The following day met expectations. Fred went out to a farm somewhere around Mazar. I was not able to go due to normal precautions. I went out and got coffee, spending the day walking around town. When Fred returned he handed me a fist size piece of what he called 'golden pollen'. He was thrilled with the quality of the hash, and I gave him about half. I ended up getting around a half pound of what may have been the best hash in the world for $5. Were I to have that lump today I could sell it for thousands, but I wouldn't. I would smoke it. By myself. all alone. Giving none to no person. You get the idea.
This next paragraph is for drug lovers. This hash had nothing to do with any other smoke I had in my life. There was no stupification. There was no fog or loss of focus. I started out having to hand press it. I worked the pollen over and over in my hands. In consistency the pollen reminded me of silly putty. I could roll it between my two palms and the result would be a long thin rope, like a string of licorice, which I would ball up again and repeat. Slowly the golden colour was replaced by the darker look of all hash. This squeezing and rolling provided stress relief as well as entertainment.
Up until this time in my life the best hash I ever had was Morrocan Double O. This came in white cotton sacks for each kilo and squished when pressure was applied. The high was energizing and left no sleepiness in its wake. It was wonderful. I have smoked Nepal Temple balls, Lebanese Red, Kashmiri, Paki and other gold seal product. None of it came close. This was like a different drug.
The high was delicate, but very energized. There was a tingling of pleasure when first smoked, and it did not degrade. Instead it wore off gracefully, leaving no toxic residue. I decided on the spot to smuggle this into my friends in Oman. Apparently I was not impressed by many borders to cross including Muslim ones. I certainly woudl be more impressed today. In fact, I would be shit scared and would not do it. I do not know whether to chalk this up to lessons learned or fear. I guess it does not matter as long as it keeps my ass out of an Arabian prison.
The return to Kabul was without incident. A few stoned days later I had a plane to catch. Just to summarize here for a sec, I had a fairly substantial heroin habit, was broke and was late for my plane. In my hurry to get to the airport, I had to first find a way to carry the hash to Oman. My time in jail provided the solution. When a person knows they are about to do time, and still live outside the bars, they get all the small valuables together(usually drugs) and put them in a condom. Once in the condom you dip that package in oil and put it in another condom. At this point all that is left is to either swallow it or shove it up your fundement. Known as 'suitcasing' in Canada or 'buffing' in the States, this method has survived the years.
I blush to say but in my rush to get to the airport I tried to use shave cream to suitcase about a quarter pound of hash. It was pliable and soft but the shaving cream was not a good choice. To say it stung is an understated position. I won't even go into the position needed to insert, a favour for which the reader should be grateful.
Finally getting right I went to the Kabul airport with a change in Delhi and Bombay on my way to Muscat in Oman. I cashed in ten years luck at the airport. They were conducting searches of carry on luggage and when I tried to board the woman inspector opened my case and there lay a dirty syringe. I do not know what she thought. She obviously saw it because she gave me a look as if to say "what can you possibly be thinking"? For whatever reason she let me walk. She probably did not want the Country of Afghanistan to waste money holding a fool like me in prison.
Delhi was no problem, but in Bombay I was told my seat had been sold due to my late arrival and I had no money left for bakshish or a bribe as is known in English. I remember looking at the agent and wanting to kill him. I used my last shot of heroin and settled in to wait. Three days later I begged a ride to The Emirates on a Lufthansa flight.
Those three days were tough, I kid you not. FIrst of all I had to kick a small habit. This involved diarrhea as well as the other symptoms. I mention the shitting part because of what I had nestled away up there. Every time I went to the toilet I had to first remove a package, then replace after wiping. Needless to say, I got quite sore. I ended up taking it in and out so many times I gave the package a name and fell in love. That was a good joke at the time and I remember sitting there in the public washroom laughing at my humour. Oh well.
I ate what I could beg, and it is an odd feeling to be Caucasian and begging in India. I targeted tourists and did ok. I smoked bidis, a cheap Indian cigaret, and slept on a bench with my pack tied to my waist. The men who swept the floor were very nice to me.
FInally I begged a pilot to get me as far as Arabia and I would take it from there. I landed in the Emirates after riding in a fold down seat in the cockpit. Very cool, but I was still in withdrawal a bit which does interfere with enjoying life.
