Travel loosens my inhibitions. I’ve left my quiet self at home, and instead of watching patchy Thailand jungle and traffic through the window, I’ve struck up a conversation with the fellow globetrotters sharing my taxi.

The next thing I know, we’ve made a pact. We’re on our way to the Full Moon Party.

For safety reasons, we agree to form a group and look out for each other. And in the spirit of fun, no one’s allowed to go to sleep before sunrise.

I examine my new friends. There’s a smiling, fresh-faced German girl, about 24 years old. Then there’s a blonde Swede. She’s more my age. I’m 27 and I’m from Australia.

After swapping travel stories, detailing how we got to this remote corner of the world, the gulf of southern Thailand, we discuss the party: all music and glow sticks.

I suppose I’m both excited and scared about how the night will unravel, so perhaps that’s why I’ve latched on to the German and Swede. The buddy system is the best way to survive a night of craziness and I’m the cautious type.

Back at my hotel I’ve chained my suitcase to the bed and secured my valuables in a PIN-coded safe. It seems overly cautious but everyone says theft is high on Full Moon Party night. I’ve also had the foresight to nap all afternoon in a hammock. Staying up won’t be a problem at all.

This infamous beach festival on Haad Rin Nok (Sunrise Beach), a small cove on Koh Phangan island, is considered something of a rite of passage for backpackers on the Thailand tourist trail.

Yet coming out unscathed isn’t guaranteed on this little limestone isle. At this party, where anything goes, and the attraction brings both annoyances and dangers.

I hope to find the tricky balance between letting my hair down and keeping my brain switched on after a few Singha beers. Chatting in the taxi, I take my last sip from the beer I’ve brought with me for the ride.

We’re soon dropped off among honking vehicles and grinning revellers and we immediately beeline through the throng of people and head straight for the shore. As a first step, we want to get a perspective of the entire festival.

There are at least 10 stages set up along the white sand, above the high tide line. Behind are the bars and restaurants that provide each DJ or band.

Competition is fierce, with the proprietors fighting to attract a crowd to their venue. It’s just before dusk and there are already thousands of people.

The number of partygoers is predicted to balloon into a jaw-dropping 30,000 before midnight.

The music stages are all facing the ocean, saluting the sea. The three of us turn around to fully appreciate the view.

It’s hard not to be mesmerised by the turquoise water and the long, sandy shore. What a venue for a beach party.

I think about how Koh Phangan fits into the local trio of inhabited islands. There are two neighbouring islands, one larger, complete with airport, Koh Samui, and a smaller diver’s paradise called Koh Tao.

It’s hard not to be mesmerised by the turquoise water and the long, sandy shore. What a venue for a beach party...

The German points at a row of faint lights on the horizon and she says we’re seeing Koh Samui from where we stand. We squint.

She tells us she’s read up on the origins of the Full Moon Party. Rumour has it that it originated from recalcitrant hippies escaping from the bustle of Koh Samui in the 1980s. When power lines from the mainland began to connect Koh Samui to the grid, the hippies protested that this would catalyse the inevitable death of Thai culture.

They objected to commercialisation by voting with their feet, leaving Koh Samui in rowboats and paddling across the ocean until they reached Haad Rin on Koh Phangan.

They celebrated their new home by partying under the moon.

I realise I’m standing in the shallows, and water splashes against my leg, offering sweet relief from the balmy evening.

Beads of sweat trickle down my back but I step away from the shoreline. Being prepared, I’m aware that this tranquil-looking water is known for strong currents, often taking the lives of tourists.

As I think about my next Singha, I recall that drinking and swimming is never a good idea. I take another step back as I see that in the distance some guys are using the beach as a public toilet, so it’s not the best place for a dip.

The Swedish girl tugs on my arm. A song she loves is playing at a nearby stage. The three of us link arms and race toward the music.

We push into the crowd to catch the tail end of the song.

We’re soon right at the front of the stage, close enough to jump up on to the raised platform, where some tourists in bikinis are dancing and waving their hands in the air, while nearby the DJ plays his set.

I’m confident enough to dance on the stage but I’m just in my normal beach clothes.

