Sri Lankans Observe Holiday in Relative Sobriety, Confound European Travelers

 "It only takes me one drink to get drunk.  

The trouble is, I can't remember if its the thirteenth or the fourteenth."  

George Burns

Last Friday was a full moon holiday here in Sri Lanka.  For the Buddhists, it's known as Poya, as the full moon is a key religious symbol because of their allegiance to a lunar calendar.  For Eric, and a vast number of party-seeking Westerners who look for any excuse to take their shoes off and get hammered, "full moon holiday" means fond memories of my trip to a Full Moon Party in Thailand a few years ago.  When I heard it was going to be a full moon holiday here in the Lanka, I got pretty damn excited that my sleepy little town was finally going to perk up a bit and the drinks were going to start flowing.  My expectations of joy lifted me high, high above the every day milieu...and then reality caught me in its heady pull and brought me thundering down to crushing disappointment.

As it turns out I grossly misunderstood how Poya days work in this country.  Instead of "beach filled with scantily clad Europeans slamming vodka red bull by the gallon," full moon holiday here means "the very few services and entertainment options to which you have become accustomed are now closed for the entire day leaving you alone again with your thoughts."  Oh goody.  I was growing concerned about my lack of alone time, so this was just what I needed.  Ultimately Supervisor made some food for us for lunch, a tasty cucumber curry and prawns in red sauce, and it was actually a pretty relaxed afternoon.  The hours melted off the clock and we passed into Saturday without any notable occurrences.  My thoughts however drifted to my bar trip, the last time I was in Asia for a full moon holiday... 

After what felt like the most stressful summer of my life, spent mostly indoors studying for the New York State bar exam, I decided to throw fiscal caution to the wind and jetted over to Southeast Asia for a month-long pad-thai-and-cheap-beer binge.  I was going to drink and travel and adventure all memories of the Bar Exam off of my soul - and since I was so sure that I would have amazing job security when I got back to the states, I blew a shitload of cash without sweating it too much.  Part of the non-stop spending orgy took me down to Koh Phangan, an island in Southern Thailand that plays host to the famous "Full Moon Parties" that have resulted in innumerable bad decisions amongst its party-going elite.

My globe-trotting-gal-pal Kate (of Peru Mountain Hike fame) joined me again on this misguided quest. With our twin goals of leaving no whiskey undrank and no hirsute Eurotrash un-flirted with, we set up shop at a classy little hotel about 10 minutes drive from the beachfront that hosted this small gathering of friends.

Thai version of a flier

Because of the promised insanity on which we were about to embark, Kate and I left behind any devices capable of taking photographic evidence of our sins and proceeded towards the beach.  The only ride anywhere on Koh Phangan of course is the random "taxi jeep" that incessantly drives around the island, loading up a completely unsafe number of aggressively drunk strangers in its rickety confines and then speeding forward to parts unknown.  We all trusted that simply by hopping aboard, the nice Thai fellow driving this death trap would get us to where we needed to go.

Amazingly we reached the entrance to the beach area without getting thrown from the jeep's gentle grasp, and proceeded to punish our livers with a fury reserved for failed writers and fraternity pledges.  The only real drink options were the aptly named "buckets" that you buy for about 10 dollars US from any street vendor you can find, which consists of little more than a child's sand pail, two small containers each of diet coke and red bull, and a fifth of your death-bringer of choice.  I voted for Sangsom whiskey, for which the term fire water is euphemistically employed.  Perhaps the term "brownish bathtub liquor" doesn't appeal to consumers.  Sadly I cannot drink caffeine as it hurts my stomach, and with no other mixers around I was forced to chug straight Sangsom for the remainder of the night.  It was a stupid decision and a punishment I wish on no man, but it was a party goddamn it and I was gonna hang tough.

In a Sangsom induced phase, I wandered the beach lost, having parted ways with Katherine after she went off to dance or some such nonsense, encountering fire twirlers, people covered in body paint on what I could only guess was acid, any number of couples making out in the trash-covered sand and even an Israeli shawarma shop.  I made a mental note of the shawarma shop and hazily continued on my path.  Drunk Eric has like a homing beacon in his brain, and he found his way safely back to Kate and her new French friends on the beach with a new whiskey bucket in tow.  As I cracked open my second fifth of Sangsom, I managed to break the cap on it and somehow slice open three of the fingers on my left hand.  As my hand gushed forth what was probably Sangsom-with-some-blood-in-it onto the fresh sand, I realized that I had few first aid options available to me.  Employing some quick thinking and battlefield medicine tactics I probably learned from LOST, I poured out some of my precious Sangsom onto the wound assuming it would cleanse and seal it up post-haste.

My friends, it worked like a fucking charm.  Despite the visible gash and general fear that I was going to get hepatitis if I touched anything for the rest of the night, I was able to stumble forward without fear of scaring off chicks with my bloody meat-hooks.  I danced. I drank Sangsom.  I drunkenly ate Israeli shawarma with a pack of Frenchman who spoke nary a word of English.  It was delightful.

As the dawn approached, I left Kate to the fate of the party and hopped a jeep back home.  Unable to speak or really stand for that matter, I attempted briefly to strike up a conversation in Spanish with the adorable chick across the bench from me.  I managed to say something like "yososgysfuckginamericnasquecomsellamala" and decided to cut my losses and just shut up from then on out.  Jeep driver took me right on home and even made sure I got into my hotel ok, and as I stumbled up to bed I took a moment to test once again my ability to speak.  After a brief chat with myself in the mirror for about five minutes in some kind of broken English accent I decided the Sangsom had pickled my brain so thoroughly that no good could come from remaining awake.  You win this round, alcohol.

All in all, I had myself a fine evening.  I guess I didn't expect a Koh Phengan level of craziness in the quiet little burg of Panadura, but even one body painted fire juggler on acid would be nice.  I mean, it is a holiday after all.