My idea of hell starts and ends with being seated on the plane between two humourless German men in their twenties who are very, um, affectionate towards each other; bat for the other team, shall we say.

They are (I'm not making this up) Hans and Frans and we are on a short flight from Phuket to Songkhla, the jumping off point to Ko Samui and on to Ko Phangan where the fabled monthly Full Moon Rave Party was just 12 hours away. And, no, I'm not a raver. I am the writer covering a modern social phenomenon which is drawing ever-larger international crowds to this drug-and-alcohol-infused dance-o-rama. It's rumoured that rich party-kids charter planes to take them around the world, following their favourite Djs.

Whatever.

Dancing queens

Hans and Frans are keen to tell me, their captured audience, that they have travelled 'vorldvide' to dance to their favourite DJs. Hans, the more outgoing of the two, is the first to corner me. It's clear to me right away that he wants to talk about himself, which he does with a grin that doesn't match his abject humourlessness.

"Hey man!" he shouts with his headphones still on turbo, startling the nearest 20 or so passengers, "What's your name?"

"Erik." I bury my face in newspaper.

"Alex! Cool! You like trance music? Ve luuurrve to dancing! Right Frans?" Frans looks bleary-eyed from too much partying and has to struggle to show his enthusiasm. "Ya, das ist gut. Ve are loving the Fool Moon Party," and almost instantly has a nap-attack.

The next hour is unbearable. Hans rattattatts off pointless biodata, risqu anecdotes of how he met Frans, and generally offers his amazingly uninformed take on his experiences in Asia; views that would have to feast on steroids just to become passably interesting. He's especially astonished at how many Chinese he has come across. By this time, I have exhausted every verbal cue that I'm not interested in talking to him, like saying, "Shut up. No, really, shut up!"; feigning sleep, drool and all; putting ear-plugs and eye-mask on - everything.

Now I just can't take it any more. I turn to him and explain, straight-faced, "Apparently, 1 in 5 people in the world is Chinese. And there are 5 people in my family, so it must be one of them. It's either my mum or my dad. Or my older brother Colin. Or my younger brother Ho-Cha-Chu. But I think it's Colin."

You could have heard a very large pin drop (the plane was noisy). His eyes narrow suspiciously, his lips grow thin as he leans away from me in disbelief. He looks past me to Frans for a bit of help, but Frans is comatose, making strange gurgling noises.

Lethargy zone

Hans, because he's German, has no sense of humour. This social deficiency is really not his fault. In any case, they make up for it with other talents like sunburning easily and having a cuisine which doubles as cement.

After a moment, he leans forward slowly, nodding and snickering cautiously. "You are choking! Dis is da funny choke, right? I am getting it. Verrry good!"

This close encounter with the unfathomable has exhausted him, and I'm exhausted from fending off someone with the IQ of a breath mint. Mercifully, we're about to land, but, alas, this is to be only the beginning of our adventure.

Ko Samui lies smack in the centre of what scientists believe to be the world's most powerful Lethargy Zone. It is extremely difficult to remain tense here. The moment you arrive, lethargy waves start washing over you, seeping into your body, turning your skeletal system into tofu. Ko Phangan - it's Thai for Party Central - is just a stone's throw away. I mean, it would be a stone's throw away - if you weren't feeling so lethargic.

I had been told that there was a 'rave ferry' going over to Ko Phangan at 5pm. Now it was already 4pm and I have to make it from the airport to the Ko Samui jetty. I have been stuck behind the 'Boys of Dumber' with their too-tight jeans cut-offs and souvenir singlets as they're searched at customs for 'illicit material'. Nothing is found, but I think it is more a way for the officials to wind these lads up.

Welcome to the jungle

To make a long story short, by the time I finally shuffle out to the taxi stand with my bags, there's only one tuk-tuk left - with a smiling Hans and Frans giving me what can only be described as a 'come hither' look. No choice. I squeeze in next to them which, in a tuk-tuk, calls for some pretty creative yoga positions.