In the Emirates I was met on the tarmac (this was the early 70's) and phoned the company I worked for. They thought I was dead but told me to take a taxi the rest of the way, which worked out to about 200 miles. I did,and got back to camp. I told my co-workers that I had brought them back a treat without getting into how I carried the package. However, when they were raving about the high, I did look at all of them and told them I could not agree more. In fact I said " I know. this stuff is incredible. it is really good shit". They did not get the joke but I did.
As a last remark, I have to decline to say what name I gave the package when I fell in love.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Good Shit Part 3
What can I say about Afghanistan in the winter of 1975? A Peaceful Kingdom. That is without what the place was. Travel anywhere, and not to feel any sense of being in fear. The women often wore baby blue head to foot. The urban-men looked at us as customers who were probably nuts or why would you come at all? However, since you were here why not look at his nice AK-47 or perhaps this old Red Cross medical box that has been kept current?
Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.hat can I say about Afghanistan in the winter of 1975? A Peaceful Kingdom. That is without what the place was. Travel anywhere, and not to feel any sense of being in fear. The women often wore baby blue head to foot. The urban-men looked at us as customers who were probably nuts or why would you come at all? However, since you were here why not look at his nice AK-47 or perhaps this old Red Cross medical box that has been kept current?
Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.
Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.hat can I say about Afghanistan in the winter of 1975? A Peaceful Kingdom. That is without what the place was. Travel anywhere, and not to feel any sense of being in fear. The women often wore baby blue head to foot. The urban-men looked at us as customers who were probably nuts or why would you come at all? However, since you were here why not look at his nice AK-47 or perhaps this old Red Cross medical box that has been kept current?
Back a bit. I flew in over the snowy fields and hills that hold Kabul in its palm, as if the land is undecided as to the town’s fate. Clench or not? Clench or not? As I went into the town on a bus I was surprised at the pines. Like relatives from the West Coast of Canada. I felt optimistic right away, and that feeling never really left me for the rest of my stay.
By the time I was roomed it was dark as well as cold. A smiling man dressed in browns brought in a pail of wood and built me a fire in the airtight. His teeth gleamed in the candle light. I fell asleep to the smell of pine sap burning. I could not wait for the new day. I was 24 years old.
Chicken Street. The day was early and I was on the prowl for drugs and adventure, or so I imagined it then, and I was probably right, because when I tell this story to people whose lives have been more “at home” they always are kind enough to tell me how much they wish they had of included those times in their story. I wonder if they know how sometimes I wish I had of been “at home” a bit more.
CHICKEN STREET. This name was celebrated among all the young bandits of the West. Hippies, smokers, dealers or adventurers all knew the name of Afghanistan’s main market. Chicken Street was the archetypal soul of a small lifestyle. I was there. The day was gray and promised snow. Hungry, I looked for food. Too soon in history for Mac’s or Burger King. I spotted a sign in English that announced, “The Yoghurt Store”. Something I could relate to. I walked in and realized I was not the only Euro type in the city. A couple from Germany sat together and ignored my entrance. The other inhabitant was obviously native. He was dressed in a gray robe made of warm material. His boots were local, a form of rubber boot and leather. On his head was a black turban and he had a long beard that was not planned in any way. His eyes were gray and watching me. I smiled and he nodded back. Hunger was becoming more immediate and I sort of slid up to the counter, sort of sussing the place so I did not come across as a total doofus. I hate to look stupid in my eyes.
Despite my slick move I still could not figure how to order or even what was on offer. The guy who ran it walked over to me with the question on his face.
“All they really have Canadian, is fresh yoghurt with limited toppings and oh yes, they also have coffee that all in all is not too bad”.
I turned, looking at the man who had spoken up just in time to save a bit of cool. It was the ‘looks like Afghani but not’ who had spoken. He was smiling a tiny bit, his demeanor welcoming in some lovely way. I smiled back, feeling open to what was going to be.
“Hello”, he said with his smile opening up wide, “my name is Fred and I am a Dutchman”. His hand, held out for shaking, was long, slender and not put together for manual labor.
I smiled into his face, recognizing someone I could involve myself and my time in Afghan. I thought “this guy has to be aware of all the shit that is going down in this place and that is what I need. A guide for the Kingdom of Afghanistan”. I asked right away how he figured I was Canadian. He told me the combo of my height and carriage plus the fact Americans never came here and when they did they were never alone, plus the fact I did not look European. I just figured he smoked a lot of good hash.
