching the grassy shallows, they kneel together, each holding a krathong to his or her chest. Each krathong is made by intricately folding banana leaves around a circular bamboo base and then filling and decorating it with marigolds, plump purple orchids, and small yellow candles.
It is evening, and I watch as a group below me pass lighters back and forth between them, each lighting the cluster of candles nestled inside their krathongs. Carefully, each krathong is set in the water. Traditionally, people sprinkle fingernail clippings or locks of hair amidst the flowers and candles, but these days most just whisper a prayer, or perhaps a confession into the little boat before letting the river take it away.
I scramble down the bank and light my own candles, thinking of the mistakes I’ve made this year, how I would like to be different, better. Gently I place my krathong on the surface and use a stick to nudge it into the current. It bobs away slowly, bumping against others as it joins the legion of tiny floating candles flickering against the darkness. We all wait together on the bank, watching our krathongs drift away for as long as we can.
In this place, the rains come once a year. For several months, rain pounds down a few times per day, flooding the streets and gutters until sometime in August or September when, without warning, the last rain falls. There are no great freshwater lakes in Thailand, and little chance of rain after the monsoons move on. The rivers are the only dependable water source. Water is life. Here, life is a river.
In Southern Thailand, people release their krathongs into the ocean. But I’m a river girl, and I’m happier here. The ocean is too selfish, too violent. There is a humanity in rivers, a silent kindness in flowing waters that seems so patient, understanding, motherlike. Rivers are imbued with the ability to carry away our mistakes and our trespasses.
As a child, I would swim with my mouth open in the Yellow Dog River, lapping up that cold, clean water like a happy dog. Now, I live most of the year by this river on the other side of the world. Being near it brings me comfort, like sitting in my mother’s kitchen. But in these past six years, I have not once swum in this river I love. The Ping is dirty. Children do not swim open-mouthed and carefree here anymore.
Once a year at Loi Krathong, we make an offering and ask the Ping to carry away our sins and baggage. Yet every day we force her to carry our garbage and waste, which is domestic, industrial, and agricultural. Her tired body is a vehicle for plastic bottles, decaying fishing nets, waterlogged flip-flops, candy wrappers, plastic shopping bags, and whatever invisible horrors I don’t even know.
She doesn’t complain. A river is a mother, and she knows only patience and forgiveness. Stand up for yourself! I want to shout. Fight back! Do something! I wish she would retaliate, flood her banks, drown us all. But she won’t. Mothers will let their children ruin them for love. No, the Ping will carry on, her load growing heavier, her waters thicker, until eventually there is none of her left.
WATER-SAVING TIPS
Save rainwater to water your garden or houseplants.
To save household water, when showering, turn off the water while you soap up.
Contributor’s note: Kalil Zender is from Marquette, Michigan. She lives in Thailand.
“The Gift of Water” columns are offered by the Northern Great Lakes Water Stewards and the Cedar Tree Institute, joined in an interfaith effort to help preserve, protect, and sanctify the waters of the Upper Peninsula.
