The Full Moon Party is in full swing when we taxi in to Haad Rin around 10:30 ... but you'd almost never know it. So adept are the locals at staging this riot, there is virtually no traffic jam; the taxis have it all perfectly coordinated. Past the front gate, along the lane that leads to the shops and eateries, we hear almost nothing but the muted boom-boom-boom of bass speakers in the distance. We see a fair turnout of people, but not the crushing horde I expected. And then we take a side path down to the beach.I am instantly glad I came.
Picture tens of thousands of undulating, day-glo painted, bucket-carrying, hands-in-the-air party-goers, bouncing up and down to the 19 different mega-sound systems blasting dance mixes out across the Gulf of Thailand. This spectacle of laser lights, fire twirlers and youthful incandescence extends for three-quarters of a mile in either direction, covering all sand from surf to tree line.
Fuel for this party rocket is sold literally by the bucket: For anywhere between 100 and 300 baht, you get a child's sand pail that contains a pint of vodka or whiskey, two cans of Red Bull, a splash of Coke or Sprite, and several straws for sharing. One bucket is enough to keep you cranked up till sunrise; hardly anyone stops at one.Everyone makes friends easily at the Full Moon Party. Betsy and Warren run across some people they met a few nights ago, and everyone dances and parties together.
Even I make a new friend: an attractive Thai woman wants to dance, and she is very friendly: she plants both hands on my ass, pulls me in close and we start doing some nasty bumping. Hey, this is a lot of fu--
Both hands on my ass! I reach around to my back pocket. Wallet, gone!
Instantly I wrap my other arm around this thief's waist to keep her from bolting. She drops to the ground and scrambles madly in the sand for something, but I get there first and snatch back my rattlesnake-skin wallet, a gift from dear friends.
"Nice try, doll!" I growl as she disappears into the crowd.
I stand up, clutching my wallet in one hand and my now-empty bucket in the other. "Hey, you o.k.?" someone asks. I must be pop-eyed with adrenaline. I fight my way out of the mob to a nearby convenience store, where I feel safe enough to put my wallet where it should have been all along: in the money belt stuffed securely down the front of my pants.
That is the end of buckets, beer and all other libation for this evening. But I will have no trouble staying awake. For hours I replay this close call, and shudder. The only thing that saved me was the zippered pocket; it caused her to take too long, and I caught on.
A while later, another young nubile wants to dance up close, but this time I feel her fingers probing the zippered front pocket that holds Betsy's camera. I check the move and she darts off. Amazing!
If I ever attend another Full Moon Party, I intend to have a decoy wallet in place for the first Artful Dodger cutie-pie who wants to play grab-ass. I'll grab, too. Later, when she opens the wallet, she can read my note: "Dear Evil Pickpocket: I totally felt you up tonight and you got nothing. Thanks!"---
The rave has lost its magic, so I wander back up to the shops along the lane that leads to the exit. It is close to 3 a.m. by now, so I buy a fruit crepe, sit down on the sidewalk and observe the March of the Inebriates. Some are staggering, others are supported on either side by friends, a few are carried out feet first. At one point I head for the shuttle buses myself, ready to call it a night. But no -- I don't want to leave without Warren and Betsy, who I lost in the crowd a long time ago, and I kind of want to make it to the sunrise. So I walk back down to the beach.
The party is getting old. Many bodies collapsed on the sand, presumably picked over by the carnivores. I watch a fist fight, which spectators break up quickly. The sun comes up, I catch a taxi back to the resort and get ready to check out for the long ferry and bus ride back to Bangkok.
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