John M. Edwards survives a psychedelic breakdown–and hubris–on a backpacker’s hub off the coast of Thailand. . . .
In Thailand, it is not necessary to have an actual full moon shining down on you in order to throw together a “Full Moon Party”—just loads and loads of magic mushrooms.
The decidedly pagan, almost “Glastonberry,” Halloweeny atmosphere of the event, featuring a wild bunch of fragrant hippies—proud of their piercings, dreadlocks, and tattoos–dancing around like scuttling sand crabs, following their dire delusional druthers, is almost like a Phish concert exploded. (Note: Incidentally, I was actually in a high-school garage band with Phish keyboardist Page McConnell; I also turned down a job, alas, as bassist for The Stone Temple Pilots way back when before they were big.)
But abusing dirt-cheap drugs abroad is not all fun and games—as I discovered when I literally freaked out on the paradise island of Ko Samet, somewhere off the coast of Thailand and on the very verge of reason.
Ko Samet, unlike more popular islands like Ko Samui and Phuket, is strictly for the budget backpacking cognoscenti. These “green” eco-tourists flock here in droves to sunbathe topless (without aggressive local Romeos trying to pick them up) and abuse mind-altering substances (without being hassled by the police).
There is a giant magical mermaid statue right on the beach, suggesting there might be some real ones wallowing out in the warm inviting waves. Pot is plentiful and easily available from the restaurateurs, as long as you know the code word (“no-name”). There, I just snitched! A semi-permanent settlement of dropouts and castaways practicing extreme unemployment known euphemistically as “Import-Export” live in apocalyptic “Beyond Thunderdome” tent cities on the beach. They resemble Barbary Coast corsairs or Caribbean pirates, Keith Richards and Johnny Depp wannabees—or, Fleetwood Mac.
Too much sunlight, man, too few phonecalls home!
Even on my first day on the ko (Thai for “island”), after leaping off like a backpacking tortoise from Aesop’s Fables at the island’s small jetty, I came across a burned-out casualty: a balding Belgian (in fact, a Walloon) wandering the beach weeping and frenetically fighting some phantom with a stick. According to the locals, the mad Belgian had arrived with two Thai bargirls from Bangkok in tow, and then had been drugged and robbed by them. No one knew what to do with him other than
leave him alone and hope he recovered.
Now I’m not big on controlled substances: I hadn’t even really sparked up a doober since college. Yet here I was on an island brimming with Buddhist magic, unaware that soon I would have the “bad trip” of my life. Whether it was caused by the antimalarial Larium (known now to cause psychosis in some people) or some psilocybin slipped into the “SPECIAL Jungle Curry” I’d recently scarfed down, I just don’t know even to this doggon day.
Hence, it all began with a premonition: Someday I’m going to die. But what’s after that? Heaven or Hell? Or just sweet oblivion? Sitting on the porch of my five-dollar beachside hut, I stared up into the sky, noticing the whirling cloud formations solidifying into shadow-puppet gods drifting imperiously through the void. Hey now, what’s this? “I don’t feel so good,” I mentioned later in the day to the blondie Swedish babe, a veritable prow of a Viking vessel, I’d met out in the ocean. Topless! The subject of the Larium I’d recently swallowed came up.
“Don’t take it!” the Swede warned. “I read in a Stockholm newspaper that it can make you crazy!”
I decided it was probably better to get malaria than lose my marbles.
Zigzagging to the beach, I perceived my mind playing tricks on me. I watched a smiling man with fiery blue-and-red sunglasses repetitively spinning a Frisbee in the air and catching it, a perfect execution every time.
All the otherworldly sunbathers sweating on the sand seemed to be from another planet, morphing into outlandish shapes. Playdo!
Under the comic-book-colored sun, I looked out at all the glowing demonic swimmers, ears growing pointed, waving at me in the waves. Surely, this must be the entrance to Hell? I voiced with vague alarm.
Jeez, I’m losing it.
Later as I hiked the entire length of the island on a whim, trying to sweat out the drugs—maybe I was “dosed” by some freak!—I found myself face to face with a real live monkey, barring my path and baring its teeth. Not now.
Motionless as a mannequin, I stood. The monkey, sensing my discomfort, snatched the water bottle out of my hand and then bounded back into the jungle.
At last I reached the farthermost point on the island (name: I forget), which hosted a gorgeous beach with a small hotel and restaurant. Some unhealthy-looking Brits with (yes) “fangs” plopped down and began talking to me. Vampires! The Thai waitress, conveniently wearing a crucifix around her neck, came over, but with no effect.
I stayed put until nightfall filled in the air as if fiddling with a bluish black crayon, betraying muted pinprick stars, some of which (yes) moved! The aliens have landed! I fancied. Out in the ocean scores of fishing boats were illuminated with a weird glow, while at water’s edge strange blue lights (phosphorescent plankton) washed ashore, disturbing my wide-open-eyed dream.
What what? Looking up suddenly from my Singha beer, I then saw a steady stream of irreverent revelers wending their way with their Mag Lites onto the beach, controlled by Circadian rhythms of mirth and sheer instinct. Although the moon was only a mere sliver, resembling an Islamic insignia or pie, my first real impromptu “Full Moon Party” was about to commence. . . .