How a person sees another human is going to be useful if not wonderful in their life is beyond me. I just do not have the nuts to answer those kinds of questions. I just knew. It is that simple. I knew he was not anything other than he said. He was a Dutchman who had fallen in love with a geographic space. I understood absolutely and everywhere. We were the same and a good time was in store. I wish all of you readers this blessing if you ever take the risks. It does take some of that, and does not always pay off, but when it does…
One word led to another and before you know it, he is coming to help me move into a much cheaper place where the Europeans live after they have enjoyed the country or a while. I moved in with Fred and a few other types. In the middle of the floor was a giant hubble-bubble, as they call them.
One of the major disadvantages of drugs in excess is the sameness of the days and nights. This leads to a form of forgetting. Kind of a blackout based on repetition rather than booze. Apparently the brain is too bored to record. I mention this to explain the paltry amount of info the next week or so contains. Smoking hash, inject heroin, smoke, shoot, smoke, shoot and …….
One memory does stand out. I must have drunk or ate the wrong thing. I was downtown in Embassy Row, just walking when my bowels turned to water and followed gravity to its logical end (I suppose there is a joke here somewhere, but sometime I have to resist just for the discipline).
As luck has it I am right in front of the Pakistani Consulate. I run in and tell them in a rushed and frantic gobble of English and French what is about to happen. With alacrity they took me to a door and with a sigh of relief I started undoing my belt, and then I froze. The shitter was an Eastern version. The one where you squat over a bowl and use a watering can to clean up.
I do remember that.
During the course of one night around the hubble bubble Fred mentioned that he knew where to get the best hashish in the world, and did I want to take a trip?
I was pretty deep into a small habit at this point and my answer would depend on the supply of heroin. However, that was not a big problem in Kabul and we set out for the north and a town called Mazar-i-Sarif, which is a few miles from the Soviet Union (which back then was a major player).
The trip on the bus going to Mazar was around 14 hours if I remember right. Fred and I were the only non-Afghani on the bus. The men were friendly but kept to themselves. Not once was any rudeness offered to me during my trip.
The women dressed in sky blue robes with mesh over the face and all of them were covered. Head to foot and let me tell you something about that. The silky outfit moved with every exertion the woman did. These are women who may have carried stuff on their head for years or maybe not, but they stood straight, and I have never seen a North American or Euro female move like that. The sky blue cloth rippled with life, showing lines of form and movement. Now and then a flash of dark eye apparent through the cloth. However, I did not need a guide book to tell me these men were not going to be tolerant of any person eyeballing their woman.
Leaving early we got outside town quick and climbed through the foothills of the Hindu Kush range. This is a chain of huge mountains and the title translates as “killer of Hindus” which should give potential conquers or occupiers some pause for thought. If that does not do it perhaps the long history of destroying all countries who tried to invade should do so, but apparently not. Sometimes a person has to wonder if the world has more idiots in charge than it really needs. But enough! My thought son politics are entertaining and clever to a very limited audience. Me in fact. No one else.
At about 8000 feet up we stopped for ‘chai’ which is a tea break. We did this at the front of the Salang Pass. This engineering marvel runs about two miles and was used as an ambush point a few years after my visit. Apparently the Muj or locals caught a Soviet convoy.
Anyhow, back in 1975 it was still a nice place. The tea shop had green tea or the horrid concoction with sugar and condensed milk. Taking my green tea I stepped out to the road and smoked some hash. I was caught up in the local town that had grown around the entrance.
It was cool. The homes were mainly like domes and the fences were circular. All of it was, of course, made out of the same rock the mountain was so it gave a strong impression of having popped up in place, like a mushroom.
As I watched it started to snow. The white flakes combined with early blossoms from the cherry and apple trees nearby, making for a frozen gorgeous paste that soon covered me and everything else. I stood drinking my tea, and letting this moment live in me.
We got back in the bus and arrived later in the early evening, late due to the snow. My first impression of Mazar was dominated by the famous Blue Mosque and all the white pigeons that hang out there. The other memory is of all the small horse drawn carts that were colored individually and had bells everywhere.
Fred and I ate at a café where all the men sat on platforms covered in rugs eating kebab and bread. We found a place to stay and went to sleep, excited for tomorrow, which would be a wonderful blessing for people you care for. You could say, “May tomorrow be something you keenly look forward to”. How nice.
Monday, February 1, 2010
That Winter into Spring thing
That Winter into Spring thing
is all about full light laid out
on sidewalks,no leaves to shade the sight.
Crossing lines, shadows of trees bare
and bright in the turnover of light
From bright to muted to rustling trees
the weather warms stone and flesh.
