First it came from behind, followed by a brazen full-frontal assault; then, somehow, a veritable shower from above. Water is being hurled at me from every direction — fountains of the cold, startling stuff. A woman approaches in a mock hug, chuckles gaily and smears my face and arms with white doughy goo. Another prankster sneaks up from behind and pours what feels like an Arctic river down my back, then declares with gleeful satisfaction: “Welcome to Bangkok. Happy New Year!”

So begins the most bizarre, refreshingly silly and gloriously uplifting street party I can ever imagine experiencing: Thailand’s Songkran festival, the uniquely mirthful New Year celebration where good tidings are dispensed by way of an unremitting drenching. “Be careful, don’t wear good clothes,” we’re cautioned before venturing outdoors. What no one warned us about, however, was that we would nearly split our ribs from laughing.

Suddenly and inescapably, Bangkok’s streets are patrolled by platoons of sodden revellers, steely in their determination to joyously saturate as many people as possible. They’re armed with huge, high-powered water pistols, augmented with plastic backpacks containing extra ammunition. Hardened combatants, thirsty for further collateral damage, carry buckets full of white gooey dough. Every vehicle becomes a potential water–cannon, especially utes and trucks manned by groups brandishing large scoops that they dunk into massive water drums. Stationary troops avail themselves of more prosaic, but no less effective, devices such as hoses and buckets.

The drenchings may be unrelenting and often brutally surprising but they unfailingly precipitate streams of unchecked, unselfconscious laughter. Hailing from a society where socialising has become increasingly contrived and scheduled and free–range fun has practically been smothered by zealous legislators, I’m heartened by the way Bangkok’s populace immerses itself in the spirit of Songkran. Everyone — young, old, singles and groups — takes to the streets and sets out to have a rollicking great time.

No one is spared the jubilant revelry. We pass policemen, usually so upstanding and dapper in their starched, sombre uniforms, looking as if they’ve just emerged from a washing machine and rolled about in white mud, their dark glasses divested of all street cred. At a busy curbside eatery, three businessmen dressed in black suits with faces caked in layers of white goo devour noodles and conduct what appears to be an earnest negotiation, utterly oblivious to their wet, gooey state.

At hotels, guards mete out wet welcomes from humongous, frivolously colourful water pistols. Out the front of shops and houses, families form battalions around children’s swimming pools, and everyone — toddlers, parents, grandparents and visitors — jumps at the chance to soak and smear a hapless passerby. Even Bangkok’s stray dogs, many of which are cared for by residents and stall–holders, get playfully squirted. Resistance is utterly useless, though many a hilarious game is to be had by trying to out–run and out-manoeuvre water-wielders.