The woman sitting next to the window glanced over at me as the plane lurched drunkenly on final approach to Phuket International Airport. We shared a nervous grin and, in a broad Australian accent, she said: "Must be the bloody trainee's turn today." Then she turned back to the view and, almost to herself, she said: "Still, I can think of a lot worse places to die."

Looking over her shoulder at the scene spread out beneath us, I could only nod in fatalistic agreement. Steep-sided dark green islands rose from a gelatine-calm sea as if sprung to life from some ancient Oriental painting. The water around their coastlines deepened ? sometimes sharply, sometimes gradually ? from transparent to electric to deep, warm blue. I nodded again ? if I had to choose any place in the world to be minced and incinerated in a plane crash, this was probably it.

Map of Kata area
Click image to view enlargement
Ten minutes later (after a textbook landing) I climbed into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to Kata Central, in the firm tones of a man on a mission. I had just 41 hours to experience as much of Phuket as I could, and I wasn't willing to waste a minute of it. The driver just nodded and smiled back at me as if to say: "Relax, my friend, you're on island time now..."

The airport is located at the northern end of the island, while most of the resort beaches are at the southern. Even though the ride down to Kata Beach would use 40 minutes of my precious time, I couldn't complain ? it only cost R80 for one thing, and it gave me a chance to sit back and enjoy the scenery as I slowly began to get the message behind the taxi driver's smile.

The buffalo rally - Thai-style.
We drove through groves of graceful coconut palms, open land between them revealing a horizon of heavily forested mountains. Scattered concentrations of homes and businesses were interspersed with expanses of flooded farmland complete with thatched dwellings perched on stilts, and the odd wallowing water buffalo. On the last leg of the southward trip I caught a glimpse of one of the island?s elephant herds, meandering casually through a palm-dotted field right next to Phuket shooting range...

The approach to Kata Beach is spectacular ? a steep climb out of a natural bowl brings you to the crest of the mountains, and there before you, framed by palm fronds like an offering from the Gods, the small island of Koh Pu floats on a shimmering sea with a vast sun-shot sky as its backdrop.

A steep descent down the other side of the mountain leads into Kata, and by the time we'd reached the White House hotel at the northern end of the town, I was in love with the place.

In high season (November to March) it is probably a different story, but on that lazy afternoon the sun shone golden on quiet restaurants, guesthouses and shops, reminding me of a tropical version of a sleepy Cornish seaside town.

My bungalow room at the White House (air-con, TV, shower) cost 500 baht (R90) per night. It was cool and clean and would have been perfectly acceptable even if I'd been planning on spending more than the absolute minimum of time within its walls.

Glorious Kata beach
As it was, I dumped my bag on the bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed out, barefoot and smiling, to buy a pair of sandals. One of the greatest things about Thailand as a whole is that you could turn up for a holiday with just a few basic toiletries in a plastic bag and simply buy all the clothing, luggage and almost anything else you need ? it's that cheap, even when you're spending rands.

Suitably shod, my next step was to collect my transport. I was fortunate enough to have a friend and colleague who lives in Kata, and he'd offered to lend me his bike for the duration of my stay. Tim was away at work, so it fell to Tak, his Thai bride-to-be to look on in politely silent horror as I tried to remember the rudiments of motorcycle riding.

After a few false starts I weaved off with what I hoped was a confident wave and a promise to return the bike the next evening. I set off for a recce in the last of the daylight. I cruised along the Kata Yai beach road, flanked for almost its entire length on the inland side by the Club Med resort. Being low season, the beach was quiet, so I dismounted and strolled along the empty sands letting the roar of the surf and the caress of the warm air flush the last vestiges of real world stress from my system. Stress? What stress?

Kata Noi beach
I rode south out of Kata Central and soon found myself in Kata Noi (Small Kata), a miniature and even more mellow version of its neighbour. By this stage I was having trouble just staying upright in the saddle, so relaxed had I become.

