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The ascetic Sadhus of India come in various shades of rituals and practices. Most seek salvation and oneness with Lord Shiva, who famously smoked and drank and resorted to all kind of arcane practices.
Chillum is what the Sadhu holds here in his hand. It is filled up with hash and tobacco and smoked by them as a ritual practice. The smoke is thick and copious and the high is instantaneous and calming., I am told.
The Sadhus in India have renounced their homes and families and cut off all ties with the material world. They survive on the generosity of the locals and their will power.
From the place where this Sadhu is sitting, the closest human habitation would be many miles away.
There is always an etiquette involved in smoking the chillum, the details of which may not be germane here.
Jai Bhole!
_DSC1289 nef
He did not cut them for 30 years..
The Maha Kumbh Mela is the largest religious gathering on earth, and takes place every 12 years on the banks of Sangam, the confluence of the holy rivers Ganga, Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati, the Kumbh Mela took place in Allahabad in 2013 and attracted more than 100 million people...
Sadhu stay in little tent or houses, and all day long bless pilgrims. They smoke hashish, chat, and pause for photographers. They are holy men, they live without nothing, just covering their bodies with ashes. Do not forget the donation! It is impressive to see the people coming, touching their feet, and asking for a blessing.
© Eric Lafforgue
Cut off from the sea by the suspicious port authorities in Shanghai it seemed that the only way I was going to get out of China was overland.
This was my ticket.
In Shanghai I had inquired of every traveler I met about the path ahead of me.
I had heard tales of this magnificent and exotic railway adventure before... they called it 'the greatest railway journey on earth.'
The longest stretch of steel rail ever layed.
An Australian traveller named Mark told me that he had heard that there was a guy in Beijing who could get me a ticket.
I asked Mark how I could find this guy in Beijing.
He said to just go there and ask for 'The Crocodile.'
Just go to a city of some ten million souls and ask for 'The Crocodile'?
It sounded almost insane to me.
Ditching Mark after he made moves on my Chinese girlfriend and ditching my Chinese girlfriend after she got all worked up when a soldier who was following me took a picture of us together on the riverfront... I understood her fear in that time of Tienenmen Square and I knew it was time once again to get moving.
It was time to move north to Beijing... the city they once called Peking.
Tsu Tsu Mei was a nice girl.
She had told me to call her Eleanor... because that was what she called her 'American name.'
I couldn't do it because she just didn't look like an Eleanor to me... I always called her Tsu Tsu Mei.
And I think that she really liked that I did... it would have been easier to call her Eleanor I'm sure... but each time I called her 'Tsu Tsu Mei' she gave me this look... it started with a big warm vulnerable smile that made it seem to me that she was melting inside with warm thoughts and shaking knees.
That look always made me want to scoop her up in my arms and give her the same feelings right back.
Whenever I said her name and got that look... it just kind of summed everything up right there in that moment.
I really liked that.
Sometimes I wished that it had gone farther but the way it ended is why I have the memories I do... and I hope she does too... we never hurt each other... never not once... it was the hard and cold government of an opressive authoritarian regime that broke both of our hearts there in Shanghai.
It wasn't either of us... it wasn't our fault.
I was with Mark the Australian when I met Tsu Tsu Mei... we were tooling around Shanghai and we had just gotten on the bus after a tour of the Shanghai Waterpipe Factory Number Seven where I had just purchased a fine example of a brass opium waterpipe.
We had seen the place while riding the bus and jumped off... the factory was really happy to have foreigners tour the place.
I couldn't believe that there were at least six other water bong factories in Shanghai.
Somehow we had found the seventh.
As foreigners we were pretty much used to talking in english right in front of people knowing full well that they couldn't follow our conversation... especially the slang riddled prose we frequently used.
When Tsu Tsu Mei got on the bus and stood next to me I turned to Mark and said "man she is the most beautiful Chinese woman I have ever seen."
Before Mark could agree... Tsu Tsu Mei let me know that she appreciated the compliment... she smiled and said "thank you" in perfect english.
Shocked that my subterfuge was exposed at first I was a little embarassed... until Mark took that half of a second to start in on her.
No way I thought... I was the one who paid the compliment... I was going to be putting the moves on Tsu Tsu Mei.
I'm not sure Australian guys understand the concept of a good 'wing man' but Mark sure had some learnin' to do.
He needed to watch the movie 'Top Gun' and take some notes.
Tsu Tsu Mei and I arranged to meet later that night in downtown Shanghai and proceeded to become great friends.
She even took me to meet her parents... Norman Tsu... the very first deaf technical drafting instructor in all of China and his 'deaf wife Janie.'
Tsu Tsu Mei's father Norman was sent to the United States to study technical drafting in the fifties.
He went to Gaudellet University and he confided in me that he really liked it... that he didn't want to come back to China... he stopped writing home and corresponding with the government... he wanted to drift away... but they corralled his mother who was a widow by this time... and they made her write Norman a letter that made it really clear that it was in her best interests that Norman return to China.
That's how China got its first deaf technical drafting instructor.
