Koh Phangan is famous as a party island.   And yet, curiously, there wasn’t much partying happening.  At least not for me.  It’s not that the opportunities weren’t there; they definitely were.  But somehow, this island was fulfilling a very different, and equally essential purpose:  it had become a retreat zone.  It was almost as if this place had been made for me, and for others like me — nomadic wanderers who, without really planning it, naturally gravitated here.  Koh Phangan was the kind of island where you could build your dreams in silent comtemplation and party your dick off at the same time.

So it was really a no-brainer to book myself somewhere nicer and quieter — and I found just the place, all the way on the other side of the island at Had Salaad.  Getting there was a little scooter adventure in itself, but that was part of the charm, and honestly, I was starting to fall in love with this island.

The resort hotel was absolutely perfect: right by the beach, with its own swimming pool. Sure, it had been raining every day, and by now the roads and trails were basically a mudfest.  But the place still held its charm.  The girl at the front desk was lovely; she let me check in early so I could grab a nap.

I spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my journals and generally just enjoying doing nothing, before eventually heading out to check out a Waterfall Party.  Parties were advertised every day with fliers plastered all over Koh Phangan, which made planning easy.  You just hopped on your scooter and checked which party was happening where.  The Waterfall Party, tucked away in the island’s mountainous interior, turned out to be absolutely amazing.

After paying 1,000 baht for entry — which included two free drinks — I was blown away by the layout of the party venue. It wasn’t like a typical club or anything you’d expect; it was entirely outdoors. Even more fascinating, the people who ran these weekly parties actually lived on-site, making their living from the ticket sales. This place wasn’t just a party venue — it doubled as their living quarters and was technically part of a national park.

So yes, it was a party, but it was also a wide-open, peaceful space crisscrossed with hiking trails. One sign summed it up perfectly: “Welcome to the after party at the base of the waterfall with a natural pool.” After a night of drinking or getting high, the party didn’t just end — it flowed straight into a kind of natural detox and morning cleanse in the pool at 7 a.m.

With every passing day (and night), my emotional attachment to this island was deepening.

This wasn’t just any party venue, it was a sprawling setup with multiple stages: some pumping techno, others blasting hip hop, and even bars woven right into natural waterfall pools.  In a way, it reminded me of the circus party venue in Pai, with a similar free-flowing layout.

As I wandered through the space early on, one thought hit me hard:  the Thais are truly some of the most resourceful people on the planet.  They can take almost nothing and transform it into something incredible.  Here, the locals’ living grounds doubled as a weekly party site, complete with DJs, drinks, and an easy, natural mix between locals and travelers.

Unsurprisingly, I gravitated toward the hip hop stage — and the party absolutely took off as more and more people poured in.  And who should I meet right there on the dance floor? None other than someone from Saudi Arabia, once again confirming my gut feeling about moving to the Middle East. It was, in a way, kind of spooky — but also completely exhilarating.

As we danced, the rain began to pour. Shirts came off, people got soaked, but no one cared. The party pulsed on into the early hours of the morning.

As the rain kept pouring and the music thumped into the early morning, I couldn’t help but feel a strange pulse of realization beneath it all. Here I was — soaked, dancing under the tropical sky, surrounded by travelers and locals alike, swept up in a moment that was as unscripted and raw as life gets.

And yet, under the surface, something deeper was clicking into place. That random conversation with the Saudi on the dance floor wasn’t just a passing encounter; it was another piece in the growing chain of signs pointing me forward. It was as if the universe, in all its chaotic beauty, was nudging me: 

Yes, you’re on the right track. Yes, you’re meant to pivot toward the Middle East.  This Midnight Run isn’t just escape — it’s alignment.

What struck me most was how these wild, free-flowing, serendipitous moments didn’t pull me away from my bigger ambitions — they fed them. They reminded me that life isn’t just about control and planning, about trades and capital flows. It’s also about surrender, spontaneity, and trusting that sometimes the most important confirmations come not through spreadsheets or forecasts, but through unexpected, rain-soaked nights on a distant island dance floor.

As the rain poured and the drinks kept flowing on the dance floor, I glanced out toward the massive hill ahead, where a stream of headlights pierced through the mist. By now, it was 2 a.m., and I had a choice: stay here all night, dancing, or try to make it back to my hotel.

I thought, How the hell am I going to ride a scooter up that 25% gradient in this weather while tipsy? But then I shrugged: Who cares — let’s do it.

I found my scooter, absolutely drenched, sitting in the muddy, makeshift parking lot. Navigating that slippery slope, half-drunk, became a test of willpower and skill — especially with all the parking attendants cheering me on, watching to make sure I made it out safely.

Up the massive hill I went, rain pounding down, and then down the other side. Suddenly, the rain turned torrential. Okay then, I thought, what the fuck else are you going to do? Keep riding.

I knew my shoes had become little mud-track machines, so stopping at a 7/11 (although necessary) was going to be awkward — the staff would surely hate me for dragging in the mess. But I figured if I just kept going, the rain would eventually let up. Sure enough, it did, and I partially dried off.

Riding past a string of bars, I saw no shortage of smiling bargirls waving me to stop — but I was on a mission. I finally found a 7/11, slipped off my shoes at the door, and walked in barefoot. The staff laughed but clearly appreciated that I’d respected their space by not tracking mud everywhere.

There was even a dog stretched out lazily on the floor, adding to the oddly peaceful vibe. I grabbed that gloriously satisfying post-drunk food, took a break, and then set off again, riding another 15 km over the notorious hilly, rough roads of the island — until at last, I made it back to my hotel and crashed for the night.

Koh Phangan had crept under my skin in a way I didn’t fully expect. What began as just another stop on the map, another tropical island, had quietly transformed into something more intimate — a place where I could exhale, reconnect, and feel a sense of belonging I hadn’t realized I was craving.

It wasn’t just the beaches or the parties, though those had their charm. It was the rhythm of the place: the way the island seemed to hold space for both wild abandon and quiet retreat, for adventure and stillness, for strangers crossing paths and sharing moments that didn’t need to be defined.

Some places leave a mark not because of what you planned to find there, but because of what they unexpectedly awaken in you. For me, Koh Phangan had become one of those rare places — a sanctuary for the wanderer, the dreamer, the person in the middle of becoming. And with each passing day, my connection to it only grew stronger.