While I prefer a well rolled joint I do own a collection of pipes for different occasions. Thirty years ago my brother and I had a rotating collection of shared pipes. Pipes would be acquired or carved and then shared until a place in the collection was determined. Some pipes just didn’t make it; for what ever reason, they were clumsy or difficult, some were just too hard to clean. The chillum was one of the first pipes in the collection.
I was traveling through Southeast Asia in 1968, as a civilian I might add, when I encountered a pair of monks trying to light a straight pipe along a mountain pass on the Thai border with Laos, we were almost into the “Golden Triangle”; a place I wanted to avoid. I had seen these straight pipes in every market since I had left Bangkok, but I wasn’t sure how to smoke one. I was carrying an old corn cob but it was a bit worse for wear and I wasn’t sure how much longer it would last.
The monks were sitting along the trail in the shade as we approached the summit of the ridge. One monk was striking a flint into a pile of tinder and the wind was playing havoc with his best efforts. The other monk was rubbing his hands together and occasionally a black snake of softened hashish peeked out between his palms. My obvious curiosity caused a small smile to cross the monks face. He motioned to a rock close by and indicated we should sit. I reached into my pack and found the “windproof “Zippo I had picked up in Hong Kong. With a flick we were able to get his pile of tinder blazing. With a small splint he provided the flame to heat the bowl of hashish the other monk had prepared.
I took a couple of tries to get the feel but after a bit I got the hang of using the device. I was able to regulate the air to smoke ratio by how tightly I held my palms together, and the hits were blinding. Here we were about seven thousand feet in elevation, with seventy pound packs and the hash had been rubbed this morning. We finished the thumb sized bowl and the monk rolled out another snake to fill the bowl. When he tapped the ashes out he reached onto the path and selected three small rocks which he placed at the bottom of the bowl. On top of the rocks he crumbled the hash coil he had softened. With another splint we shared another two gram bowl.
We were finished when we were finished. The monks arranged themselves for meditation and we shouldered our packs for the hike down into Leio province.
The basic process is like making a cup of your hands; only you interlock the index finger between the index and middle fingers of the other hand. With the heels of the hands pressed together you lay your thumbs in place and inhale. Of course you need a friend to hold the flame but it is a most rewarding smoke. This is the pipe I used when my sons turned eighteen and we could enjoy a ceremonial smoke together. I keep saving this pipe in the event my grandchildren want to get stoned when they turn eighteen.
I was traveling through Southeast Asia in 1968, as a civilian I might add, when I encountered a pair of monks trying to light a straight pipe along a mountain pass on the Thai border with Laos, we were almost into the “Golden Triangle”; a place I wanted to avoid. I had seen these straight pipes in every market since I had left Bangkok, but I wasn’t sure how to smoke one. I was carrying an old corn cob but it was a bit worse for wear and I wasn’t sure how much longer it would last.
The monks were sitting along the trail in the shade as we approached the summit of the ridge. One monk was striking a flint into a pile of tinder and the wind was playing havoc with his best efforts. The other monk was rubbing his hands together and occasionally a black snake of softened hashish peeked out between his palms. My obvious curiosity caused a small smile to cross the monks face. He motioned to a rock close by and indicated we should sit. I reached into my pack and found the “windproof “Zippo I had picked up in Hong Kong. With a flick we were able to get his pile of tinder blazing. With a small splint he provided the flame to heat the bowl of hashish the other monk had prepared.
I took a couple of tries to get the feel but after a bit I got the hang of using the device. I was able to regulate the air to smoke ratio by how tightly I held my palms together, and the hits were blinding. Here we were about seven thousand feet in elevation, with seventy pound packs and the hash had been rubbed this morning. We finished the thumb sized bowl and the monk rolled out another snake to fill the bowl. When he tapped the ashes out he reached onto the path and selected three small rocks which he placed at the bottom of the bowl. On top of the rocks he crumbled the hash coil he had softened. With another splint we shared another two gram bowl.
We were finished when we were finished. The monks arranged themselves for meditation and we shouldered our packs for the hike down into Leio province.
The basic process is like making a cup of your hands; only you interlock the index finger between the index and middle fingers of the other hand. With the heels of the hands pressed together you lay your thumbs in place and inhale. Of course you need a friend to hold the flame but it is a most rewarding smoke. This is the pipe I used when my sons turned eighteen and we could enjoy a ceremonial smoke together. I keep saving this pipe in the event my grandchildren want to get stoned when they turn eighteen.
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