Or how they got him back.
Norman always referred to his wife as 'My deaf wife Janie.'
Both of them were deaf and we passed notes to each other over a marvellous dinner... while Tsu tsu Mei just kept smiling at me and at her parents... over the unbelievable food Norman's deaf wife cooked.
It was a feast... and not the Chinese food I was used to... this was exotic and unknown to me.
The Tsu's really went out and they've been in my thoughts many times since then.
The Tsu family was really good to me and things were moving right along with Tsu Tsu Mei too until that soldier decided that he'd turn our little hand holding session on the Shanghai riverfrint into a Kodak moment.
I had seen that guy following me before... he was the tallest Chinaman I'd ever seen... a full head above the rest of the general population.
I found great amusement in shagging him... going into a store and going out the back door.
It was really like a game.
Still... he always found me... he was on me for days there in Shanghai.
And after he took that picture I realized that my company with Tsu Tsu Mei wasn't looked upon favorably by the authorities.
She was terrified of the repercussions.
I knew that was it... I wasn't going to get her or her family into any trouble.
I was going to get out of Shanghai.
The next day I purchased a train ticket on a sleeper train for the seventeen hour ride from Shanghai to Beijing.
How was it that I could go to a city the size of Beijing almost a thousand miles to the north and find this man called 'The Crocodile' simply by asking?
It seemed completely insane... but such was the world I found myself in this year... for me, 1990 was the year of living insanely.
After seventeen hours of watching China slide by through the window accompanied by the soundtrack of nonstop kung fu videos on the train's television sets, I stepped off the carriage in Beijing, China's capital city.
Which was a godsend because I could not have taken one more of those videos.
The Chinese truly love them... they must be a part of their national identity... the way that the Japanese love Godzilla.
Godzilla was a mechanism that helped the Japanese to cope with their loss of World War Two and the painful shock of getting Nuked twice.
Even though Godzilla always stomps their cities to pieces they always triumph. It's like a morality tale with them.
When I was living in Osaka someone who worked in the studio that made the Godzilla movies decided to borrow the costume and wear it to a party where he caused it to be damaged to the tune of a hundred and seventy five thousand dollars.
I wish I was at that party.
Hanging out with the Nigerians.
That would have been epic.
The first european looking guy I saw in Beijing... I stopped him as was my custom in the orient and inquired of the conditions and opportunities there in this new city.
Blonde hair in China or Japan had always meant 'help desk' to me.
We vagabonds and adventurers always stuck together and usually became instant friends as long as there wasn't a woman involved.
Then I asked him if he had ever heard of 'The Crocodile.'
He said that he would take me to see him right now.
Right then.
Right there.
Unbelievable.
I'm not kidding.
No shit.
I couldn't believe it either.
I had found 'The Crocodile.'
The man walked me to a hotel a few blocks away from the railroad station.
It was an old building that looked straight out of the 1920's, like just about every other building in Beijing.
You could see that it was really beautiful at one time... maybe even opulent or exclusive... but it, like anything else that was once beautiful or opulent, it seemed to fall into despair and decay under the custodianship of the communists.
That was the way pretty much all of Beijing looked.
With brown air and trees and bushes that were different from all those I had even known.
I always notice the trees and bushes in a new city.
Here on the other side of the world the plant life and the vegetation was odd to me... just unusual enough to stick out in my mind.
The man knocked on the door and we were answered by a nice looking blonde woman in her early twenties.
She looked kind of pissed off but invited us in still.
My guide just turned around and left with little more than a gesture to the woman.
I followed her into the room.
It had become a bit of a self entertainment for me to wonder why the man I was seeking should be called "The Crocodile."
It intrigued me from the moment I had heard it and in my mind I came up with all sorts of reasons for the nickname.
None of them pleasant.
The room was an illustration in contrasts... inside "The Crocodile" had rented two rooms... he knocked down the wall that had seperated them and completely remolded it.
This guy was livin' cush.
He sat on the edge of his bed playing with the tv remote control as if it had befuddled him... I could tell from body language that his girlfriend and he had just been fighting.
"The Crocodile" stood up and turned around to face me... the guy must have been six and a half feet tall... and immediately I could see why they called him "The Crocodile."
He wore these braces on his teeth... the largest mass of metal I've ever seen in a persons mouth.
Communist braces aren't very pretty... but these... "The Crocodiles" mouth looked like it had been installed by a blacksmith... an angry, drunken blacksmith.
Like hammered bars of hot metal hand forged around each of his teeth.
I had to make myself stop staring as he got right down to business.
Croc asked me when I wanted to leave... he said he had one ticket and he wanted a hundred and ten bucks American for it.
There'd be no negotiating I could tell that right away.
I had a feeling that if I tried that he'd have just relieved me of all my dough right there.
Probably my gear too.
We were in a bit of a funny situation for a couple of reasons... I thought the ticket looked fake... it looked worse than some of the permits and passes I'd forged in school.
I didn't have a visa to enter Russia... and I didn't carry that kind of currency in US dollars.
I wasn't too sure that the Russians would actually be too excited about me coming to their country either.
