Getting High in Kathmandu

At the oh-so-wise age of 25, I decided the time, place and company were right to smoke marijuana for the first time. Up until the evening of May 5th, I guarded my pot virginity with the same zeal as a Christian who pledges abstinence before marriage. In addition to never consuming an illegal substance, I hadn’t tried a cigarette, either. My decision to abstain from pot was one of practicality mixed with frugality: Most corporations perform drug tests as part of the employment process, and I also viewed pot as an expensive indulgence in the event it was habit-forming. I can’t even say I was pressured to smoke. Just one blasé suggestion from a temporary travel fling was the only thing necessary for me to hunt down the substance. Though I knew procuring marijuana was a crime here in Nepal, I’m grateful I only learned about the whole, “maximum 20 years in jail” consequence after my transaction was complete.

So let me back track to how I scored the goods: on the nightly walk back to my cheap hotel located in the congested touristy area of Thamel, I’d often get solicited for pot from seedy characters and would always say no. This time, however, I slowed my gait and looked every Nepali in the eye, awaiting the proposition. The first came from 70-yr-old barefoot man in an olive-green “Faded Glory” shirt perched atop his bike and carriage. He smiled, flashing his yellow crooked teeth at me.

“Rickshaw, madame?”

I smiled in return and gave a polite no. The next question was from a 20-something Nepali standing with one foot rested against the wall of the alley.

In a low, slurred voice he asked, “Would you like some hash?”

Without hesitation, I gave a firm, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

He motioned for me to follow him. No more than a few steps later down a dark alley, we came to a perch where a petite old lady was stationed. Sitting atop her turned-over woven basket was a variety of products from bottled water and gum to cigarettes and lighters. The dealer leaned over and said something in a hushed tone. The old woman crouched over and lifted her faded red sari in an effort to grab a cigarette container which she handed to him.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

I paused, unsure of what to say. I hadn’t given any thought to this part of the deal—I half-hoped there would be such thing as a starter kit for something like this.

“Uhmmm… the usual amount?” I said lamely.

“How much?” he repeated, ignoring my first answer.

I countered, “How much do you have?”

“I’ll give you 15 grams.”

He motioned for me to follow him again. “We go somewhere less dangerous,” he said, walking further down the road into a dark corner of the street.  I opened my umbrella when I noticed the impending rain.

“How much is this going to cost?” I whispered.

“5,000 rps,” he said.

My eyes went wide—given that the pharmacy a block from the alley sold ten codeins for the cost of a dollar, I somehow expected my luck to continue when it came to purchasing pot. Since I had no gauge of the cost or quantity of marijuana, a figure equating to $70 took me aback. At the very least, I established from this baseline price that the amount would be in excess of what I’d need for a single evening.

“I’ll take a third of that amount, then,” I told him.

“I can’t break this chunk into that many pieces. Here, we’ll go half for 2,500.”

“I don’t even think I have that much on me,” I stammered.

“Fine, 2,200.”

“Done.”

He handed me a sticky chunk of substance which I chucked into my floral bag in attempt to be discreet. It is at this point in the story that I’ll shamefully clarify how I didn’t really know what hash was: I believed hash was a seedier, inferior type of marijuana. When I received the chunk of black play-dough like stuff slightly smaller than the size of my palm, I felt disappointed and concerned at its lack of green flakey texture and consistency.

Puzzled, I asked the dealer, “Um, this isn’t laced with anything, is it?”

He misinterpreted my question and assured me that the transaction would stay between me and him. I tried again, asking him if this was real marijuana. He stopped and offered me his joint disguised in tobacco paper.

“Would you like to try some?”

I waved my hands and said, “No, no, it’s fine… well uh, thanks!”

 He pressed his hands together and put them to his forehead. With a lazy grin that creased his red-tinged eyes, he bowed his head and wished me goodnight.

I clutched my bag close to my side and quickened my step home. When I flopped on my bed, I removed the black piece from my bag and turned it over in my hands, stopping on occasion to smell it. I recoiled in disdain. At least it smells like pot, I thought. Still, my shoulders fell in disappointment at the thought of getting ripped off. I spent my last $30 on crap that’s not even any good. I couldn’t quite figure out how one could smoke this dough-like substance, either. I looked at the clock next to my bed stand and decided to spend the next hour at the internet cafe educating myself on hash.

“What… is… hash,” I typed into Google. I periodically looked over my shoulders to ensure the café manager and patrons weren’t eyeing my screen. I perused several pot forums and my spirits brightened when I learned that, unbeknownst to me, I had scored the Rolls Royce of marijuana… at a bargain price.

The next day I found a carved wooden pipe and a lighter. I showed up at my friend’s hotel and closed the door, only then removing the purple drawstring bag holding the goods.

“Here we are!” I said, dropping it in his lap.

John inspected the hash with his hands. Not looking up from the putty, he smiled and said, “Very nice! I’ll have to get some tobacco since you can’t really light hash by itself.”

He retrieved some cigarettes from the bar and we headed back to the room.  We talked, asking about our respective day and plans for the week. No more than a few minutes later, John suggested we go to the garden area to indulge in the hash.

 “Now?” I asked, trying to conceal my nervousness. He put his arms around me in embrace.

“I mean, if you want to… do you want to get dinner first? I just figured we’d have the munchies and may want to eat afterward.”

“Oh,” I said, lifting my head from his chest. “No, that makes sense. Let’s go now, then.”