My lethargy was interrupted when the back-brakes of the bike abruptly seized up, almost depositing me in the fruit display of a local grocer's store. Several Thais looked on in amusement as the crazy farang hammered at the brake calliper with a lump of roadside rock. A cloud of black dust finally fell out of the calliper and the brake came loose. Very loose. From that point onwards I had only front brakes ? not an ideal situation on winding coastal roads, as any bike-rider would agree.

Undeterred, I set off again. I followed the coast road up through thick forests of palm and what looked to me like rubber trees, swooping through the curves until I reached a viewpoint site. From the top of the pagoda-like structure, the beaches of Phuket stretch northwards like the links of a precious bracelet separated by low emerald headlands.

Kata Noi, Kata and Karon beaches
Kata Noi, Kata, Karon, onwards towards Patong, Kamala and Surin, they seem to suggest the pattern of life itself on this island ? golden day following golden day as far as one can see. I bought a cold beer and sat and watched the sun set in the Andaman Sea, wondering just how perfect life could be.

Back in my bungalow after a nervous drive through the deepening darkness, I found myself wrestling with a tough decision: should I stay local and explore the relatively staid night-life of Kata, or should I venture into that infamous maelstrom of vice, renowned throughout the world as Patong Beach?

I weighed my options, figuring that since I only had two nights on the island, it was either going to be tonight or tomorrow night. And since I'd have to be up bright and early on the Friday morning to catch the morning flight to Bangkok...well.... what the hell, it was now or never.

I decided to leave the bike behind, figuring that I might be forced to consume one or two alcoholic beverages in the course of my research. Good choice, that man...

Transport in Phuket is plentiful and cheap. There is also a wide variety to choose from. At the top end of the scale you find your standard meter-taxis. Staid and safe, these are probably the best, if most unadventurous, option. The tuk-tuk's occupy the middle ground ? basically three-wheeled motorbikes with passenger cabs built on behind, they are everywhere you look, and dirt cheap to use.

At the lowest level of the transport food chain, you get the freelance motorbikes. Piloted by young Thai males, all of whom display a truly Zen-like disregard for mortality, they represent the cheapest, quickest and most adrenalin-inducing option. Feeling fairly immortal myself after a few warm-up beers in a bar down the road from the hotel, I chose the bikes.

We headed north out of Kata, fairly flying along the twisting road. I tried to concentrate on the actual sensation of warm, night air blowing through my hair rather than on the anticipated sensation of rough tar slamming into my unprotected face. My fears proved groundless, no pun intended. We passed through Karon Beach and past Relax Beach without incident, and reached the bright lights of Patong in record time.

The madness that is Soi Bangla
The difference between the quiet and peace of Kata and the scene that awaits you in Patong is astounding. Patong is Bangkok-by-the Sea ? a heaving, raucous scrum of people surging in and out of hundreds of bars, souvenir shops and restaurants. Touts and hawkers shout their spiels, the smell of open-air cooking stalls fills the air.

The main artery is Soi Bangla, a neon-splashed stretch of bars, bars and more bars. Each one seems to embrace a different musical philosophy, and each one seems determined to impose their views by dint of sheer volume. Bar girls beckon and cajole the punters into their establishments, sunburned and shell-shocked tourists stroll or stagger down the crowded pavements. Total madness, which you either love or hate. I was smitten.

After some mind-expanding exploration, I gravitated towards two bars in particular. The Gonzo Bar and the U2 Bar face each other across the soi. The music in both is loud and raw, the beer ice-cold, the passing parade enthralling. A shirtless and near-comatose Englishman ? white as a corpse except for his livid arms and face ? gyrated with a bar girl on the U2's tiny dance floor, proving beyond doubt that the more you feel like John Travolta, the more urgent your need to sit down and keep absolutely still. Eventually he simply fell down and kept absolutely still...

Jusht call me Gonz...
Three stunning, statuesque women lounged against the wall outside the Gonzo Bar's entrance. No doubt some randy Westerners ? too far gone to notice the ladies' bobbing adam's-apples and incipient five-o'-clock shadows ? were in for a nasty surprise when they awoke the following morning...

But it had been a long, long day. I hailed a tuk-tuk just after midnight and collapsed on my bed at the White House feeling comfortably numb and full of pleasurable anticipation for whatever the next day might bring.