When I expressed this to "The Crocodile" he laughed a powerful and boisterous laugh and told me not to worry about it... he'd just gimme the ticket on good faith... so I could try and get a visa and cash a traveller's check or something to come up with the Dollars he wanted.
Besides he said "I know where your seat is and when you'll be leaving and if you fuck me I'll kill you" after which he laughed another deep laugh and gave me a half hug.
"I want my money by next week he said" and walked me to the door where he said goodbye and his girlfriend gave me another dirty look.
That was it.
Absolutely fucking unbelievable.
I'm in Beijing less than two hours and I found my guy and I got my ticket.
Now I just needed a visa from the Soviet Consulate.
He'd also tell me there if the ticket was real I figured.
But right now I needed a place to stay.
That would have to be my first order of business.
The Croc's hotel seemed a little too luxurious for my budget... I needed something 'dumpier.'
Something where my kind'd fit in you know?
I walked out of the hotel and on to the street... pausing for a moment to take a breath of the sulfery yellow tinged air and feel the pulse of the street there...a moment to let the vibe of it all sink in.
I could have gone left or I could have gone right but it really didn't matter because I had no idea where I was going anyway.
It's like a rule with me... like walking on the upwind side of the street because that's where all the paper money blows.
Go left.
My friend Joel... the guy who'd saved my ass from the knife weilding Yakuza that pressed certain death into my throat in that bar in Osaka... he told me that he went insane and that he would hear these voices in his head that always said the same thing... "look to the left Joel."
If he wasn't crazy already he said that those voices would do it... he never understood the meaning of it.
Stupid voices in your head... they never tell you anything good... like "stay away from that one... she's trouble."
They're always all cryptic.
You gotta try to figure them out and break the code.
Joel said the lithium they gave him pretty much shut the voices down.
I never had heard voices though.
It would probably be fun for a day or two... just to see what they would say.
I think if I had voices they would sound like Vincent Price on LSD.
So I went left after I walked out of the Crocodile's hotel.
I usually always go left when I got no idea but this time I was especially glad I did.
I get about a block and right there smack dab... badda bing... I run into this guy I lived with in Osaka Japan... Mike Levine... a Jewish guy from Jersey.
He had let me borrow a pair of his shoes back in Osaka because I couldn't find any shoes in my size in all of freakin' Japan.
Mike's got this big smile on his face as he sees me... we hug and slap each others backs and talk about the fight that got me thrown out of the university in Japan that we both went to.
I asked Mike if he knew where to score any hashish around Beijing and he just gave me another smile.
We walked about a block and we turned into this little dive grocery store.
From the greeting he got from the proprietress you could tell Mike had done business there before.
He walked me up to the woman and only said 'hashish.'
She pulled out a giant burlap bag filled with about five pounds of the finest green hash I'd ever seen and the smell just about knocked me out.
'Give her an American dollar' he said.
So I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dirty crumpled bill and handed it to her.
She just smiled and held open the bag.
'Go ahead... just take a handful' Mike said.
So I took the biggest handful possible and we just walked out of the place leaving a little trail of green hashish balls on the floor behind me.
I didn't have a bag or anything so I just dumped them in my shirt and tied it in a little knot to hold the stuff.
'You wanna go smoke some hashish' I asked Mike.
'Nah... I gotta go man' was all he said.
Mike gave me directions to a suitably dumpy hotel and we parted ways.
Walking down the street I saw a couple of American girls... who turned out to be two really granola looking lesbian backpackers from Nebraska.
I stopped them there and asked them where they were staying... they said they had no idea... I invited them to share a hotel room with me if we could find one... plus the thought of girl on girl action sounded like really good fun to me.
I felt like I was really going to like Beijing.
It seemed like an easy city.
Things were looking good.
Was this my lucky day or what?
Shit, I been here for like two hours... I already met the guy I came to meet, had a ticket for the Trans Siberian, scored a big old handful of hashish, hooked up with two lesbians and there we found a three dollar a night hotel.
Six yuan a night for each of us.
What more greatness could God bestow on me?
Another lesbian?
A blind supermodel?
That would just be asking too much I thought.
Lady Luck, I've always said, she was indeed a friend of mine.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth they say... so I unpacked my gear in the hotel room... every bit of it... and spread it all around.
I always unpack fully so if I get robbed they can't just take one bag and split... they gotta work for it... then I unscrew all the lightbulbs in the room so they gotta have a flashlight to do it well... and then I make some loud noise making booby trap... like a pyramid of empty beer cans behind the door... then they gotta have nerves of steel to finish the job.
Never got robbed once.
Never.
I have come home more than a few times affected by some intoxicant or another and fallen vicim to my own booby traps though.
It always scared the beejesus out of me.
The Nebraska lesbians unpacked too.
I decided that it'd be a good time to spark up a gram or two of that sweet green hashish Mike helped me to score so I stuck a push pin into the top of the beat up old desk... put a ball of hashish on it and lit it on fire with my lighter.
Then I took a drinking water glass and turned it upside down and set it over the flaming ball of hash.
