Cindy Fan

Photo: Dreamstime

By Cindy Fan

KOH PHANGAN, THAILAND—I believe in signs. You know, those uncanny moments in life, undoubtedly of divine orchestration, that kick you in the pants to do something whether you want to or not.

That’s how I found myself at the world’s largest beach party, painted head-to-flip-flop in fluorescent DayGlo, guzzling vodka soda from a beach bucket.

This story was published in The Toronto Star. View it on their website here.

I had unwittingly arrived on the Thai island of Koh Phangan the day of its famous Full Moon Party, an all-night rave that, as the name suggests, occurs every 29 days when the moon appears at its biggest and brightest.

The coincidence was too great; what a cruel joke. I eschew crowds and the Southeast Asia backpacker party scene. It was as if the travel gods were saying, “Stop being such an old fuddy-duddy. Go get wasted and make out with a stranger.”

I had just turned 29. I had exactly one more year to throw caution to the wind before entering “The 30s,” a period where I was supposed to start panicking about money, career, finding a man to marry me and my diminishing supply of ova.

But all my 29 years of life did not prepare me for this sight.

Fuelled by throbbing beats and strong cocktails, 30,000 sweaty, half-naked, neon bodies orgiastically danced, wiggled, shook, pumped, bobbed and swayed. There was something in the air. Moon madness? Pheromones?

I was being pulled in; I felt like a million baht. They were young — excuse me, we were young — and we were consumed by the audacious feeling that we had life on our side. We burned, we burned brightly and we revelled in the smoke. Everything was on fire.

Fire jugglers. Fire throwers. Fire limbo. Fire skipping rope. There was a lineup to jump through hoops engulfed in flames. It was like watching amateur night at a low-budget circus. My favorite pyro attraction was a slide lined with torches. Those who flung themselves down it would ricochet off an inflated mat and bowl into the crowd.

More fire: BBQs smoked and sizzled and tables were piled high with meat, like sacrificial altars to pagan gods. My inner cave woman swelled up inside me.

Tearing into chicken wings, I sat on top of a picnic table chewing the fat with anyone who joined me. People had come from every corner of the world: from Scotland to South Korea, from Jackson to Jo’burg. The Full Moon party could have been a junior UN conference, with new couples improving international relations with their tongues.

Despite our diversity, we all spoke the same language. No, not English or French or incoherent drunken babble. It’s a parlance only understood by youthful backpackers.

We were all on a break from Life, with the conviction that we would find our true selves in the jungles Borneo, in the surf off Bali or at a tattoo parlour in Bangkok. We had all come from somewhere amazing, done something awesome, were planning on going here, then there, to check out that thing we heard was so great and so cheap.

We were all experts: Don’t go there, it’s crap. Go here; the scene’s better, the hostels fun-ner, the drugs cheaper. Endless happy hour, mate! New friends for Facebook, a hundred likes. Fresh tattoos were shown and admired. So were cuts and bruises and burns and bracelets that were trophies from parties and other you-only-live-once exploits.

Eventually, when time or money ran out, we would leave this bubble and go back into the world feeling like we had experienced the real world, having seen and done things we couldn’t in our home country (often because they were illegal). Yes, we had our iPhone stolen on the overnight bus, got manhandled by a ladyboy, were scammed by a tuk-tuk driver — but these were all life-affirming, character-building experiences! Our worldliness would make the world a better place.

That’s what we told ourselves.

I noshed on a slice of watermelon and looked up at the moon, peaceful and empty. Just a hunk of rock in space, yet so vital. Below it roared a mob that was ignorant of the fact that their life on this planet depended on its existence.

And the moon commanded the tides that would roll in and clear the mess. All this plastic! The beach was strewn with beach buckets and bottles. Tomorrow it would all be on its way to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Did no one care?

Ugh.

I got up to leave, stepping my way over and around people passed out in the sand. I felt old.

But not too old to do this: Like an outfielder gunning for an out at home plate, I threw the slimy watermelon rind and gleefully watched as it soared into the crowd, hitting a blond — Splat! — squarely on the side of her head. She angrily spun round, looking for the culprit.

I giggled like a schoolgirl.

Cindy Fan is a Canadian writer and photographer based in Laos. SoManyMiles.com

JUST THE FACTS

ARRIVING There is no airport on Koh Phangan. Take a ferry from neighbouring island Koh Samui or Surat Thani on the mainland. Parts of the island remain remote and party-free, with stunning beaches and inexpensive accommodations.

TIPS Try not to be an old fuddy-duddy.
Wear neon.
Get wasted (well, not too wasted) and make out with a stranger.