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My tuk-tuk driver zooms down the narrow streets – not a man or a red light would slow this guy down. We snake around a pot of bubbling pigs’ snouts and bamboo tables of pink dragon fruit and pineapples when I see Khru Tar’s smile beaming at the side of the road. “Happy Loy Krathong!” I say as she hops in. “Chai. Happy happy Loy Krathong,” replies Khru Tar as she blocks the sun from her face with a shawl. Yesterday, I met Khru Tar at a stall in Chatuchak whilst eating chicken Ka Pow – a spicy, Thai dish consisting of red chillies and holy basil. She’s a kindergarten teacher in Pak Kret and invited me to her school to celebrate Loy Krathong. The festival happens annually during November’s full moon to pay respect to the water Goddess Ganga, asking for forgiveness for the past year’s transgressions and praising her fertility powers. The tuk-tuk weaves through tree-canopied crannies and crevices, each turn being weirder and more wonderful than the next. The scent of fried bananas licks the hot air, scattered with the occasional rhythmic cracking of coconuts. We arrive at the riverside school – Pichaya Suksa – and Khru Tar ushers me into a back office. The corridors and the classrooms are decorated with colourful bunting and fresh-cut flowers nod their heads in the air con’s cool breeze. Each room has golden framed photographs of the Thai king and flag. Khru Tar explains the flag is called Thong Trairong – tricolour – and the colours red, white and blue represent the people, the Buddhist religion and the monarchy respectively. Before I know it there are three Thai ladies strapping turquoise embroidered silks around me with gold belts. “Suay suay, beautiful,” says another who is putting a cream, lace blouse on me with billowing sleeves. “Thank you so much. Khob khun ka,” I say whilst pressing my palms together in a low wai and feeling very grateful for remembering the couple of phrases Khru Tar taught me at the market. A tickle of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. My traditional Thai attire is beautiful but boiling. I’m led to a classroom where there are children making their krathongs. These are floatable offerings for Goddess Ganga covered with leaves, candles and flowers – and in a lot of cases ice cream cones. “We use this because fish eat them and then it’s ok,” explains Khru Tar. “Sometimes give money too.” Khru Tar leads us to the river with our freshly made krathongs. I hold hands with Conquan, a little girl in Kindergarten grade 3. Her English is amazing. She proudly tells me her name means “present”. At the river, hundreds of children, parents and teachers gather. A clinking, chiming melody erupts and everyone starts singing and dancing. Women curl their hands backwards and wave their arms in slow, smooth sweeps. I feel a rush of exhilarating energy from seeing this gorgeous community so content and joyous together. We take turns lighting our candles and watching our krathongs float away to become a tapestry of bursting colours that twirl and whirl in the currents of the Chao Phraya River. “People say if krathong float away and both candles stay on fire until you no see it – true love,” whispers Khru Tar to me as I step up to take my turn. “Make a wish!” I kneel down on the wooden planks laid out on the river’s edge. I light my candle, close my eyes and make a wish. I watch my krathong float away until my candle’s flame disappears over the horizon.