The lack of oxygen snuffed out the flames and the glass filled up with the sweet smoke of the ganja extract.
Tipping the glass up on it's side just a little released some of the vapors and I inhaled ever so deeply.
'What the fuck are you doing' one of the lesbians asked.
'Smoking hashish... you want some' I replied in the way that you reply when you're trying to hold in a savory hit of the herbs.
'You can get the fucking death penalty for doing that shit here' the other one said.
They started packing their bags back up and they were mighty pissed off.
I finished up the hashish just as they slammed the door shut behind them.
Then I laid on the bed and put my arms back behind my head and let the smoke sink in.
Man it felt good.
'Fuck those lesbians' I thought... 'who needs that shit?'
Then somehow I got the idea that those bitches might tell someone I was up in the room gettin' high with a big stash of freshly purchased green hash.
This did not go down well with my psyche.
Especially after she'd mentioned the whole 'death penalty' thing and all.
I guess I started getting pretty paranoid.
I hadn't smoked that stuff in a long time and it was killer strength.
I needed to get it out of my room.
Throwing it out the window seemed like a good option.
So I opened the window and lo and behold I see a miracle from gahd right there.
There was a crack in the concrete window sill with some moss growing in it that looked just like the hashish!
So I stuffed it all in that crack and shut the window.
That way I could deny the stuff was mine.
I felt better just then and I was mourning the fact that I'd be seeing no girl on girl action tonight.
Then I noticed the clouds of hash smoke drifting out of the window over the door into the hotels hallway.
Just about the same time I heard the foot steps.
Man... my heart was beating like a thousand miles an hour and panic was startin' to set in.
The footsteps sounded like nice shoes on that marble floor in the hall.
They were the cops and I knew it.
Fuck.
I was busted.
Those bitches.
My poor mom's gonna shit when she gets the news from the State Department I thought.
The footsteps came closer and closer growing louder and louder.
I thought my heart was gonna jump outta my chest.
Until the footsteps passed my doorway and kept going.
I don't know who it was and I didn't care.
It was time to get out of here... It was time to go have a look at Beijing.
I left the hotel in a hurry and jumped on the first bus I saw... it didn't matter where the bus was going...I didn't care... I was sure that I hadn't been there anyway.
That's the great thing about exploring like that.
A new city... just go anywhere.
It's all new.
Sitting on the bus I was of course the only westerner riding it.
The Chinese weren't as polite as the Japanese and they would just stare at you forever... sometimes with mouth agape even... and I found myself very much the center of attention... the center of attention was something I really didn't want to be.
Since I was high as a kite on that hashish I'd just smoked.
I kinda wanted to blend in really.
That was going to be tough.
I started having what could only be described as auditory hallucinations on that bus... that happened alot to me in China... but right there it was bad... the cacaphony of Chinese voices started to filter itself out in my hyperactive mind and become english... I could understand things sometimes... I was certain that people were commenting on how intoxicated I was... they all knew it... they were all talking about me... looking at me... 'Is that American guy drunk out of his gourd or what?'
I had to get off that bus.
The sweat was pouring from my pores.
It was getting to be more than uncomfortable... it was unbearable.
The next stop was my stop no matter where it might be... soon as it stopped I jumped off that bus so fast... I didn't even have a clue as to where I was... and I didn't care.
Away from that hash house hotel and off of that bus...I just wanted my own little piece of contraband free real estate where I could sit and watch China go by and make amusing comments in my head to entertain myself.
This was my stop.
Before me was layed an enormous plaza... I had never seen such a large paved public space.
It was gigantic enough it looked like you could lay down and land a 747 in it if you went from one corner to the next.
It was so big and vast that the smog of Beijing obscured the other side of it from me.
I didn't know what this place was, but it made me feel realy small... insignificant actually... which was precisely how I wanted to feel.
I stood at Tienenmen Square.
This was the old Beijing... the one that used to be before the extremely systematic exploitation of cheap labor turned the place into a giant pachinko parlor... this was the dirty, dusty and gritty beijing where products were pulled around on wagons by teams of horses who shit big piles in the streets that you'd go straight over the handlebars of your bicycle if you didn't look where you were going.
I'd seen it.
This was the Beijing where the streets seemed impossibly large considering no one really owned a car... the Beijing where the old people all wore those navy blue or black or gray kung fu outfits and walked around stooping with their hands clasped behind their backs as if some ultimate power had ordered them to for all time.
This was the square in Beijing where less than a year had passed since thousands of students took a chance to try and change their world... this was the Beijing where tanks had rolled over them without mercy and their bodies were torn apart by the callousness of lead flying around at ballisticly high speeds and cruel random trajectories.
This was the Beijing where their blood ran like rivers down the curbs and into the sewers where like the extinguishing of their tender lives for naught all was soon forgotten by a world more infatuated with its demand for cheap consumer electronics in attractive clamshell packaging.
The one year anniversary of the slaughter was approaching and here as if by accident I find myself in the place where history was made and so conveniently forgotten.
