Thall Tales: A Hazy Afternoon in Thall, Pakistan

A smoky story from Thall, Pakistan that proves we all might have a lot more in common than you’re taught to think. 

 

Heading Out of Town

I stepped out of the car and surveyed the scene: dust billowed up from the dirt path in front of us, and a massive tree partially hid two local children trying to get a better view of the two foreign aliens emerging from the dusty Landcruiser.

We were a few kilometers from Thall, a small rural-ish town right over the pass that separates Swat and Dir districts of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. Just yesterday, we had dropped off Abdul and his family here and less than 24 hours later we were back: this time to visit the village per Abdul and his friend Amir’s request.

We bid our goodbyes to the driver, the same wiry man who had brought us here yesterday who, though a relative of Abdul, told us he wasn’t “allowed” in the village- so leave us here he must.

I tossed my finished bundle of grapes into a forgotten cornfield and trundled along with the men as we made our way further from Thall and deeper into the realms of Patrak, home to farmers and Abdul’s roots.

Whisps of wind picked at the dried corn husks and loose sand. A woman completely shielded by a plain black sheet- the burqa of choice in these parts-  passed by, young boy-child in tow.

As more homes came into view, the men finally led us down a side path that looked something out of a painting: fields of aloo plants shone in the late summer sun, gaggles of cows roamed about through the grass, clucking chickens noisily made themselves known as a woman scurried back into the adjacent home, hands ladled with walnuts and peas.

 

 

Charpoi Chillin’

“Welcome my home!” Amir said, his toothy beaming at his charming farmland abode.

Dozens of ripe apple and walnut trees shaded the sandy path, blocking just enough sun as to ensure a comfortable place to whiling away a bit of time.

Abdul, a portly man sporting a thick beard and friendly eyes motioned for us to sit, as a teenage boy traipsed from the house with wooden chairs- clearly beginning his tenure as today’s designated errand-doer.

“My son,” Amir explained with the bits of English words he knew. He and I exchanged Salams. He glanced back curiously before his newfound responsibilities pulled him into the home.

 

Neither Amir nor Abdul knew much English, and us- no Kohistani to speak of.

Within moments, Amir’s son was back with some offerings: red apples and freshly sliced walnuts spread out onto a metal plate, accompanied by glasses filled to the brim with icy spring water.

A third younger, dark-haired man- presumably another relative- appeared with yet another gift for us: a cot-style bed paired with oversized log-shaped pillows.

 

Clearly, Swat Valley style hospitality does not disappear when you cross into district Dir.

Abdul, a portly man with a thick beard and kind, crinkly eyes chatted with Amir and their relative some feet away from where I lazed on the cot, savoring the crunchy apples and buttery-smooth walnuts.

Abdul’s son, whom we had also met on the drive from Thall, sputtered out of the nearby home and took a place at his father’s chapal-laden feet.

 

A Very Familiar Kind of Fun

Suddenly, the spark of a match pulsed through the early-fall afternoon and my head snapped towards the men. Amir touched the flame to an unidentifiable object that seconds later made itself known by the deep earthy sent of none other than… Pakistani hashish.

Amir’s ice blue eyes focused intently on his creation: a combination of tobacco and nuggets of greenish-brown charas. He forced the mixture back into the cigarette, before bringing it to his pursed lips, flicking the match, and setting flame to his high.

The session had begun.

The joint made its way around the men, all of whom seemed pleasantly surprised when realizing that I, too, was very down to join in the hazy-afternoon antics.

Being a charsi (hashish/charas smoker) in Pakistan might be common, but being a female charsi? …Not so much.

I reached out from the cot to take my turn and took a deep inhale, acutely pleased. I savored the familiar burn of the drag, the rows and rows of corn and apple plants in front of me, the stuttered cacophony of animal exclamations behind me, and the generosity of the men to my left, some of whom we had just met an hour before.

One thing was certain: this was about as far off as possible from the scene American media paints of Pakistan, and KPK at that.

The joint burned out, and Abdul crouched to the ground, arranging what appeared to be a large metal plate, piled up with a lump of clumpy gray soot.

Say what?