We lose all sense of time as we groove to a fast-moving electro set.

After a while we’re breathless and need a break. I’m also intrigued by what the other stages have to offer.

Leaving during a lull in the music, we meander past a drum-and-bass stage, then a hip-hop act.

Before reaching yet another stage we notice a gathered crowd in the distance.

We head over to investigate.

A Thai boy, about 15, tentatively walks a tightrope. He’s about three metres off the ground.

He stops in the middle of the rope, body shaking and wobbling.

The crowd watches breathlessly; there’s no net beneath him; he’ll surely fall.

The boy extends his arms and corrects his balance.

He regains control and bounds to the end of the rope, spreading his arms to thunderous applause.

Not far away I hear a cry of pain. A tourist in loose cotton trousers runs past our posse, veering past a cluster of broken Singha bottles as he races to the sea. I mentally thank myself for wearing closed shoes.

I realise his trousers are smouldering only when he throws himself into the water. You can almost hear the sizzle as the fire goes out.

My head flicks to where the man came from. A couple of Thais are grinning as they whirl a long, flaming skipping rope between them.

The tourist was obviously playing one of the many fire games, jumping over a burning rope.

Noticing a line of willing participants, I’m reminded that the tiny town of Haad Rin has more than 40 medical centres.

Playing with fire while drunk is probably not the best idea.

A Thai man in blue shorts and a T-shirt stops next to our group. He whispers a question I can’t quite hear over the music.

I lean close enough to smell the chilli on his breath.

My eyes widen. Did he just ask me if I wanted to buy drugs?

A warning flashes red through my mind. I’ve heard of ploys like this. Corrupt policemen work the Full Moon Party to extract bribes from tourists. Drugs are illegal in Thailand and, if caught, the repercussions are serious.

I scowl, meeting the man’s eye. I refuse the offer.

A hand wraps tightly round my wrist. I panic. This is madness. I don’t want to end up in the depths of a Thai jail. Nor do I want to pay massive bribes. Leave me alone! I didn’t accept!

I’m yanked back by the German backpacker. The Thai man releases my wrist and disappears into the crowd. I’m panting.

Frown lines are etched into the German’s forehead. She explains she too has heard horror stories.

Sometimes tourists buy bad drugs, not knowing the dealers or the quality of their wares.

Others take hallucinogens, get out of control and end up falling off hotel balconies. None of that’s going to happen to us: we’ve got each other’s backs.

We decide to wander the markets behind the restaurants. The roads are dusty but lined with stalls selling almost everything: souvenirs, jewellery, street food and, of course, the famous ‘buckets’ of booze.

A hawker pushes a basket towards me to reveal a collection of party apparatus: glow sticks, face paint and T-shirts.

Everyone seems branded with something fluorescent so I hastily examine the hawker’s paraphernalia and pull some flashing horns on my head. I instantly feel a surge of party vibe. I check my watch and give my companions a conspiratorial wink.

“It’s midnight,” I say. “Is it time to attack the first bucket?”

The Swede has a mischievous glint in her eye. It was her insistence that we stuck to the first rule concerning buckets: avoid drinking them before midnight. The German smiles and repeats the second rule: never consume more than two or three. We laugh and wonder whether the buckets will truly be as potent as the rumours say. It’s likely. We’ve seen a few people passed out already.

Filled with anticipation, we approach one of the booze stalls. The long table is covered with sand buckets, the same kind you’d use to create sandcastles. Displayed inside each bucket are a can of Red Bull or soft drink and a 375ml bottle of spirit.

My friends ask me to choose the first bucket, so I go for lemonade and vodka. The vendor pours out the ingredients along with a scoop of ice and I’m handed my bucket of booze. About 10 straws float on the top.

Huddling around, we each tentatively take a sip. Since the ratio is practically 1:1, soft drink to alcohol, it burns the back of my throat. I cough and my companions laugh. Bucket in hand, we make our way back to the beach. Together we make it to sunrise, and then realise we’ve done it.

We’ve survived our first Full Moon Party. Among those 30,000, some will surely be in those medical centres. But not us!