Udaipur buying hash

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Udaipur buying hash

Paul's Mental Workshop, Special page: India. Paul's Mental Workshop- pg 1 pg 2 pg 3 pg 4 pg 5 pg 6 pg 7 pg 8 pg 9. I haven't updated these pages in a couple of months because I was travelling in India. It was a difficult decision but I decided not to take a laptop with me. Practically the first hand-written words I've scribbled in years: what a mess! Another example of how the machine I write on now in lovely word. Mostly the writing is inspired directly by the place but from time to time they are simply the thoughts I had while there. Instead of making the low-res images that illustrate this article clickable, I have put them, along with more photos of India, in a thumbnail gallery where you can click for proper enlargements. To he whose foot is covered with a shoe the earth seems all carpeted in leather. From the Hitopasheda, 12th century AD. On teak-wood board 12 x 12 inches 30 x 30 cm. The slight movement of the head on its neck toward the left shoulder while shutting the eyes momentarily, for: sorry, I can't, or won't, or don't want what is offered. Like all great cities Bombay, or as it was renamed in Mumbai, is a river, constantly moving yet always the same. The garishness is almost garrulous against the dirt—the way white panes make the dense hues show more saturated in a leaded glass window. And yet, among the crumbling high-rises, the great tapestry of cheap costume jewellery become real gems in shoddy settings. There peeks a twelfth century stone pillar, a time-softened flagstone floor or an elegant arch leading to an alley between two atrocities. There are also grand buildings thrown up during the Raj by Victorian architects gone mad with unlimited labour. Rampant poverty is in evidence everywhere. And yet though they live in misery they are not miserable. Amid Bombay's ill-lit streets mothers watch their children play, too poor even for the small, square, paper kites richer kids duel with from adjacent rooftops, they play instead with a plastic bag on a string, joyful among the cars on filthy pavements. When we were children we all wanted to be adult. The pretending might draw amusement, derision or praise as our elders saw through the farce but from each we learned, until one day, our acting won us what we sought: a person fooled into thinking we were indeed adults instead of children. I came by train. I stopped here in Christian India, the small province k south of Bombay first settled by the Portuguese early in the 16th C, to stay with an old friend, Lisa, the daughter of an even older friend. Today I woke to the shouts of the Nepali staff. I rinsed as best I could with half a bottle of drinking water. I swallowed my toothpaste before coming out to the handsome patio to order coffee with which to rinse my mouth. I asked incredulously: Dead animal? Lisa said: 'Yes, it stunk to high heaven, it's a good thing you didn't shower in it'. I guess I had been too sleepy to notice the smell of rotting corpse in the water I had washed in while it lasted. The first time I came to Goa was 31 years ago, just a 17 year old kid thrown accidentally into the world. The last time was 23 years ago when already the inevitable changes had begun to show. The infrastructure had always been lacking, there had never been a steady flow of electricity or water or a space entirely safe from snakes, scorpions, biting ants or spiders as large as mammals. But the first time I lived in this small enclave of pristine beaches backed by impenetrable jungle it was not only youth that made the inconveniences palatable but attitude. Who else, after all, would go there? Sometimes one or another of them would remove his sandals to bathe, but never swim, waist-high in the Indian ocean, fully clothed in bell-bottom polyester or saree. Things have changed, Goa's innocence has gone the way of its European visitors. And the atmosphere is the same as any place that relies on tourism. As a traveller I leaned long ago it is never a good idea to go back not only because of the inevitable disappointment of inevitable change but because the new memories stain the old. To start with it is often the case that feeling sorry for someone is precisely what turns the subject of our pity into a pitiful figure. One tourist might not consider his holiday's day full if he hasn't quaffed a bottle of expensive imported champagne at breakfast while another finds satisfaction in getting through the day on a dollar or less. It is always a dangerous pitfall to impose one's own value system on others. If there were a pill to induce depression just as there is to alleviate it, the effect on global culture would be very like television's has been. The delight is in the easy fantasy television's content provides while the frustration occurs at the vision of a glamorized ordinary life. India especially should be exempt from the