Adrenalin floods linger long after combat.
The rush blends fear with thrill –
Grooving on the excitement, the challenge.
In the bush, recreation is nil.
Hookers and Philippine rock bands
thrive near base camps.
I stumble onto the cure in Tam Ky –
a frontier boom town in 1968.
The main drag is a dusty stretch of Highway One.
Up North, Marines called it “Street Without Joy.”
I ask a boy about tuc fin, marijuana.
He takes me to a house by the river.
Brown, twisted vines fence the yard.
I pause at the gate –
check for booby traps.
An old man leads me to a dim room.
In the shadows, he lights a candle,
trims the wick with scissors.
The flame must be the perfect size and shape.
The old man dips a broom stalk into some brown goo
and rolls it against the bowl of a pipe.
The cone-shaped plug of opium
must be the perfect size and shape.
The ritual gets me high.
I lay on my side as he guides the pipe above the flame –
gestures for me to pull long and deep.
A stream of dopamine gushes through my brain.
I ride an elevator to the 30th floor.
The trip is surreal, smooth and gentle.
I float on a cushion of bliss.
When I leave, an old woman struggles
with an empty 55-gallon barrel.
I hand her my M16 –
Happy to give her a hand.
The sun glistens on the Tam Ky River.
I tip the barrel on edge –
rolling it easy on soft dust.
__________________
John Akins served with the Marines in 1st Combined Action Group in ’68-’69. Visit his website to learn more about John’s poetry and prose. On this site, read his account of smoking pot in Vietnam.
Smoking Opium in Tam Ky, by John Akins
Adrenalin floods linger long after combat.
The rush blends fear with thrill –
Grooving on the excitement, the challenge.
In the bush, recreation is nil.
Hookers and Philippine rock bands
thrive near base camps.
I stumble onto the cure in Tam Ky –
a frontier boom town in 1968.
The main drag is a dusty stretch of Highway One.
Up North, Marines called it “Street Without Joy.”
I ask a boy about tuc fin, marijuana.
He takes me to a house by the river.
Brown, twisted vines fence the yard.
I pause at the gate –
check for booby traps.
An old man leads me to a dim room.
In the shadows, he lights a candle,
trims the wick with scissors.
The flame must be the perfect size and shape.
The old man dips a broom stalk into some brown goo
and rolls it against the bowl of a pipe.
The cone-shaped plug of opium
must be the perfect size and shape.
The ritual gets me high.
I lay on my side as he guides the pipe above the flame –
gestures for me to pull long and deep.
A stream of dopamine gushes through my brain.
I ride an elevator to the 30th floor.
The trip is surreal, smooth and gentle.
I float on a cushion of bliss.
When I leave, an old woman struggles
with an empty 55-gallon barrel.
I hand her my M16 –
Happy to give her a hand.
The sun glistens on the Tam Ky River.
I tip the barrel on edge –
rolling it easy on soft dust.
__________________
John Akins served with the Marines in 1st Combined Action Group in ’68-’69. Visit his website to learn more about John’s poetry and prose. On this site, read his account of smoking pot in Vietnam.