Here and there I could still see bullet scars, burns and other marks that told the tale of a failed movement killed in a single night of murderous debauchery.
It was eerie in Beijing.
I couldn't put my finger on it.
Was it just the hashish's influence?
I couldn't place it until I found a nice grassy place to sit down and let everything stabilize.
Let my altered mind stop spinning.
The young people were all gone.
I found out that the government had sent what looked like the entire youth of the capitol city to 'summer camp,' where they'd sing patriotic songs and watch lots of motivational films and learn the error of their ways.
That's how they cracked down after the massacre.
It was re-education for the entire young population... there was almost no one walking around that city between the age of fourteen and twenty one.
It was spooky... strange mojo in a strange land.
Like some kind of Twilight Zone episode.
Everybody's seen the picture of 'Tank Man,' that guy whose name the world doesn't know... the one who was walking home from the grocery store with a couple of plastic bags in his hands... the guy who became a lonely human roadblock for a column of tanks... I know I could never forget that guy... he had balls the size of watermelons that one.
I woudda love to have bought that guy a drink or eight.
I was walking down that street and a momentary sense of deja vu made me stop... It felt like I'd been there before... it didn't take too long for the reality to hit me... I was standing in that spot.
In the Tank Man's spot.
The premonition came from looking at that photograph.
There was a pay phone there... on the side of the street... you can see it in the Tank Man picture... I thought my parents might like to know where in the world I was so I tried to call them from it without luck.
Maybe they'd think it was cool that I was calling them from there I thought.
I wanted to feel the scene out... I wanted to let it all sink in a little bit so I sat down and I had a look around.
It all began to unfold in my mind... the direction the tanks came from... the sounds they'd make... their squeaking tracks rolling on the asphalt echoing in the canyon of concrete buildings... I could see the crosswalk he was walking across when it happened.
I stood up, still painting the scene on the canvas of my mind with the brushes of my imagination and I walked towards the crosswalk... just as he did that remarkable day.
Man... sometimes even I have a hard time putting things into words... sometimes feelings, emotions and perceptions are just too powerful and swift to get a grasp on.
Surveying the scene where this historic collision happened from the street... it was so much different than the picture we all know... that was shot from high above... it's got a whole different tone than the lonliness and isolation that the street level offered.
Just like in the square where I had felt so small... even the street there was massive in width... one of those subcompact cars flying through the smog could have crushed me like a bug.
The thought of standing my ground in front of a column of many ton armored tanks with their diesel engines shaking and belching thick black smoke and rumbling in anger... I'll tell you this... with the greatest respect that I can muster... that guy... at that moment... he took on the entire world.
He was a bad ass motherfucker who said 'hey... I don't like what's going down here' and he backed it up with his hundred and fifty pound body alone in the streets.
He never even put those grocery bags down.
But for a moment, that man stopped the world.
He stood his ground.
He stood our ground.
He stood for everyman that day.
I didn't.
I didn't even chance stopping where he did.
I didn't want to stop a bus.
When I got across the street I walked back towards Tienenmen Square wondering what happened to the guy.
These thoughts were crisply punctuated when I found the remains of a completely flattened bicycle.
It had been run over by something pretty heavy because it was as flat as a bicycle could conceivably become.
It even had a curve to it... a lot of parts were gone but the frame, the handlebars, even the rims were crushed flat.
I picked it up, still thinking about Tank Man and I realized what it meant.
Something inside me wanted to take it home... to show my people... people born and raised with a freedom fought for by others... I wanted to show them what we pretty much let happen here... the great crime that we ignored.
It was a strong symbol to me at least of an oppressive government that lost it's temper on it's own people.
I'd never get that flattened bicycle home, but I carried stashed inside the tubes of my backpack messages that people had asked me to carry out of the country to a place where mistakenly so they thought good and decent people might give two shits about the treachery bestowed upon them in their quest for what we have but could really care less about.
A freedom so strong... a freedom so deep that it was a part of me whether I was conscious about it or not... a freedom that formed the person I was and carried me on a long and mostly accidental journey to a place where youth was cut short for having the audacity and lack of patience to demand a more tolerant society where people would count for just a little more than cheap labor.
I promised myself I'd remember what happened to them.
I promised myself that on June 4th, 1990 that I'd say a prayer there in Tienenmen Square.
I'd recognize their martyrdom to the cause of freedom and I'd pay my respects on the anniversary of the barbarism of their all powerful and vicious central authority.
When that morning came with its sultry brownish orange sunrise, three hundred and sixty five days after the blood letting, when the flag of a nation was raised over it's most proud square... I was the only person that wasn't Chinese standing there as a witness to at least offer the the quiet contempt of my heart and the objection of my soul as a counterbalance to the disgrace of the murder of these children.
There were no television cameras or satellite trucks... no journalists fixing their hair or taking notes on those long pads that they carry.
Nothing.
I carried no sign or banner... I spoke no message of objection.
I sought to instigate nothing.
I stood there in Tienenmen Square as a witness.
A witness to what the rest of the free world was so selfishly quick to forget.