We walked in silence from his room and down the heavy wooden steps which groaned as we descended. When we reached the hotel courtyard, I grabbed John’s arm as we walked out to the garden area past the Buddha fountain. I admired the yard lit with candles as we went up a few grassy steps that led the way to a small enclosed area. The small, remote courtyard housed a small white wrought iron bench and a swing set. I handed him the bag and sat on the swing, my fingers running up and down the thick twine rope.

“Let me know if I can help with anything. I’m unfortunately useless with this type of thing,” I said casually. I looked up at the stars and was grateful to the high, vine-covered walls enclosing the space.

“Oh, stop,” he said, kneeling beside a single garden light. “You may want to come over and get a tutorial, though.”

I walked over and knelt beside him, eyeing the way he poured the tobacco in the pipe.

“Now we take a few dabs of the hash and place it on top,” he explained, crumbling the black bits on the pipe head. When finished, he stood up and I followed suit. I dusted the soil from my green cotton dress and watched as he put the pipe in his mouth. He held the lighter to it and inhaled. I watched his eyes close, relaxed. John handed me the pipe.

I too inhaled, letting the harsh smoke hit my lungs but exhaled quickly in an effort not to cough. John looked at me and laughed, taking the pipe from me.

“You may want to hold it in a little bit,” he prompted. “Here, like this…”

I watched as he took a deep puff, held it in and finally exhaled a slow, continuous stream of smoke. I tried to emulate his action, only to be unable to resist the searing burn expanding in my throat. I coughed out the smoke and looked up at him sheepishly.

“Ok, ok, that wasn’t bad,” he reassured me, rubbing my back. “You alright?”

I nodded, rubbing my chest in an effort to soothe my lungs.

“We’ll do shotguns for a bit,” he said. I had no idea what this was, until he inhaled from the pipe and motioned me towards him. I pressed my lips to him and he exhaled while I breathed in the smoke. I felt grateful for the reprieve from the harsh tobacco. After a few rounds, he asked how I was feeling. I looked around the courtyard, assessing my mental state. Unlike what I thought would be the case, I had a sense of clear-headedness and lucidity. I didn’t feel as though I was soaring through an ethereal cloud of time and space, nor did I lose my sense of balance as I do when drunk. I could not, however, take my eyes off of a flowerbed in the corner of the garden.

“I’m… fine,” I replied, “I don’t even feel any different, really. Come to think of it, aren’t those flowers simply stunning?” I raised a hand to point to the purple clusters of bougainvilleas growing in the corner.

John averted his gaze to where I was pointing, turned back to me and laughed.

“But you feel nothing?”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and grinned playfully at me. I ran my hands along his white shirt, admiring the texture of the cotton. I pressed my head to his shirt and inhaled deeply, appreciating the fresh, clean linen smell mixed with sandalwood from his deodorant. I looked up at him, grinning with what I’m sure was a ridiculous expression on my face.

I shook my head at him lazily.

“Suuuure,” John said, pulling me into an embrace. “Let’s finish this and head back to the room.” He took one quick puff of the pipe and handed it to me. I took a last smoke and emptied the pipe.

“I just pulled a Clinton on that last one,” I remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“I did not inhale.”

The walk through the garden was filled with wonder and enchantment. I could walk no more than a few steps before commenting on something I found positively gorgeous. The garden of the Shangri-La was filled with vibrant chrysanthemums, tea candles and rhododendrons, pagodas, Buddha statues and soft grass that tickled our feet as we walked through the terraces. With the wonderment of a child, I inhaled the fragrance of the red roses and pointed out the way the ceramic lamp covers made patches of light dance against the red brick wall. He patted the head of an elephant statue as walked by. I looked to the hotel’s outdoor café streamed with lights and at the patrons sitting 40 feet away. In a delighted tone, thanked Nepal for being so beautiful. I turned to John and thanked him for being wonderful. My environment became a veritable feast for the eyes when we walked into the hotel as well. We stood in a hallway, spellbound by the elaborate Buddha painting filled with symbolism and the golden Shiva statue. The sparkling of the gemstones and the intricacy of the filigree dragon statue from the gift shop delighted us to no end.

An unfortunate side-effect of my experience was the feeling of being a passive observer. I was content to ruminate on the most insignificant details while feeling indifferent to anything happening to me or around me. When I removed my clothes and John laid me gingerly on the bed, nothing of the actions propelled me to think beyond the basic fact that I was in bed, caressing his hair and welcoming his hands running along my body. Nothing of the future mattered, either—in this moment, there was no such thing as a beginning or end to anything. I felt nothing was happening to me, only around me. I wasn’t doing, only being. This is not to say I was lazy, as the stereotype would insinuate… but my passion, my zeal was subdued in lieu of a zen-like state of blissful acceptance. Any slight and temporary pain, fatigue or muscle aches arising from the activity at hand didn’t matter either—though I was keenly aware of the sensations, such otherwise-unpleasant states carried no meaning and therefore no discomfort.

Strangely, I couldn’t tell at which point my high wore off, nor could I tell when it started. Though caffeine and alcohol are two substances with notable ups and downs, I felt no such thing from marijuana. I explained to John how the experience brought some relief: I didn’t feel compelled to roll a joint first thing in the morning. I didn’t yearn to replicate the feeling, especially knowing how the experience of getting high in the garden of a hotel couldn’t be replicated with ease. Still, my first time smoking marijuana wasn’t revelatory. I’ve since done some additional research (ie, gathered comments from a bunch of stoner forums) and concluded that perhaps I wasn’t high—after all, one poster is quick to comment, “if you don’t know whether or not you’re high… you’re not.”

What I do know is that in that court yard, the world was a beautiful, inviting place. 

by Catherine C.