India - Day 17

I’m sitting in a café somewhere in Morjim, a beachy outpost in Goa. I’m trying to get this guy to get me hash on Whatsapp. He’s the third guy I’ve asked. The first guy told me to delete my message where I ask for hash. As if the police here have a cyber-security division that catches dipshits who sell hash to tourists.

All three of them have insisted that they can get it to me tonight. I don’t want it tonight. I want it in the day so I can hang on the beach. So I can get that ‘80s burnout feeling where the day is long and empty.

I like hash. It’s mostly just a rollie but with a little lift. Also, it feels like a specific part of the world. The one I’m in. It feels hot, arid, and Arabic. It feels like I’m in the exotics.

“No. Only at night,” he says. “Maybe around 11 p.m.”

Why can’t you get it to me now?

“No,” he says. “I do it only at night.”

He’s making me feel as if I’m ordering a hooker at brunch.