"It takes a whole lotta medicine for me to pretend that I'm somebody else." / Randy Newman

I'm splayed out on a crescent shaped, isolated, powdery white sand beach. It's the mostly unknown island paradise of Ko Phangan, in the Gulf of Thailand. Me 'n Canolli-Girl are here for the monthly Full Moon Party, an out-of-control, all night beach party - fueled by loud music, cheap beer, and plentiful psychedelics.

(The site of the Full Moon Party during the afternoon)

There are also small stands - set up along the narrow path connecting pier to beach - offering tasty homemade goodies. Fresh magic mushrooms - raw, in shakes or omelets. Sticky opium packed in cute little hand-carved pipes. Acid and speed, but no need for harsh chemically shit when you got mushrooms. Top-of-the-world-Maw, paralyzing Thai ganja - loose, in brownies or "happy-cookies."

This morning, the rickety, wheezing, partially capsized ferry - that'd taken 10 hours to make it from the mainland - came to a stop by bashing into the rust-stained pier. Hadn't even stopped vibrating, when Canolli-Girl lets out a bellowing whoop, "happy-cookies here I come," and rockets ashore.

With the boat finally half-assed secure, I timidly make my way - like a drunken Flying Wallenda - over the narrow, splintered-bamboo gangplank. At last mercifully on solid ground, I murmur "thank you" to the God of Transport.

Soon Canolli-Girl returns - big smile, loaded down with cookies & brownies. Magic mushrooms - several with good sized chunks bitten out of them - jut from her skimpy shorts.

I love looking at her. Elfin smile topped by close-cropped black hair. Intelligent, deep brown eyes - now more than a little unfocused. Full lips, teeth perfect as a lifetime of expensive orthodontia can make them. Compact, sensual body - lovingly wrapped in smooth-as-silk, olive-hued skin.

Offers me a cookie. "Have a bite. Delicious." I take an experimental taste. Crunchy chocolaty-chip goodness, with just a hint of ganja. Quickly gobble it down.

"Thanks. Ya do any mushrooms?" I ask casually.

"Nah," with an almost straight face.

"C'mon."

Suppressed giggle and a lopsided grin. "Well, maybe a teeny bite…or two." Hands me a couple more cookies. "Enjoy." Gestures vaguely towards a line of coconut trees, "beach's that way. Go relax. I'll find us a place."

"No mushrooms for me?"

"No way - I know you! You'll eat'em all at once and turn into fucking zombie-man." She starts to go, abruptly turns back with a big, lecherous smile. "And stop looking at my ass."

I watch her skip off - remembering that line about two little boys fighting under a blanket.

I absent mindedly nibble another cookie, finishing it on the way to the beach. Sit under a tree, mesmerized, vacantly staring at the water. Eventually notice I'm holding a third cookie and start to gnaw on it. The first of the chocolaty death-dealers kicks in - strong and hard. Uh oh. This's gonna get ugly. Good thing the Party's not too far away.

(Full Moon Party in full swing)

(Full Moon Party the next morning)

Recreational drugs were openly available all over Asia - till the USA's draconian DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) moved in with promises of increased assistance or threats to block membership in vital international trade organizations. Blackmailed countries quickly signed up to join the unwinnable "war on drugs." Enforcement really only applied to foreigners anyway, so who cared? New laws were passed with great fanfare. A few poppy fields were burned here and there.

In reality, what happened, stuff wasn't available as openly, prices jumped, and an overwhelming torrent of baksheesh rained down upon Police and rat-bastard Sellers who sold to Foreigners, than pointed them out for a share in any money collected. Money flowed like wine. Sweet.

So, if you wanna smoke a joint, try opium, or taste that blond hash you read about in High Times, who ya gonna call?

Other foreigners. Best, easiest, and safest - young ones first. Expats. Local folks at watering holes and hangouts. Managers or Bartenders. Circumspection goes a long way. Bellhops. They can get you anything. Give a big tip and ask nicely. Taxi drivers. This can get a bit hairy, as the guy may want to take you somewhere. Waiters. Salespeople. Tour Guides. Barbers. Bus Drivers…

On the other side: never listen to someone whispering to you on the street about dope; never front any money; never walk just a little ways down an alley; never meet a bellhop - or anyone - when their shift is over; never buy with more than you and the seller on hand; never sample before you buy; never accept food or drink from anyone; never reveal your name, where you are staying, or how much money you have; never carry your Passport.