Two days later I'd board a train that I'd get off of in another world... where a wall that represented hate and anger and mistrust would be falling, hacked to pieces bit by bit by a people celebrating a new freedom and unity.
The contrast in worlds was incredible.
Pakistani trucks are world renowned for their exquisite designs, many of which are so intricate that they cost its owner over 1.2 million Pak Rs.
But they are also known for quite another reason: over-loading. And they are a walking hazard to all passersby, whether vehicles or humans. Now they have been banned from all new highways across Pakistan except for side highways or those which run across lot of small towns.
For all its hazard-ness, these trucks remain a visual panorama for the onlookers, especially for foreigners for whom this sight is magical and exotic. These trucks display all kinds of detailed drawings, truck-specific poses, shingles, bells, calligraphy and portraits of stars or politicians. Many trucks cry out for their imaginary (or real) love and proclaim never dying unity with them.
Drivers themselves are equally fascinating sometimes. They can sing, use hashish, and drive like mad, whenever circumstances may allow. And most of these drivers are Pathans; no other tribe or ethnic group may drive for so long, under such harsh conditions, and yet be able to smile and sing.
Photograph taken at National Highway near Karachi.
A hookah, or shisha, is a single- or multi-stemmed instrument for heating or vaporizing and then smoking either tobacco, flavored tobacco, or sometimes cannabis, hashish, and in the past opium. The smoke is passed through a water basin—often glass-based—before inhalation.
It contains high levels of arsenic, lead and nickel, and when compared to a single cigarette, hookah smoke contains 36 times more tar and 15 times more carbon monoxide. Smoking hookah poses serious health risks to smokers and nonsmokers, including cancer, heart disease, lung damage and dental disease.
(Pen on paper) (BEST VIEWED LARGE)
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I painted Charles Baudelaire in some what dark colors ,no bright colors are allowed for this man of dark poetry and a dark lifestyle that why I used red and green opposite colors to show more tension,anyway this is Charles Pierre Baudelaire April 9, 1821 – August 31, 1867) was a nineteenth-century French poet, critic, and translator. A controversial figure in his lifetime, whose reputation rests primarily on Les Fleurs du mal; (1857;The Flowers of Evil) which was perhaps the most important and influential poetry collection published in Europe in the 19th century. Known for his highly contraversial, and often dark poetry, as well as his translation of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire's life was filled with drama and strife, from financial disaster to being prosecuted for obscenity and blasphemy.Baudelaire received his inheritance in April 1842 and rapidly proceeded to dissipate it on the lifestyle of a dandified man of letters, spending freely on clothes, books, paintings, expensive food and wines, and, not least, hashish and opium.Baudelaire's continuing extravagance exhausted half his fortune in two years, and he also fell prey to cheats and moneylenders, thus laying the foundation for an accumulation of debt that would cripple him for the rest of his life.In 1846 he condemned philosophical poetry as "a false genre" and saw that art has its value in itself. "In recent years we have heard it said in thousand different ways, 'Copy nature; just copy nature.'In 1862, Baudelaire began to suffer nightmares and increasingly bad health. He left Paris for Brussels in 1863 to give a series of lectures, but suffered from several strokes that resulted in partial paralysis. On August 31, 1867, at the age of forty-six, Charles Baudelaire died in Paris. Although doctors at the time didn't mention it, it is likely that syphilis caused his final illness. His reputation as poet at that time was secure; writers such as Stephane Mallarmé, Paul Verlaine, and Arthur Rimbaud claimed him as a predecessor. In the 20th century, thinkers and artists as diverse as Jean-Paul Sartre, Walter Benjamin, Robert Lowell and Seamus Heaney have celebrated his work
A Darwaish at Sherine of Abu Lolo - Kashan. By the way Iran just does not have the same kind of Darwaish, Hashish etc kind of culture at the shrines.
18/11/2021, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria, Canary Islands, Spain.
Detained & under arrest, former Polish tug.
On 29/12/2020, this Belize registered vessel was intercepted north of the Canary Islands by the Customs Surveillance patrol boat 'Sacre' (See: flic.kr/p/iWK8VC ), it was found to be loaded with 15 tonnes of hashish, with an unknown destination; its five crew members, three Moroccans and two from Bangladesh were arrested.
The vessel and crew were taken to Las Palmas.
Further detailed information can be found here:
Vessel details:
Completed on 10/06/1966 by A/S Svendborg Skibsvaerft, Svendborg, Denmark (114)
186 g.t., 55 dwt., & 23.5 tons bollard pull, as:
'Cyklops' to 2020, &
'Cyklo 1' to October 2022, and
'Vienna' since.
Hector France - Musk, Hashish and Blood
Avon Books 308, 1951
Cover Artist: unknown ... Ray Johnson ?
"The adventures of a modern man among the cruel men and passionate women of Algiers."