By nature, I'm usually not attracted to hardship, but not put off by it either. But as we race across the island to meet the ferry, I start asking reasonable questions like: 'What the hell am I doing here?' 'Why don't I accept that cushy job in the family business my uncle keeps offering me?', and 'Why is the Teutonic Trance Team looking at me, at each other, and winking?'

"Heeello Aaaalex! Do you want some Ex for tonight?", Frans shouts over the din of the madly whining motor. Ex, or Ecstasy is the illicit drug commonly taken at raves. Anyone hip, groovy, down, in-the-know with just a speck of street cred would know this. So, of course, I shout back, "Eggs?! No thanks. I can't dance on a full stomach. In any case, I always eat local food when I travel. You should too." I sniff.

Just then, we stop at a red light and I spot a tom yam noodle stall. I think, this is my chance to point these hapless tourists to some of the humbler culinary delights in Thailand. "Look guys, try these noodles!" Hans and Frans look at each other quizzically and then turn to me and, in unison say,"Chinese strudels?"

Oh forget it.

An accident

By this time, I have been sitting in this awkward, cramped position for nearly an hour and starting to suffer from ASS (Acute Sedentary Symptom). Massaging usually relieves the symptoms. I have half a mind of asking Hans/Frans if they could give me an ASS massage, but perhaps, in this case, perhaps not. Cross-cultural miscommunication can be so embarrassing sometimes.

We make it to the jetty with only minutes to spare. The tuk-tuk driver, sensing our urgency, decide to help matters by reversing all the way up the jetty, to make unloading our bags easier. He hurtles down the jetty in a cool, practiced manner but comes to such an abrupt stop that I literally fall out of the tuk-tuk with all my heavy camera bags on top of me.

Hans and Frans, along with ravers still milling about on the jetty, come over to help. Somehow, I managed to twist an ankle and find it hard to stand up. I am also in pain. Hans is the first come to my aid.

"Looks like you fell."

"Arrrgh!"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Arrrgh."

"Here?"

"ARRRGH!!"

This trip is clearly jinxed. First the blabber-plagued flight, then the tuk-tuk ride from hell, and finally my overly helpful male nurses aiding me onto the waiting ferry. What next, I wince and wonder.

I have seen nothing of Ko Samui - that would have to wait until tomorrow, after the rave. But in the meantime, Hans and Frans as well as some of the other backpacker-types, have propped me up on the shady side of the boat. There we hang out, chatting about this and that - mostly Hans' love of trance though - with our feet lazily dangling over the side. The warm sea occasionally laps against our legs as if beckoning us in.

The water is clear and warm and blue and beautiful as we head 45 minutes north. The evening light bathes the cumulus clouds stacked on the horizon in scarlet and lavender, and the cool breeze rising off the water brings with it a stillness.

We are nearing Ko Phangan - I could hear it before I could see it. As we near the headlands and enter the beach-fringed bay, we are met by a spectacle of a couple of thousand ravers dancing up and down the length of the beach. The music is absolutely deafening. To get an idea of what the music sounded like, press the following line up against your ear.

WEEEAAAMMPFTPFT-gooooiiinnnggg!

The partyers on my boat are so eager to join the frenzy of epileptic dancers that they jump into the shallows even before the boat has beached itself. All except Hans and Frans, that is. These guys patiently help me off the boat, where I gingerly prop myself on my bags on the edge of the beach. And then they are gone, disappearing into the melee of writhing bodies.

In the cool of the evening, I sit with my back to the pulsating scene, tapping my good foot to the increasingly alluring beat. The full moon was slowly rising over the sea in front of me, big and orange.

Things are starting to feel better. Physical misery is easy to forget in the face of physical splendour. In the end, Hans and Frans find their way back to me with a bottle of cold water and we ended up having a completely nonsensical, enjoyable shouting match about which is better, Trance or House (another of the music's subgenres).

Not that I know the difference.

ERIK FEARN, a locally based travel-writer, has logged some fantastic trips in his time. But mixed in among these are some trips which turned out...differently than expected.