We'd first heard of the Full Moon Party while visiting the gorgeous lakeside city of Pokhara, Nepal - jumping off point for the popular Anapurna trek. It's a well marked trek, fairly flat for the Himalayas. You can do a quick 7 or longish 21 day round trip. Supposed to be a fine experience - minus the rigors and equipment necessary to reach that Holy Grail of trekking, Everest Base Camp.

(The beautiful lake in the city of Pokhara. Himalayas in the rear.)

I wouldn't know.

Last thing I wanna do is stumble around a freezing cold mountain and sleep on a filthy floor in an unheat mud hut, while eating cold mashed chickpeas and soggy dough wrapped around undercooked yak gristle. Nature my ass.

It'd taken over 16 hours - on a bus more suitable for chain-gang prisoners - to arrive from Kathmandu. What with mudslides, wrecks, breakdowns, and traffic jams, we'd averaged about 11 miles an hour. But Canolli-Girl just had to go trekking. So first thing, off into the mountains she merrily went.

(Typical stretch of road from Kathmandu to Pokhara. I'm in the bus behind the truck)

Me? Every morning I took my clunky rented bicycle - tasty chunk of hash in hand - and rode around the city. Afternoons were spent right on the edge of the lake, in the comfy chairs of the "German Bakery."

I sat quite contentedly, eating hash, staring at the lake and swapping lies with folks from all over the world. A favorite pastime was watching the walking-wounding return from their treks. It was mighty unusual to see anyone without at least one small dirty bandage. Some rode wobbly on skinny donkeys, or sat painfully astride shaggy-haired yaks. A
few were on makeshift stretchers dragged by two plodding oxen.

When Canolli-Girl returned from her trek, we decided that anything was better than taking the bus-of-horror back to Kathmandu. Hired a service car with driver. Canolli-Girl with two trekking companions got to sit in the back and make fun of me. I sat in front, clutching the dashboard with claw-like hands, in a constant state of terror. Disaster lurked around every blind hair pin turn, over every unfenced muddy lip down into the bottomless abyss. The girls chattered gaily in the rear - once in a while throwing out a lewd comment about my lack of manhood - unaware and uncaring about our constant brushes with disaster.

After a couple of hours, I noticed that the driver was starting to pump the brake pedal in order to stop. No big deal, I thought.

Then he combined pumping with vigorous downshifting. Skillful driving, I thought.

Eventually, he combined pumping, downshifting, and a judicious use of the emergency hand brake, to slow us down. Hmmmm, this can't be good, I thought.

Not wanting to alarm anyone, and certainly not wanting to break the guys concentration - didn't speak a lot of English anyway - I contented myself with a short prayer and a lot of body English to help us stop.

(Typical scene on the road. Might makes right. Since the trucks are equally large, the drivers have gotten out to fight over who gets to go first)

After a while, we glided up to a collection of broken-down roadside sheds for chai - very hot tea mixed with sweet milk - and a bathroom break. It was here that I heard one of the most descriptive things ever about Asia. I asked a guy "where's the bathroom?" He looked at me in stunned amazement, than gazed all about him. "Anywhere" he said, gesturing in a circle, "anywhere."

I noticed our driver coming out of a small shack, half-full bottle of vodka in his hands. Oh goodie. No brakes, sheer mountain roads, hair pin turns. It's getting late, gonna get cold so the mud'll turn icy - and this mutt thinks it's a good fucking idea to start drinking?

Having learned a bit about patience, I wait to see what's gonna happen. One things for damned sure, ain't none of that shits touching his lips. Instead, guy opens the hood and pours the clear liquid into the master cylinder. Brake fluid! That's what we needed. Why didn't I think of that? Isn't it always sold in empty vodka bottles?

I give the guy a thumbs-up signal, he returns the bottle, and away we go.

Things're fine for about a half hour. It's starting to get pretty dark - night falls fast in the mountains. The driver puts the lights on - interior ones as well. This lets me see that now there ain't no more pumping of the brake pedal - he's mashing the thing all the way to the floor boards. And we ain't slowin' down even a little bit. Jesus, fuck me! But didn't we just put in brake fluid? Oh man, oh man, must be a leak or hole in the hose.

I signal frantically for the guy to stop. We got more fluid? Duct tape? Extra hose?

Guy ignores me. It's almost pitched black, we're hurtling down a steep mud/ice road, hair pin coming up fast, without any brakes. I'm panicked. A pair of headlights suddenly rises out of the gloom below us. I lose it completely. Guy waves me off and manipulates the gear shift and emergency brake in an attempt to slow us down. Instead, Christ, we seem to be speeding up.

But that's another story…