Smoking with the Chief

by Mordechai Zoltan | 2010

Like a warm hug sending shivers down my spine, the sickly sweet smoke meandered through my lungs, exploding into millions of tiny smiley faces raging through my bloodstream. Lying on my side, on top of a grass mat covering the dirt floor of the Chief's hut, I saw the flame from the kerosene torch reflected in his eyes. Rolling onto my back, my lungs released a long, thick stream of opium smoke, billowing slowly out the ramshackle thatched ceiling like the clouds before a slow-moving cold front. Our eyes met as he reached over to take the old piece of bamboo from my hand. My head nodded slowly as he held the pipe over the flame, burning the residue off to make it ready for another hit. Outside I could hear the sound of children laughing and wondered where the others had gone.

The Chief's village was located in the Golden Triangle, a triangular sliver of Northern Thailand located between Laos and what was then known as Burma. Reachable only by foot, it was situated at the end of a grueling daylong uphill trek from Chaing Mai. Surrounded by steep terraces heavily cultivated with opium poppies, the Chief's village was a group of small weather beaten huts standing in sharp contrast to the surrounding greenery. Beautiful to look at, the poppy bloom produces a ball-shaped bulb, which is its prized fruit. When the surface of the bulb is cut, it weeps a black, sticky, tar-like substance that is scraped off and harvested as what we know as opium. It was no coincidence that I was lying on a grass mat on the dirt floor of the Chief's hut. Being that I was hanging with the Chief, there was no shortage of the black, sticky, tar-like substance.

You can hear her in your ears and feel her in your bones. When you first meet her, she may make you sick, but she will always keep you coming back for more. The day I arrived in the village I wondered why you had to lie down when you smoked with the Chief. It's a simple thing, really. When you smoke with the Chief, gravity becomes a huge part of your day. It's like a space walk in reverse. When you smoke with the Chief you say “Uncle” to gravity. So when you lay on your side with the torch between you and the Chief, and you tilt the bamboo pipe ever so slightly to capture the flame and bubble the tar, you become part of the pipe, part of the bare floor; and when you see the toothless grin on the dirty face of the Chief, you are already there. Your journey has ended where it began. It saves you the falling when you lay down to smoke with the Chief.

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