burden of our pity, common respect is received with far greater felicity. Merely remembering someone's difficult-to-the-western-ear name can have more weight with the name's owner than a coin in his palm. Hinduism embraces acceptance, it invented the second chance, betterment in the next life as reward for living out Dharma correctly in this. As to the observation Dick made that India is, in a sense, a macrocosm of human nature, as a symbolic metaphor rather than a literal one it gives food for thought because just as we as individuals are none of us of one type or another, but rather all of us are all of the possibilities but in different measure, India's great circus of paradox has a unified character. Despite its slight, if harsh policing, India is hugely under-governed. Its practical laws are pragmatically enforced by a lack of privacy. The thief, the wife-beater, the social parasite in whatever form is seen. A community so dense in members controls itself because the extreme proximity of its individuals it is not unusual for an Indian's territory to be reduced to the actual volume of his body means there is a witness for nearly all deeds. The Indian often lives within such a small kinesphere he might not feel his space invaded until you actually sit on his lap. But instead of all agreeing to an unwritten law that, living so closely, each should try to be circumspect with the next, for instance: trying to be quiet while others sleep, as a Confucian oriental might, or as driver, instead of waiting his turn he will all merge whenever he can even if it means he whose turn it is must wait likely resulting in the same drive-time as being polite , the same goes for smells or light that bother others. They choose tolerance over consideration, forbearance over cooperation. It is a significant irony in itself that the fellow who stopped me in the Colaba market Bombay did so standing in front of the McDonald's, albeit a McDonald's where if you ask: Where's the beef? You'll find their really is none; because he was looking for westerners to act as extras in a Bollywood film, I, of course, agreed at once. It was a Salman Khan film, an actor with godly status here in India. I have worked on many sets usually in the art department in what seems another life-time but have never seen or even imagined a film of any sort could be shot so sloppily, much less one likely to see box office receipts of over 50 million dollars. Bollywood fans are as faithful as they are undiscriminating. The director was a disembodied voice in the sky, booming through huge speakers spread in the trees, which sometimes called: 'action! I, the humble extra dressed as waiter, seemed the only one of the hundreds on set that cared a fig for such details as continuity. I pulled out my camera but one of the men in black rushed over to inform me that photographing Mr Kahn was not allowed I got one shot anyway, below in white suit silhouetted against the lights. When we commented on Khan's apparent lack of acting skills I said: 'well, he has an impressive body for a man his age, it must take a lot of hours at the gym' she answered: 'Furthermore he seems preternaturally clean, indeed, he appears to be a positively sterile object among the all-too-human' I countered: 'Yes, I'm sure he doesn't pick his nose. He told me expressly to turn away from the table to my right in order to set up the accidental collision. Although this made little sense since it put Khan within my line of vision before the jostle, I took the direction without comment. Don't worry Paul I've got your back'. I told Louise that since I couldn't see Salman's approach she should give me the nod when he was close. On that first take, which I was sure was a keeper, Salman offered me his hand to get back to my feet, for the rest he left me where I lie. But we did at least another dozen takes without ever again coinciding. But still we didn't coincide. But not only did I never hear my name shouted on that take I stood my ground, waiting, as Salman walked past but I never saw the minion again. In short: I had a ball as well as an interesting experience. I was paid Rupees for the night's work, about 10 bucks, but though they asked me back I declined thinking once was an experience, twice was just badly paid work. His family were momentarily disconcerted even making a micro-movement as if to pull him back but he had already reached me. Today I found it deteriorated into the most pathetic market I have ever seen, untouchables selling items I can't imagine anyone picking up off the ground for free much less paying for. In this lowest of commerce conducted by the abjectly poor I again thought of Dick's pity for just this sort of Indian's hopeless lack of prospects. None of the sellers expected me, a foreigner i. Jaipur is a beautiful city. It has a long tradition of marble sculpting, usually Hindu gods. Yesterday I walked with a friend under a steady drizzle