Haight Ashbury - das alte Viertel der Hippies
Bis heute ist das Stadtviertel ein Mekka für diejenigen, die auf Vintage-Kleidung, Musik, Pop-Poster und Piercing-Studios stehen. Obwohl der Sommer der Liebe schon seit Jahrzehnten vorbei ist, hat sich Haight-Ashbury zu einem Schmelztiegel für Hippies, Hipster und Leute entwickelt, die den unterschiedlichsten Arbeiten nachgehen. Bei einem Spaziergang durch die Straßen hat man an jeder Ecke das Gefühl, in die Vergangenheit zurück zu kehren. Die Relikte der guten alten Hippiezeit kann man mit Batikhemden, Sandalen, weiten Kleidern, Haschischpfeifen und Poster noch immer in so manchem Laden finden. Dieses Viertel ist auch ein Muss für jeden Musikfan und es wird schnell erkennbar, warum diese Straßen Musikgrößen wie Grateful Dead und Janis Joplin anzogen.
Haight Ashbury - the old neighborhood of the hippies
To this day, the neighborhood is a mecca for those who love vintage clothing, music, pop posters and piercing studios. Although the summer of love has been over for decades, Haight-Ashbury has developed into a melting pot for hippies, hipsters and people who pursue a wide variety of jobs. Walking through the streets, you get the feeling of returning to the past at every corner. The relics of the good old hippie days can still be found in many a store with batik shirts, sandals, loose-fitting dresses, hashish pipes and posters. This district is also a must for any music fan and it's easy to see why these streets attracted music greats such as the Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin.
copyright © sundeepkullu.weebly.com
INDIA TRIBES - MALANA TRIBE
Malana, Himachal Pradesh
Malana is an ancient village to the north-east of Kullu Valley. This solitary village in the Malana Nala a side valley of the Parvati Valley is isolated from the rest of the world. The majestic peaks of Chandrakhani and Deotibba shadow the village. It is situated on a remote plateau by the side of torrential Malana river at a height of 3029 m above the sea level. Unaffected by the modern civilisation, Malana has its own lifestyle and social structure. People are strict in following their customs. Malana has been the subject of various documentaries including, Malana: Globalization of a Himalayan Village,[1] and Malana, A Lost Identity.[2]
The village administration is democratic and is believed to be the oldest republic of the world. The social structure of Malana in fact rests on villagers' unshaked faith in their powerful deity, Jamblu Devta. The entire administration of the village is controlled by him through a village council. This council has eleven members and they are believed as delegates of Jamblu who govern the village in his name. His decision is ultimate in any dispute and any outsider authority is never required
Malanis (the inhabitants of Malana) admire their culture, customs and religious beliefs. They generally do not like to change though some traces of modernization are visible.
People in Malana consider all non-Malani to be inferior and consequently untouchable. Visitors to Malana town must pay particular attention to stick to the prescribed paths and not to touch any of the walls, houses or people there. If this does occur, visitors are expected to pay a forfeit sum, that will cover the sacrificial slaughter of a lamb in order purify the object that has been made impure. Malani people may touch impure people or houses as long as they follow the prescribed purification ritual before they enter their house or before they eat. Malanis may never accept food cooked by a non-Malani person, unless they are out of the valley (in which case their Devt can't see them). Malanis may offer visitors food but all utensils will have to undergo a strict purification ritual before they can be used again.
Despite of being a part of the Kullu valley, the Malanis have very distinct physical features, and a dialect which is different from the rest of the valley. There are various legends about their origin. According to one of them, it is believed that they are the descendants of Greek soldiers of Alexander's army. As the legend goes, some soldiers took refuge in this remote land after Alexander left the country and later settled there permanently. This myth is however disputed because there are those who claim that it is the valley of Kalash, in Pakistan that is actually the area in which Alexander the Great's soldiers took refuge.
Malana was also once famous for producing some of the best quality hashish (cannabis resin) in the world, known as "Malana Cream", which sells for 1,200-1,800 rupees per tola (= 10 grams). Today however this reputation has led to an influx of Nepali cannabis traders who sell Nepali charas under the Malana name. Due to heightened police attention which is directed to the area, and a general increase in hostility from the locals towards disrespectful Ganja tourists, Malana is no longer the idyllic place it once was to visit.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malana,_Himachal_Pradesh
INDIA MALANA TRIBE "Unforgettable Himachal" Affiliation @Himachal Cultural Village
Foto: © Enrico Lo Storto 2011
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The Maha Kumbh Mela is the largest religious gathering on earth, and takes place every 12 years on the banks of Sangam, the confluence of the holy rivers Ganga, Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati, the Kumbh Mela took place in Allahabad in 2013 and attracted more than 100 million people...
Sadhu stay in little tent or houses, and all day long bless pilgrims. They smoke hashish, chat, and pause for photographers. They are holy men, they live without nothing, just covering their bodies with ashes. Do not forget the donation! It is impressive to see the people coming, touching their feet, and asking for a blessing.
© Eric Lafforgue
402 Commercial Avenue.
"This ornate brick building, the first of its kind in Skagit County, was constructed by Lewis & Dryden Engineers of Portland, Oregon. It was originally chartered as the Bank of Anacortes. The Bank closed during the depression of 1893. Two vaults and other bank-related features have survived alterations."
