Good Shit Part 4

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.