Crashing CarnaKep

Sound came first: a pulsing thump of bass and high-pitched cheers that drifted into our tuk-tuk through the dust-hazy air. Then, vision: rounding the curve, a flatbed truck overflowing with children appeared like a many-winged myna, sounding its loud, shrill whistle. Next, a motorcycle trailer festooned with streamers in eye-blinding colors, brimming with exuberance and painted faces; a papier-mâché dragon roared from its roof. In tuk-tuks, kids saluted with straw hats painted in shades of Picasso and brandished carefully rendered signs proclaiming “CarnaKep.”

We had stumbled into an annual festival created by the French school in Kep, Cambodia. Teachers with a patience born of this optimistic, resilient country were attempting to organize 300 kids into cyclos, tuk-tuks or parade lines under the scorching sun.

In the midst of the choreographed confusion, organizers quickly noticed that, with only three people, our tuk-tuk was far from full. Soon a wide-eyed toddler, drooling infant and three ladies of indeterminate age were settled onto the bench opposite. Their burnished faces creased into smiles as they flexed swollen feet; the parade was underway.

Weaving our way towards the beach, I was ignited by the jangle-jumble of the celebration, hollering at ladies leading lumbering cows along the road, waving like a possessed marionette to the men swaying in hammocks. Our tuk-tuk distended as nimble boys grabbed on and hitched a ride. My cheeks grew tight as my grin stretched to a point mere centimeters from my ears; I tasted grit on my teeth and smiled wider.

Accompanied by parents and bystanders that had been drawn in by the sinuous parade dragon, we approached the beach and, as quickly as we had been consumed, we were disgorged. The party progressed; our tuk-tuk stopped outside of the melee. It was time to reoccupy myself, but not without reward. For a few, breathless hours, I was Khmer.