I probably woke early the next morning. I had a remarkably clear head despite the excess of the day before. I took the short walk out of my room to the shared facilities and as I remember it now I think my room might have been to the left or right as you came in from the street so that you had to walk along a path across the small inner garden to the bathroom which was at the back somewhere. the bathroom can't have been too bad because I don't remember very much about it (which turns out to be surprising). I think I had a shave and a shower and went back to the room to listen to the radio and pack the day bag for whatever may have been in store.
I was two steps put of the room off to breakfast on something like tea and toast at the RS Restaurant when whatever-his-name-was came alongside with renewed efforts to offload the balance of what we had been smoking the day previously. I began to "get it". I was obliged in a manner of speaking. Something like this, only much less subtle, happened to me in Tangiers many years later.
In that case my companion and I were walking along the road at the bottom of the town that looks out to the docks. A guy showed me a huge lump of something unmistakable and enquired whether I was interested. I said I really wasn't but the guy invited us to join him for a sit down and a cup of tea, the mint variety. Why not? It was a balmy night, we'd just arrived there at the beginning of a short adventure and this was part of it.
We had reached the place where there are steps up into the Medina and the guy motioned us to wait while he fetched some chairs from a café about 30 yards away. He set the chairs down and the three of us looked out over the docks all lit up. He rolled a big spliff, lit it and handed it to me. We were a discreet distance from the café but still very much in public. He gave us some spiel about the boats that carry hashish over to Europe every night to Europe. Part of his U.S.P. - Unique Selling Proposition - was that the stuff that was exported was nowhere near as good as what the locals kept back for themselves. The stuff for export was adulterated and its odour had to be disguised which meant there were impurities in it that made it less than safe to smoke to his mind. His stuff, by contrast, was the very best. No additives or preservatives. 100% unadulterated genuine Bedouin (more likely Berber) Moroccan golden hashish.
It certainly smelled very strong and tasted very strong. In fact it was very strong. All of a sudden both of us were really pretty stoned.
The guy then asked if we wanted some. We said we really honestly didn't (we did at some point, by the way, but it hadn't been our intention to buy stuff off the street like this). The guy then became a bit more insistent stating that we had already smoked the stuff and that having tried it it and declared it good we really had to buy it. There was no ignoring the guy. We thanked him again for the offer but we really thought we had to pass this time. Anyway we didn't actually need any because we were "sorted", so to speak. The man then uttered some words that still cause a chill to course down my spine when I think about them. He said: "You want I make a problem for you? I know where you are staying".
Then the distance between our chairs and the café seemed less of a comfort and more of an enormous gulf between us and relative safety. Senses more than slightly heightened by the very strong spliff, we began to become aware of our isolation. At the same time other things become clearer such as the fact that there were vehicles passing all the time and occasionally these contained uniformed occupants. The Police?
It didn't take long to decide that the man's very generous offer should be accepted. The sample smoke had indeed hit the spot and, even though £15 each was more than we had really intended to spend, what we were getting seemed just about value for money compared with the UK price for the absolute rubbish that is exported there. We parted on the best of terms, our apologies for any misunderstanding having been magnanimously accepted.
My companion (who may not wish to be named so I won't identify him at this stage) did comment that he couldn't believe I had got round my trip a few years earlier in one piece. I never told him that I had. It's a bit like the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas opening lines. Metaphorically speaking I didn't tell him about the bats.
So how does this relate to my present predicament in Pushkar? Well, on the one hand I had already shown myself as susceptible to the pleasures of the resinous pollen of the Indian hemp plant; on the other, the day before I had disclosed that I was not in the market because I had plenty, in fact way too much, to be going along with. If (like some of the Hindu deities) I had more than the usual two arms I could say that on the third hand I had already smoked some of what I was now being asked to buy.
I was obliged, you see. This cylindrical lump of resin (with some already consumed) was also part of the cost of the previous morning's entertainment. I complained that I had come to Pushkar to relax and not to spend very much money. The truth was that after stumping up for the puja the day before I didn't have very much ready cash anyway so I couldn't afford what he wanted from me. I had to disappoint my young host. I went to breakfast and spent some time reading on the rooftop terrace.
Then I went shopping. Looking is free.