refusing the persistent rickshaws that drew close to offer their services. Before entering the walls of the old city we ran across another meatless McDonald's an expensive night out for the average Indian family complete with a plastic, life-sized statue of Ronald himself sat on a bench, arm extended along the back, inane smile under clown's make-up. When they did they jumped up as one to beg for money. I made a gesture that it was to be shared before handing it to the eldest. They pressed against me, their small hands all over me even reaching into my pockets. Finally I chose the biggest for a sharp open-palmed shove to the chest which sent her flying to land heavily on her behind. They insisted; cringing with closed eyes at my movements without attempting to evade them. They were obviously willing to take a blow in exchange of a coin, a meal, a chance at another day's survival. I would have liked to give her a few coins but had learned my lesson: this was too desperate a neighbourhood to risk generosity. I can only hope the eldest bought samosas all 'round with the bill I gave her. I stopped in an antiques shop yesterday to look at Mughal miniatures to add to my small collection though one can no longer buy the antique ones as I used to do in my long ago visits. I spent an hour or so looking at what the shop owner had, using his thick glasses as magnifying lens to judge their quality. After breakfast this morning I tried again. The owner greeted me with the kind of anticipatory hopefulness a returning client inspires. His assistants ran around turning all the lights on they are kept off to save on electricity between clients. I had still said nothing but I could see it wasn't promising. Had I perhaps left them somewhere else? I restricted my response to a not-worth-answering smirk. He again became vehement saying: 'Do you want me to call the police? But I needn't have wondered as he answered my affirmative with an arm-waving, theatrical, menace: 'Why should I call the police? Once outside however, I doubted there was anything further I could do. As a visitor, a guest in India, I felt more saddened than angry. It wasn't after all, the first Zippo I'd lost. When my driver came to pick me up this afternoon I told him the story. When we arrived at the shop my driver, Om, told me to wait in the car. After about ten minutes he came out to ask me in. The owner blustered: 'you can search my shop all you want! The tall Kashmiri declared to me: 'I want you to take him to the police! He offered me his big hand but I ignored it reaching to offer my own to the boy instead before leaving without more ado. I never learned how Om changed his mind about keeping it. Pushkar is one of India's most sacred places as Lord Brahma was born here. And on that place one of India's most important temples has stood nearly years. It is a vegetarian town where no animal is killed. Having broken the assembly line of tourists bustled here directly from their vehicles, made the priests aggressively angry. His grandfather had been head priest in Pushkar's largest temple, carrying on old wisdom under British rule. He said he remembered how when he was young the holy men still had power which one could feel in their touch. Miani went on to say the fourth age, the age of darkness his grandfather predicted, had begun. In the first age there were only the gods, the second began with their creation of the world. A shock to a town that hasn't seen an animal killed, nor even an egg eaten, in a millenium. Some of India's most beautiful temples are not Hindu but Jain, one of the world's oldest religions. Its most recent jinna or 'conqueror of the inner self' was Mahavira born BC, the twenty-fourth ascetic master often portrayed standing with the vines that grew around his legs as he meditated, oblivious to all, the world, his hunger, his need of sleep. He explained it was a story of the man who was offended when Mahavira didn't return his salutation, at first he shouted, but to no avail. It was only when Mahavira continued meditating quietly even after the man had run the stick straight through his head that he realised Mahavira was truly of the enlightened. There are fewer than 5 million Jain in the world, mostly in the south of India where the devout walk the world sky-clad i. They carry brooms with which they sweep the path they will trod clear of any small animal they might otherwise accidentally hurt with their footfall. Their religion's precepts have influenced India's culture in a measure far larger than the proportional number of devout. Right: plates on which food from market stalls is served. They are pressed of green leaves that retain their shape once dry. The cows that roam free may have once been domestic livestock but liberated by a farmer in thanks' of a good crop, a son's wedding or other celebration of good fortune. Or it might be born its own master; domesticated yet wild, living in