29) Mr Nice's adventure in Pakistan

(From Mr Nice, an autobiography) get the book and read it with a joint of mango haze or better, a joint of Nordle

"Welcome to Pakistan, D.H. Marks,” said Aftab..

'First, D.H. Marks, the mother-business. The product is ready for your inspection. It is safely in my control at a warehouse in Baluchistan. We can go there any time. Right this minute if you wish. We have a car outside at our disposal. Here is a small sample. Here also is PIA timetable. You will see that a few flights are possibilities. We will need to book space for this quite large consignment at least forty-eight hours in advance.'

I took hold of the soft, sticky slab of black hash and put my lighter flame to one of its corners. The flame jumped to the hash. That was always a good sign. Wisps of blue smoke accompanied my favourite aroma. I sucked at the smoke, the taste making me want to fill my lungs. The bridge of my nose throbbed. This hash was excellent, the best Pakistani I'd ever tried.

The dope supplies in neighbouring Afghanistan had almost dried up when the Russians took their tanks to Kabul in 1980. The invasion forced over five million Afghanis to flee from their country and become refugees in Pakistan. The Pakistani province bordering Afghanistan was the lawless North West Frontier Province (NWFP). The population both sides of the border is mainly made up of Pathan tribesmen. The NWFP countryside was officially and totally under the control of Pathan tribal chieftains. Pakistan's military and police had to abide by statutes not allowing them to stray off the main roads between towns, not even in pursuit of a murderer, kidnapper, or rapist. They could negotiate with the tribal representative. Nothing else.

The NWFP became the headquarters, strategy-planning centre, and battle-training ground of the mujaheddin, the freedom fighters who have no understanding of the concept of surrender. Either Russia would be defeated and leave Afghanistan or the mujaheddin would all die. There could be no compromise.

Arms and supplies, many sent from the governments of countries sympathetic to the mujaheddin's struggle against the Communists, were amassed in settlements in NWFP. To no one's great surprise, much found its way to the bazaars in NWFP's main trading city of Peshawar at the foot of the Khyber Pass.

Traditionally, the area now known as NWFP had always been an ideal cannabis-growing region. The Himalayan heights and crystalline pure air enable the life-giving tropical sun to have almost direct contact with the plant, which responds by massaging itself with hashish, its home-made resin. Afghanistan, on the other side of the Himalayas, was equally ideal, and the holy city of Maza-al-sharif had become famed as the centre of the best hashish in the world. Some of the refugees to NWFP were experienced cannabis cultivators and harvesters. They needed money to live. The mujaheddin needed money. For centuries, the Afghan techniques of hashish production had remained within the country's borders. Now they had been established and expanded in Pakistan and produced limitless quantities of high-grade commercial hash, known in the Western hemisphere as 'border hash'

‘Can you make sure it’s absolutely the best quality?’

‘D. H. Marks, the very best quality is too expensive, even in Khyber Pass. And you will never see outside of NWFP. I will explain you. When plant first flowers, top is cut and chopped and put into white goatskin in ground. This is first quality, but amount is very small. Second flower is cut and put into brown goatskin. This is second quality, and amount is much bigger. Third flower is cut and put into black goatskin. This is third quality, and amount is very big. When we make hashish we use many bags third quality, some second, and one or two first. Price of first quality is maybe one hundred times that of third quality. For $2 million payment for ten tons, we can maybe have 5% first quality, 20% second quality, and 75% third quality. Usually it is only 3% first quality, so you will have excellent product. But you will try it; you will know.