Spring is the thing we say,
watching open and honest Winter leave and
masqueraders move in, celebrating by dancing
around a pole named for a month of Spring
That Winter into Spring thing
where Winter runs to the north
leaving warmth and those so green
waves of new grass
then dandelions yellow as marketed butter
then tulips of all colors, and roses and blossoms and ......
an endless distracting of shades and windy carosels
courtesy of the chromatic scales
That Winter into Spring thing
trading old black and white photos of life
for technicolor extravaganzas
etched by sunlight, beach bodies and squints
as the sun at the center takes bows and applause.
Honest Winter light cut into geometric shapes
by the power and lines of birds in flight
My love and her face etched by November day
her thoughts clear and bright, no shade to hide.
None of Spring's make-up helping disguise
no rosy lipstick, no eye shadow
for the aching gaze to hide any lie
and to put away safely a life walked
and to leave my love's beautiful face lit up by God.
That Winter inito Spring thing.
Lost now the clean sniff of blue ice
and wind rushing its light feet over
forevers of snow, clacking and tinking of icy
branches mixed in among all the
harsh sounds of evergreens rubbing wood,
smeared with cold sap.
In the god light my love reads a book
and from the side this loving voyeur
takes stock and once again wonders,
wonders how and why he became the one
the man who gets to live with such beauty.
This Winter thing, this Winter thing.
is all about full light laid out
on sidewalks,no leaves to shade the sight.
Crossing lines, shadows of trees bare
and bright in the turnover of light
From bright to muted to rustling trees
the weather warms stone and flesh.
Spring is the thing we say,
watching open and honest Winter leave and
masqueraders move in, celebrating by dancing
around a pole named for a month of Spring
That Winter into Spring thing
where Winter runs to the north
leaving warmth and those so green
waves of new grass
then dandelions yellow as marketed butter
then tulips of all colors, and roses and blossoms and ......
an endless distracting of shades and windy carosels
courtesy of the chromatic scales
That Winter into Spring thing
trading old black and white photos of life
for technicolor extravaganzas
etched by sunlight, beach bodies and squints
as the sun at the center takes bows and applause.
Honest Winter light cut into geometric shapes
by the power and lines of birds in flight
My love and her face etched by November day
her thoughts clear and bright, no shade to hide.
None of Spring's make-up helping disguise
no rosy lipstick, no eye shadow
for the aching gaze to hide any lie
and to put away safely a life walked
and to leave my love's beautiful face lit up by God.
That Winter inito Spring thing.
Lost now the clean sniff of blue ice
and wind rushing its light feet over
forevers of snow, clacking and tinking of icy
branches mixed in among all the
harsh sounds of evergreens rubbing wood,
smeared with cold sap.
In the god light my love reads a book
and from the side this loving voyeur
takes stock and once again wonders,
wonders how and why he became the one
the man who gets to live with such beauty.
This Winter thing, this Winter thing.
Watching a reunion
Lodged on the rocky shore of a sleepy sea
my forest dips down a wooded toe
as if to see, and then to say,
that is the right temp for me.
Further on the Bay's fullness
grows out until gone
joining its watery self
to a greater power than me.
In the damp night filled with
a gurgle and splash the tree leans
and leaning out to the sea, is
amused and touched by family sounds
as the Bay joins its mother the sea
wet whispers of "mother, it's me".
The sun rise surprises the night with red
stretched through the grey night joining horizons.
The dark of before replaced
by the light of this moment
as if removed by a thief
Where does the night sky go
as the sun and moon move?
Just a temporal smugness
announced by the gloaming
and farewelled by the gloom.
On the rocky shore stands the tree
its toe still seeking some moist
from the sea, but the rest of
the plant is gone from me.
my forest dips down a wooded toe
as if to see, and then to say,
that is the right temp for me.
Further on the Bay's fullness
grows out until gone
joining its watery self
to a greater power than me.
In the damp night filled with
a gurgle and splash the tree leans
and leaning out to the sea, is
amused and touched by family sounds
as the Bay joins its mother the sea
wet whispers of "mother, it's me".
The sun rise surprises the night with red
stretched through the grey night joining horizons.
The dark of before replaced
by the light of this moment
as if removed by a thief
Where does the night sky go
as the sun and moon move?
Just a temporal smugness
announced by the gloaming
and farewelled by the gloom.
On the rocky shore stands the tree
its toe still seeking some moist
from the sea, but the rest of
the plant is gone from me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
night and christmas in New york
The Manhattan streets were loaded with Christmas colour and noise. Walking along 34th going west I could see the famous decorations of Macy's, and at the same time I became aware of the drum beat in the cold air. Buskers are a dime a dozen in the City. They are in the subways, streets, trains and everywhere else they could make a buck. Some are good. The drum beat was beyond that standard by far.