an urban centre just as wild animals live in the jungle, mountain or desert. I saw one temple that was built 8 hundred years ago with ghee to mix the mortar because the drought meant they had no water. Today, however, I saw something I didn't know still existed: running in the desert a genuinely wild cow, a cow of the breed that has never been domesticated. He then told me he saves coins from foreign countries, did I have any from my country to give him? I have been saddened to see India's evolution from being a country with a high percentage of poor people reduced to begging, to becoming a country of beggars. They insisted instead, I go with them to a pharmacy to buy baby formula. If I refused to go to the shop with them, why refuse my money? By the time I got to Jaiselmer after following an admittedly foolish touristic route through colourful Rajasthan, I found myself faced with a uniformed guard, the same one who had checked my ticket for paid entry into a Jain temple, asking me for money for 'watching my shoes' while I was inside. I was finally outraged. And in Rajasthani: harijan nai? We tourists, if not the travellers, have corrupted with easy earthly pleasures; what is a small expense, like a good hotel room, to a member of a first-world working class, can be the equivalent of a month's honest work in the third world. They will give us money but take our culture. Spain went from just above Greece traditionally the poorest to just below France. And now that they all know what a BMW looks like they are no longer happy with a Renault; in which way are they better off? Spending more money each year of life is the sum of the American dream, relishing acquisitive power more than the things in themselves; even a poor uneducated Indian goes deeper than that, let us not pity him, we should respect him instead. So why do we condescend to the Indian so? The man sleeping in the street, resting his head on his own orthopaedic leg—at the top of this page, is known for his jolly personality. Do Ghai, Indian Brahma cows, oils on wood panel 12 x 12 inches 30 x 30 cm. He sows crops, at this time of year: mustard, on his few hectares. Vivendra is from Jaipur, one of four large cities in the strip of desert called Rajasthan that ends in the kilometres of sand dunes that reach from behind the 12th century city of Jaiselmer to the borders of Pakistan in the north. He has become involved with the local community. He encourages the area's rich crafts tradition—at only an hour's drive from Jaipur still too remote to find commercial outlet—while at the same time worrying about the cultural impact commercial success brings. From his immense rooftop terrace my eye was drawn by the only hillock on the flat plain that surrounded us. Its ragged stone peak was surmounted by an interesting looking ruin with an intact cupola. I asked Vivendra: 'Temple? As it turned out the stones that capped the hill were grey granite as was the temple. There were still about square metres of temple standing covered, including the dome over the old altar, approximately 4 metres in diameter. Some of the pillars of the fallen arches had already been carted off to be used in local homes. I suggested an artists colony. A few motivated artists with a couple thousand bucks each could get the project started. Further funds could be solicited from people like gallery owners or arts magazines who could advertise their involvement in a project to save a historical building destined to be put at the disposal of creative endeavour. A hired chauffer, a taxi or rickshaw driver or guide all have a supplementary income that easily outweighs his pay. As often as not the only reason a driver will collect his reasonable fee is to allay the tourist's suspicions as to his true motivations. Buy me now! If I bought everything beautiful that shouted at me here in India however, I would not only be bankrupt but would need a ship to take it all back. And anyway I had only been taken to this Kashmiri shop by my guide for a commission, I had actually asked him to take me to see rugs from Pijim. I asked the price half-heartedly anyway though I was already sure I wouldn't permit myself its purchase. I appraised it at about 6 or maybe even because it was such a fine piece but its fair price may have been much lower. But the fat Kashmiri stopped me with a hurt expression on his face; but tell me your price, he implored. In that case we must hug! The great old city of Udaipur alone maintained its sovereignty even under the Mughal emperors who ruled from Kabul to the Deccan plains. Udaipur is painted almost everywhere a pale but saturated Lapis Lazuli blue complemented in places with a turquoise green of the same tone. At the western end of Rajasthan where it collides with the Thaar desert stands Jaiselmer carved of honey-yellow sandstone that glows golden in the evening sun. It was here in the bazaar still housed in buildings that stood before