After flying to Hong Kong, picking up some money from Gerry’s wife, Wywonna, and giving it to Malik’s friend in BCCI, I returned to Karachi. Malik gave me a Pakistani passport bearing some unpronounceable name and my photograph. Malik and I flew PIA to Islamabad. A car met us and took us to Flashman’s Hotel in Rawalpindi. In the cloakroom I changed into typical Afridi tribesman’s garb and smoked a quick, but powerful, joint. The people of the NWFP are of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Neither blond hair nor blue eyes are that unusual. Wear the right clothes and appear a little weather-beaten and stoned, don’t say a word, and you’ll pass as a native. Another driver in another car came and picked us up. We drove for several hours through the NWFP until we came to Peshawar, where we stopped for a cup of tea in the middle of an arms bazaar, which also specialised in the repair of ghetto-blasters and air-conditioning units. A couple of traders came up and shook Malik’s hand. Driving north-west toward the Khyber Pass, we passed through Landi Khotal and took a small road off the so-called highway. A Pakistani policeman stopped us at a primitive border post and examined our passports. No words were exchanged. A hundred yards later we came across another border post. This was manned by fierce, heavily armed Afridi. Each one of them knew Malik. We were transferred to a jeep and tore off up a mountain track.

Are we in Afghanistan now?’ I asked Malik.

‘If you look at atlas in London bookshop, D. H. Marks, it will say you are in Afghanistan. But really there is no border. Only in Western mind is border. These Afridi peoples have lived in mountains here for centuries. The mountains are theirs. They know nothing of countries and borders. They have been called many different names by West: Indians, Afghans, Pakistanis, and even British. But this is bullshit to them.

” They have always been Afridi. We are Afridi, both sides of mountains which you call Afghanistan-Pakistan borde.”

Eventually we came to a large wooden fort, the inside of which was devoted to the manufacture of hashish. Goatskins were piled up everywhere. I wondered which quality went into skins that were both black and white. At the centre of the fort was a line of what appeared to be wooden scaffolds. A very old white- bearded man had walked beside us as we drove in. We stopped by the scaffolds. The old man embraced Malik. Both men cried openly.

The scaffolds were in fact very basic six-feet-high cantilevers. On one end of the see-saw was a large, almost perfectly spherical boulder, which was held up about ten feet above ground by the weight of two Afridi tribesmen holding down the sea-saw's other end. Directly underneath the threatening boulder was a large hole in which a fire raged. Almost covering the hole was an enormous cooking pan, like that used to prepare a giant paella. The pan was filled with the contents of the goatskins. Every ten seconds, the two Afridi tribesmen would release their end of the cantilever. The boulder came crashing down on the paella pan, pulverising the resinous chopped plant tops, and was then quickly returned to its mid-air vantage position. Slowly, but noticeably, the pan became full of a piping hot, dark brown goo. This change in the molecular structure enabled the plant's full psychoactive potential to be realised. Smoking the stuff straight out of a goatskin didn't work. When the goo became thin enough, it was placed in wooden moulds, each shaped to hold approximately half a kilo. Gerry's designer stamp was embossed on each slab as the goo was hardening. The slab contracted as it cooled and almost jumped out of the mould. Eight thousand slabs had been prepared. There were twelve thousand more to go.

After an uneventful forty-eight hours, Malik and Aftab turned up at my room. Their car was outside. Aftab carried my suitcase of money, and we drove off into Karachi's slums. We drove to a large stone warehouse, and the double doors were opened by two grim-faced guards. Inside was a central area circled by several separate rooms. This was a hive of quiet activity. About twenty people, each looking like a cross between Yasser Arafat and Genghis Khan, were carting around large metal containers, buckets of grease, cans of petrol, and welding equipment. A few just sat and stared. In the corner were four large piles of cardboard boxes. Each box had been professionally banded and stencilled with AT&T's address in New York. Each had a label, in both Japanese and English, proclaiming its origin to be Tokyo. Malik had done an excellent job. He went through the process with me.Each 500-gram rectangular slab of hashish was put into a sealed plastic bag. The plastic bags were taken to a separate room, washed with petrol, and left for several hours. A new set of workers whose hands.

had not touched hashish took the plastic bags into another room and placed them into metal tins. Lids were welded on to the tins, which were taken to another room and washed with petrol. Waiting in yet another room were slightly larger tins containing a few inches of warm fat. The smaller sealed tins were put into the larger tins and more fat poured in to the brim. The larger tin was welded tight and placed into the cardboard box. The consignment was now ready to take to the airport storage, where its smell-proofness would be given the final test by Malik's cop with the dogs.

I hope this little trip to Pakistan with Mr. Nice made you travel and want to smoke some good old Pakistani.