 I meandered closer towards the men and noticed Amir’s son was back with some water. He stood gazing at Abdul, who now had a blackened straw in his mouth, which he gingerly touched to the top of the pile of smoky soot.

Hazy smoke billowed from the pile as Abdul’s straw made contact. Sucking it all into his lungs, he released and out came a pure cloud of pure, raw hashish- for once untouched by tobacco.

As if reading my mind, Amir turned to me and gestured towards this plate-contraption:

“Chitta”

 The local invention seemed to be a take on a bong, or some sort of pipe. The men took turns using it, either puffing themselves or aiding the acting charsi in keeping the pile of soot lit. All the men gave the chitta a go.

With tobacco now out of the equation, this didn’t look too different from any Western smoke sesh, except now we were gifted with epic Pakistani scenery and fresh fruits rather than four living room walls and a coffee table.

Finally, my turn came around as the men motioned for me to come before the chitta. I squatted down in the dusty walkway, gurgled a bit of water as instructed and sucked through the straw, letting out a hazy exhale as the men laughed to themselves.

In a village where women were unable to even meet unrelated men, I could only imagine what they thought of a girl shamelessly puffing away on the chitta.

“You like?” I guess Amir couldn’t tell that I was more than sufficiently stoned. KPK hash certainly doesn’t play around.

Chai and Corn

After a bit more chitta and mimed/basic conversation, the sun’s quickening descent signaled the end of the session… and just like we headed inside for what appeared to be a universal post-bake activity: munchies.

Willing ourselves off the ground, we slowly made our way past around the aloo fields and up into the guestroom that every house in KPK has. I flopped back onto the quintessential Pakistani-guestroom tube pillow, overly hungry but comfortably relaxed.

Amir’s son was back on his duties, quickly bringing us chai and… grilled corn on the cobs? Just like the chitta, the crunchy, sweet bites brought up all kinds of summer memories of grilling corn on the cob at home in equally perfect late summer eves.

Stereotypes Begone

Two things as simple as hashish and corn seemed to prove the western media, US Travel Advisories, and fearmongering relatives wrong in just a few hours.

The United States government lists KPK as a Level 4- Absolutely Do Not Travel due to terrorism.

And while the region was taken over by the Taliban in the late 2000’s, the people of KPK couldn’t be farther from terrorists.

Our day spent lounging in a farm, where we were recipients of generous hospitality from a group of people we barely knew, proved to be the exact opposite of Fox News’s ludicrous depictions of Pakistan.

The only way to get to know a group of people or country is by visiting it- not by listening to the opinions of radical media or others who haven’t visited themselves.

You might just find that even in villages 7,000 miles away from home, cannabis, corn on the cob, and chicken wings are just as appreciated.

 

Hashish in Pakistan… Say what?!

Though I, of course, don’t condone illegal activities, I find counter-culture interesting. Why not share the facts as they may be?

Here’s what’s up:

Alcohol is directly forbidden by name in the Quran, but hashish? Not so much. As such, many Pakistanis love their hashish…well at least the men, that is.

Even in a place as conservative as Thall, (AND Swat Valley) you’ll find the penchant for the cannabis plant to be well… high.

Hashish, charas, gurma or whatever you prefer to call it is very easy to find in the Islamic Republic, though the green stuff is most commonly known by westerners as marijuana remains elusive.

You won’t encounter any bhang or coffee shops here but many guys over 18 seem to have some type of local connection.

In both social circles and per law enforcement, hashish finds itself far more acceptable than its frequent counterpart, alcohol (Though that’s NOT to say it’s legal).

The green/brown stuff is intertwined with many Sufi events, and rural/ remote areas seem to be pretty relaxed with charsis. Many say the best quality stuff can be found in the city of Peshawar… though all of KPK could be in the running.

Looking to experience the hazier side of Pakistan? Head to a Sufi dhamal and/or make local friends … the latter of which can be accomplished by stepping outside pretty much anywhere in the country.

Nevertheless, it’s highly important to remember that this is not Amsterdam and or Parvati Valley– exercising regular precautions and not doing something ridiculous like lighting up in the middle of the Walled City of Lahore will go a long way.