Babur was born, that I saw a beautiful young Marwari stallion standing among the vendor's stalls. He was such a fine specimen that I stopped to look him over. He was of a pure black which would undoubtedly turn to chestnut in his third or fourth year. The old city was practically all there was of Jaiselmer right. The entire old town is now turned over to the needs of tourism, its open-eyed residents all turned to sales-people, many even importing items from other parrts of India to sell to tourists. This town was once a kingdom important as gateway to everything that lay beyond. Their women committed sati by throwing themselves from the parapets on to their husband's burning funeral pyres. Twentieth century progress. Sometimes when they are children I will simply play with them ignoring their pleas for money which, often, they seem to prefer to a hand-out. Here are some of the faces of those I made forget about money for a few minutes-. In Himachal Pradesh, here north of Nepal, at the highest tip of India bordering China to the east, the sides of the rickety buses I travel in are covered in the vomit of passengers unused to riding in motorized vehicles. Mongol horsemen regularly raided extravagantly rich Hindustan for centuries, usually, like Alexander, daunted into turning back by the Indus river now crosses Pakistan from north-east to south-west after the difficult crossing of the Afghan mountains through the Khyber pass. Timur, known because of his limp as Timur-er-lein the lame , was made famous in England because of the play by Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine , in the late sixteenth century. One of the preoccupations that added to the madness of the endeavour, was the quasi-mythical proportions the descriptions of elephants were to Timur's brave but superstition men. Delhi was burned to the ground while Timur celebrated his victory drunkenly in a tent outside the walls—more comfortable under the stars than a roof of his conquered city. A town called Manikaran was recommended for its natural hot springs. The streets writhe with scalding hot pipes that each edifice lays where it can without any attempt at organisation or cooperation. I did some exercises to warm up before putting on all the clothes I had with me. Now in this tiny community of Gaggli, lost high in an immense mountain range, I sit on the floor near a small wood stove in a miniature one-room stone house, with no shower or toilet at all, indeed, the question of what to do in its absence was never mentioned. I do rather miss a heated room with a toilet in it though. For the moment I relish not only waking to the morrow's sunrise but also tonight's view of these spiky crags under the brilliant blue light of a fat half moon. Manikaran again. I have enjoyed the hard trekking of these last days but other than the hamlet of Gaggli have found nothing to justify the trouble it took to get here. Although I did take the trouble to find the best hole-in-the-wall-greasy-spoon the only kind there are to eat. Last night after a long walk with a young friend we went there for dinner. Just then, however, we noticed a commotion suddenly gather out the open front of the little restaurant, a crowd led by two brown uniformed police. The first with a captain's hat, the second with a matching brown beret. I was careful also to show no fear, to avoid giving him reason to suspect I had a reason to feel fear, but at the same time wanted to show I was in perfect agreement with his own estimation of his authority's power. I had no idea what he was after but imagined events leading to a bribe which I was willing to pay, discreetly, whether there were reason for the shake-down or no. With a great show of theatrical anger he started shouting about our drinking while waving his brass-tipped billy-club around finally bringing it down to smash the bottle in a sudden paroxysm of intensity. I asked with frank surprise: 'Are we not supposed to drink? Do you drink in public in your country? I would try to handle the cops. He then shouted for our passports, I told him they were at the hotel. In the hotel? Why in the hotel? My friend started with: 'Why should I He needn't do anything more clever than hand it to the hotel owner to hold since he sells hash openly from behind the reception desk. Instead of waiting for my friend to get back with the passports he then tells me we must go to his headquarters. I offer: 'I really didn't know drinking was not allowed here but didn't ask why they had a liquor store at the town's outskirts it isn't prohibited anywhere else I've been in India. I promise it won't happen again. Is he also a painter? He's a terrorist. They laughed awhile in the local language making obvious reference to me, before deciding we should go to the hotel. He then paraded me slowly down the length of the town's only road stopping for long salutations with market-stall owners. It was for me nevertheless, the