- City of Anacortes.
"The Platt Building on the SW corner of P/Commercial and 4th was the first brick building on Fidalgo Island. It was built by John Platt during the summer of 1890. The ANACORTES AMERICAN reported on 7-31-1890, "Platt bank building will be done in 30 days." On 10-9-1890, "The New Bank ... Fine store and Offices ... To John Platt is due the credit and honor of building and occupying the first brick block to be erected upon Fidalgo Island."
The building had several names, such as Post Office Building (Post Office housed here from 1895 to at least 1898) and, in 1901, the Wells Building after it was purchased by W. V. Wells. The structure also housed the first telephone company."
anacortes.pastperfectonline.com/photo/96E694C9-0FE0-46F1-...
My psychiatric view of the nude sadhus. ( NAGA BABAS )
plain and simple
and i have spoken to many.
Lazy, confused , some are mentally ill with chronic psychoses who smoke a lot of dope
and have absolutely nothing insightful or philosophical to
contribute.
They know a bit about the BAGHAVAD GITA
while they're sober but thats not often.
.
i mean a lot of HASH is smoked and they are probably stoned most of their lives.
These are the JAMAICAN RASTAS
the BEATNIKS of the 50's
They are in my opinions just another sample of
failed members of a failed society..............
All they did at the KUMBH 2001 and 2013 is smoke
an awful lot of HASHISH...........
only in INDIA can you get away with their antics.
Spiritual?????????????
My ass!
put em in REHAB/ take away their drug and
see how really empty they feel inside.
Photography’s new conscience
Haight Ashbury - das alte Viertel der Hippies
Bis heute ist das Stadtviertel ein Mekka für diejenigen, die auf Vintage-Kleidung, Musik, Pop-Poster und Piercing-Studios stehen. Obwohl der Sommer der Liebe schon seit Jahrzehnten vorbei ist, hat sich Haight-Ashbury zu einem Schmelztiegel für Hippies, Hipster und Leute entwickelt, die den unterschiedlichsten Arbeiten nachgehen. Bei einem Spaziergang durch die Straßen hat man an jeder Ecke das Gefühl, in die Vergangenheit zurück zu kehren. Die Relikte der guten alten Hippiezeit kann man mit Batikhemden, Sandalen, weiten Kleidern, Haschischpfeifen und Poster noch immer in so manchem Laden finden. Dieses Viertel ist auch ein Muss für jeden Musikfan und es wird schnell erkennbar, warum diese Straßen Musikgrößen wie Grateful Dead und Janis Joplin anzogen.
Haight Ashbury - the old neighborhood of the hippies
To this day, the neighborhood is a mecca for those who love vintage clothing, music, pop posters and piercing studios. Although the summer of love has been over for decades, Haight-Ashbury has developed into a melting pot for hippies, hipsters and people who pursue a wide variety of jobs. Walking through the streets, you get the feeling of returning to the past at every corner. The relics of the good old hippie days can still be found in many a store with batik shirts, sandals, loose-fitting dresses, hashish pipes and posters. This district is also a must for any music fan and it's easy to see why these streets attracted music greats such as the Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin.
(Color pencils on paper)
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www.flickr.com/groups/psychedelicart/pool/43237970@N00/
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thewordsofjdyf333.blogspot.com/
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My telephone number is: 510-260-9695
bliss
Sadhu smoking marijuana in his tent (akhara) at Gangasagar fair ground
Marijuana (Ganja - গাঁজা) is the herbal form of cannabis, and comprises the dried flowers, the subtending leaves, and the stalks of mature, pistillate female plants. Cannabis has an ancient history of ritual usage and it has been used as an aid to trance in a religious and spiritual context in India since the Vedic period dating back to approximately 1500BC but perhaps as far back as 2000BC.
Cannabis or ganja is associated with worship of the Hindu deity Shiva and itself is seen as a gift (prasad, or offering) to Shiva. It is very popular among the Bauls, Fakirs and other Sadhus of India who openly acknowledge that the use of cannabis has allowed them to gain a more spiritual perspective.
Bob Marley - Ganja Gun www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKX86bM0kfc
The Gangasagar Mela continues to throb with life, with the energy of millions of pilgrims. The pilgrimage may be extremely tough, but the pilgrims know that the visit will purify their souls. The visit fulfils their lifelong desire and often one can see tears of joy rolling down their cheeks. That is the magic of religion!
The river Ganga (Ganges) which originates in the Gangotri glacier in the snow clad high Himalayas, descends down the mountains, reaches the plains, flows through ancient pilgrimage sites, and drains into the Bay of Bengal. A dip in the ocean, where the Ganga meets the sea is considered to be of great religious significance particularly on the Makara Sankranti day (January 14/15), when the sun makes a transition to Capricorn from Sagittarius. Almost a million of Hindu devotees from all over India gather at Gangasagar for a holy dip and perform rituals and prayer (puja) with a belief that it will cleanse and purify their souls.
Images of Bengal, India
See other shots of this series: flic.kr/s/aHsk7aV1mM