Crossing 6th Avenue I saw the man making the sound. Medium size, wiry, black and dressed for December, he was playing a variety of implememt. A lid from a trash can, pots of many sizes, chains and a whole variety of bangers, clashers, jinglers and the rest surrounded him. Boom boom the air went. Boom boom and jingle jangle and on and on. All of the sounds came together in the cold night air and the New York crowd was digging it. I mean they were into it without the giving or asking of permissions. The drummer took all of us on the trip.
I have never been a huge fan of drums. Often I have sat in concerts and suffered through another drum solo made bearable only by the chemicals in my system. Even Ginger Baker left me yawning. Not this guy.
Pulling free of the rythym I watched the people surrounding me at the corner. Their thighs moved free of constriction, as if all awkwardness was sent home to wait for another day. Feet shod in expensive and cheap boots tapped with gusto. The bodies swayed and a tribe was born for the moment. A tribe of any of us who stumble into a magic moment and are freed for just a short time simply by our proximity to magic. Such a drama but so good. so right and here in the middle of the City. No payment required. Only donations.
My attention, or what was not moving with the beat, directed at the man making this music. As I watched I realized how isolated he was from the crowd of listeners who made him invisble to the cars and busses rolling along the streets. He was all about the sound. I do not know how I knew but I was certain he cared far less for the money than the chance to make this wonderful pulsing joy in New York's night.
Lost again I swayed and bent to his energy which created the magic that freed the people that I was a part of and wanted so much to remain a part of despite my blathering and thinking and planning and poor ass attempts to control all. Here I was in the magic without forethought or foreplay for that matter. Being and being and being and then I remeber my appointment to pick up my wife and daughter at Penn Station.
Just like that I went from part of something I could not plan but gave me so much to the normal old life. Maybe that is why being grateful is so important, as often it is all that is left to remind me of the moments I cannot plan. To bring me back to the special seconds not ever counted. Back to all I want to be and sense I can be, but mainly live without.
Just walking at night during Christmas in this City.
Turning away, heading West again, I was without mindfulness for a blessed few minutes. My wife and daughter were there on time and we went to 32nd and ate Korean.
Crossing 6th Avenue I saw the man making the sound. Medium size, wiry, black and dressed for December, he was playing a variety of implememt. A lid from a trash can, pots of many sizes, chains and a whole variety of bangers, clashers, jinglers and the rest surrounded him. Boom boom the air went. Boom boom and jingle jangle and on and on. All of the sounds came together in the cold night air and the New York crowd was digging it. I mean they were into it without the giving or asking of permissions. The drummer took all of us on the trip.
I have never been a huge fan of drums. Often I have sat in concerts and suffered through another drum solo made bearable only by the chemicals in my system. Even Ginger Baker left me yawning. Not this guy.
Pulling free of the rythym I watched the people surrounding me at the corner. Their thighs moved free of constriction, as if all awkwardness was sent home to wait for another day. Feet shod in expensive and cheap boots tapped with gusto. The bodies swayed and a tribe was born for the moment. A tribe of any of us who stumble into a magic moment and are freed for just a short time simply by our proximity to magic. Such a drama but so good. so right and here in the middle of the City. No payment required. Only donations.
My attention, or what was not moving with the beat, directed at the man making this music. As I watched I realized how isolated he was from the crowd of listeners who made him invisble to the cars and busses rolling along the streets. He was all about the sound. I do not know how I knew but I was certain he cared far less for the money than the chance to make this wonderful pulsing joy in New York's night.
Lost again I swayed and bent to his energy which created the magic that freed the people that I was a part of and wanted so much to remain a part of despite my blathering and thinking and planning and poor ass attempts to control all. Here I was in the magic without forethought or foreplay for that matter. Being and being and being and then I remeber my appointment to pick up my wife and daughter at Penn Station.
Just like that I went from part of something I could not plan but gave me so much to the normal old life. Maybe that is why being grateful is so important, as often it is all that is left to remind me of the moments I cannot plan. To bring me back to the special seconds not ever counted. Back to all I want to be and sense I can be, but mainly live without.
Just walking at night during Christmas in this City.
Turning away, heading West again, I was without mindfulness for a blessed few minutes. My wife and daughter were there on time and we went to 32nd and ate Korean.
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