last straw, I wanted to quit this inhospitable cold place. Excepting charming Gaggli to which I climbed, I found the whole area all the way up to Manali only good for its beautiful walks in the surrounding mountains. Above, a mountain dentist- click for a larger detail of his tools. It isn't that I can't remember the appearance of a route in order to regress along it, or repeat it on another occasion, indeed, I remember every detail all too well but simply never where, or when, I've seen it before. And it is precisely while asking how to get somewhere from someone without a common language that allows the first acquaintances which aren't commercial with the people of a place. Going to pick it up is not only a great distance out of my way but the transport available is limited. Getting out of Himachal Pradesh means a couple of bus rides with a change to more comfortable sleeper trains out of Delhi. I learned quickly not to try to rest my tired head on my palm for fear I bite my tongue off. There had been no tickets in first, second or even third class in trains coming out of Delhi so I bought a ticket on the snazziest bus there was, the sleeper bus. More than a bus it looked like the inside of an ocean liner. I am on it as I write this but I could tell as I walked up to it I would be disappointed because it is actually an Indian Tata, not a Volvo, whose interior reminds less of ocean liner than Soviet era submarine. Going to pick up the precious little painting is taking on a decided sense of pilgrimage. In the small mountain town of Shimla, the capital of Himachal Pradesh, people keep their potted flowers in cages to protect them from the monkeys. My brief day in Delhi brought home all that makes India difficult on the tourist: having to fight for the correct price on every transaction. In the case of something common, purchased every day like a cup of chai, if one doesn't make it clear when ordering it that despite being non-Indian he knows it costs 5 Rs, it is not that they will charge double for it, a figure that is still shruggable, but will ask ten or even twenty times more instead, which is not only expensive but also offensive. The rest of the time I walk away neither buying what I wanted nor haggling over it. But I know that every time I pay an inflated value out of a sense of pride or an abhorrence of the petty, I encourage the two price system. Refusing to buy what I want; making myself petty over the cost of each purchase; or shrugging off the Indian's absence of fair play or fair mark-up, inevitably builds resentment. The Indian, unlike say, some Muslim countries, do not even do it well. India is losing its global innocence, its childish curiosity, its humble admiration. It is not only the cultural impact a large influx of foreigners cause, but also its economy as a whole, while most of the world is in recession India's economy rose by 7. The effect is double fold, on the one hand I notice a chip on shoulders, so much as to say: if I lived in your country you would not be able to compete with me. Wherever tourism spends its money out of proportion with the local economy India loses her pride to unashamedly cheat or beg. I am lucky to be able to start conversations, however halting, which in most cases humanize the interaction because without a sense of humour to reach through the murk as one person to another, one would leave India with the feeling that here, one is no more person than a walking wallet can be. The final sign of tourist induced decadence is that the food is better in any poor street stall than restaurants with ambition to attract the European. Or a lot? This hard-working family, left, have not been hired by the city of Delhi to break up pavements as it might appear, in fact they are opportunistically taking advantage of the work being done to salvage the rebar in order to sell it. As I sit writing this on my little balcony through whose lattice work ladies of the court used to look out on the world, without the world being able to look back, half a dozen centuries ago, I am already forgetting the torturous journey even before I've had time to wash its dirt off. To which one has the choice of either responding politely to be quickly led to a proposal to spend money or, answer his courtesy with something rude to shorten the process. Today I decided to have a long walk down to the nineteenth century park, Sawal Newis, for half an hour of quiet. As the sun fell I headed back thinking to see how the tailor progressed with my order but became, of course, fortuitously lost. And so it was I discovered the group of houses hidden behind a small ashram, where the throw-away clay water pots in use everywhere are made. The wheel is simply a piece of stone spun on a conical fulcrum with a stick. The potter could shape about three vases before having to encourage the stone's momentum again. We took a cab out to the Maharaja's estate the uncle