People will sing the praises of the Full Moon Party everywhere. They’ll do it because in the end, it’s fun. Because it’s exotic. The Full Moon Party is an esoteric rampage of fire, sex, and moonlight that connects the thousands of people who, months later, will dig through their pockets, find a few crumbs of white sand, and smile. But there’s another layer to it that you won’t hear from an enthusiastic backpacker on the ferry. A translucent filter, something you get used to. But when it’s pointed out, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Because there’s also something sinister going on on Koh Phangan.

The morning after the party, I walked out onto the beach to survey in sunlight what remained. I don’t know what I expected. It wasn’t dead bodies. There were at least four of them, sprawled in various positions down the beach. There was a word in my mind then – crepuscular. It means “to do with twilight.” I always thought it was an ugly word to describe a beautiful time of day, chunky and sour, but it’s hard not to appreciate the sentiment of it in the pink kenopsia of a hungover Haad Rin. I strolled for a bit, taking in the sights. Cleaning crews were raking the beach, but every so often I’d see the pile of vomit, the condom, the half burned joint. I wondered if somebody had dropped it on purpose, afraid of being arrested and being forced to pay high bribes to stay safe.

I had come as a graduation present to myself, a kind of half-genuine alembic of the soul where I told myself that I valued culture as much as getting drunk on foreign liquors and doing irresponsible things for the sake of saying I’d done them. I was in a not-quite-post-college mindset, and it was in that spirit that I’d planned my itinerary. I had told my parents it was called the Full Moon Festival to make it sound more respectable.

And maybe everybody had. There’s a culture of naivety on Koh Phangan that seems lighthearted and fun – all neon paint and bucket. But when it boils down to the actual reality of life on the island, the reality that becomes visible in the crepuscular light, it’s a weaponized promise of memories by a culture (if you can call it that anymore) all too willing to rake in the easy money. Now, I wish I had paid more attention to the rumors of locals sprinkling meth in the drinks. They are savvy bordering on scheming in a way that’s obvious unless obfuscated by the visitor’s desperate desire to come away from their adventure with the self-assured knowledge that they had done something right. I was the party’s perfect prey.