The Half Moon Party was a disaster, and yet was oddly satisfying. Even beforehand, the idea of it, to me, was absolute amazingness, a night of total loss and of pure abandonment. I had built it up in such a way that I became obsessed with making this night the best one to come.

Having befriended the hostel barman – lovely Austrian with a tiny duvet of a moustache - I had fallen into a happy drunkenness. As the bar emptied out and fellow tourists left for the party, I realized my companions had disappeared. An hour gone and lacking anything better to do, I helped clean out the bar. Still no sign, I stacked up cushions forcefully while making up plans on how to get to the event on my own, which in itself is just a question of a taxi ride but I had no money as I had no room key. I was just about to have no idea at all, when they reappeared.

On my right was a 7-eleven that I stumbled to for a reason that I cannot remember but I am sure is as justified as my recent scooter ride with an almost-stranger.

I yelled at them crazily while gathering my things just as a Thai worker from the hostel drove his scooter passed and slowed. I hopped on the back blocking out screams of dismay behind me. With the night air cooling my anger, I got to the police barrage; the entrance to the Half Moon insanity. I stood there slightly dazed. The road ahead was pitch black. Guilt overtook my annoyance. On my right was a 7-eleven that I stumbled to for a reason that I cannot remember but I am sure is as justified as my recent scooter ride with an almost-stranger.

“Well! You look lost darling. Sit! Have a beer! Prost!”

With newfound friends, I sat for what might have been a few minutes or an hour. Time had become obsolete. We chatted about Thailand and Koh Phangan and parties and sand. I was introduced as “the lost one” to everyone who stopped by. I thought it had a nice flair. They didn’t know how well it defined me.

I couldn’t make up my mind about which emotion to feel and so I felt them all. I was lost, aggressive, ecstatic.

Then, spoken French made its way through the fuzziness of the moment. I answered to it. A tall Frenchman responded. He told me I could hop on for a ride. I did.

Dropped off at the entrance of the site, I paid my way in. I disappeared into the crowd and danced until I didn’t. The memories are at the same time colorful, angry, joyful. I couldn’t make up my mind about which emotion to feel and so I felt them all. I was lost, aggressive, ecstatic.

“Stef!”

I turned round and saw a lizard painted in fluorescent colors. He tried to be angry but I stole his hat. Who could be angry with a lizard on his cheek anyway?

A girl in a pink jumpsuit hugged me and I pressed my palm to a man’s chest and transferred fluorescent paint to my forearm.

Then someone in white followed me for a while and we danced and I sat with a short brunette and we became friends forever then never saw each other again. I took someone’s hand jumping high in the sky and held it. A girl in a pink jumpsuit hugged me. I pressed my palm to a man’s chest and transferred fluorescent paint to my forearm. I bumped my toe into a protruding rock and tried to focus on the gash in it. I walked until I my thong was sticky with blood and went to the medical area - the Thais plan for people like me.

With my new white bandage, I stormed off in a direction opposite to the hostel. I heard yells behind me that I ignored. More voices claimed that I was going in the wrong direction but I proudly continued walking. I dragged them away from our hostel, too proud to admit defeat until I agreed to take a taxi in the opposite direction. Without a coin in our pockets, a driver accepted to take us and get the money at arrival. Halfway through, he decided against it. We jumped out of the moving truck. We found another who kept his word. We kept ours and paid him.

Our bungalow was so peaceful. The sounds of the island in the morning sun pulled us into a deep sleep.

             

The Writer

I write stuff for fun, if it was for a living I would be homeless.

Find out more about me, Stefanie, here.

Quotes

The worst thing about being a tourist is having other tourists recognize you as a tourist. Russell Baker