of the present Rana where we were surprised by the superb quality of the Marwari horses available to rent. We had a great afternoon riding through some of India's rare countryside with only the couple of small villages, so remote everyone in each came out to wave at us as we passed. It seems they have worked so well that she has begun bringing my friend offerings of dead chickens, conveniently at hand in their live version from the neighbour's. It is also, at least to the helpless tourist, maddening. I was talking to a friend on the sidewalk-less street as close to the buildings as possible when a rickshaw misjudged the millimetre he needed to miss my shoulder as he passed. My temper snapped. I was still focused on the man I held when I noted that over his shoulder I could see the driver sitting behind the handlebars—but I mentally shrugged it off as irrelevant. Almost immediately I realized: wait a minute, if I am holding the driver, why is he still sitting in his vehicle? Dinaz, my old love. She is also NUTS! Among her many accomplishments she makes films. Big-budget feature length films with some of Hollywood's top actors. But I still think the first was the most charming, maybe you've seen it, it was called Salaam Bombay. When she was working on that film I remember her saying it was easier to get the street-kids they used, to act, than it was to get the professional actors to behave naturally. With some of the monies from Salaam Bombay she began a foundation for street children which she still runs personally though there are now five centres at locations all over India. I am proud of her. She told me that a French director called her to say he was making a film about death. Dinaz said: 'We believe in reincarnation here premised on an extinction of ego unlike the afterlife insinuated by Christianity or Mohammedanism a guru will tell you the same thing any Indian street kid will'. She also took me to the Lady Willingdon club bringing back a flood of memories from our years together twenty years ago. Lady Willingdon was the wife of the Viceroy of India in the 's. When accompanied by a Maharaja to their club in Bombay even they were not allowed entry. Although women couldn't until recently, they were always part of the club as part of the family of a male member. To the right a sketch of a passenger who, like me, waited for a connection out of Atlanta airport. How different beef-fed Americans are to lentil-fed Indians! Now I am in southern California which in comparison to India, feels very far from reality, the simple reality of being a human creature living on the earth. Here everything is packaged neatly, securely, cleanly, comfortably I guess that if in India the man whose foot is shod in a shoe feels all the world is carpeted in leather, then perhaps here, where it really is, the fortunate man should walk barefoot.

MY TRIPPY TRIP ( PUSHKAR - UDAIPUR )

Udaipur buying hash

Legislation: Marijuana is illegal in India, but through some strange govermental loop you can buy it legally from one specific store in Jaisalmer. Minumum penalty if you dont bribe your way out of trouble : 10 years in an Indian jail. Dont get caught. Jaisalmer is a military town air force and at times of tension, the local police can ge a bit jumpy. Be discreet and stick to smoking in your hotel or out in the desert. As in most places, the cops are mostly interested in turning over users for a bit of cash. Bribe your way out before you get taken to a police station. It serves cookies, lassis, candy and apple juice. When I first visited a long time ago, there were usually a few dealers who hung out around the Jain temple in the fort, selling hash. Jaisalmer has a good selecton of backpacker hotels and hostels: ask around about buying hash. The young guys in the hotel we stayed in could sort you out if you asked nicely and away from the senior members of the family. Marijuana brands: Jaisalmer used to be a centre for smuggling across the Thar desert. The tribesmen on the India side of the border would send across alcohol ; the tribesmen on th Pakistani side would send back hash and opiates. Not sure how things have changed in this respect but, knowing India, am guessing not alot! Parvati charas is generally regarded as being the best. The kashmiri hash taste nice but is often old and not very strong. More information: I recommend eating a cookie or 2 if your a heavy weight and walking around the rampart of Jailsmar fort, it will be one of the best experiences of your life. Go on a day camel trek, take some smokes and ask your camel drivers for some opium. One of the best experiences I have ever had, sleeping on the dunes, under the stars, mashed, listening to the camels and the crackle of the campfire. Outdated information. They remain up simply for nostalgic and entertainment purposes. Laws have changed, and places have changed. As of all articles are severly outdated.

Udaipur buying hash