During the spring of 1974, Mary and I attended a regional meeting of Peace Corps Country Directors, their wives and officials from Peace Corps headquarters in Washington in the hill town of Chiang-Mai in northern Thailand.  The business of the meeting did not overly interfere with our sight-seeing, sampling the local cuisine and buying some of the delightful artifacts made by local Thai craftsmen.  We were, however, eager for even more adventure than could be had in this exotic corner of the world.

So, a day or two after all of the other participants left Chiang-Mai, Mary and I flew from Chiang-Mai to Vientiane, the capital of Laos.  Laos at that time was enjoying one of its rare moments of peace - really a truce in its civil war, as it soon turned out, not a real peace - and we wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to visit.  We were surprised to discover that Vientiane retained a very distinct French colonial atmosphere even some years after the French had been forced out of their former Asian colonies.  The restaurants were great, the wine not too bad, and the city orderly and manageable.  Vientiane turned out to be a fine place to visit except for one thing: we were looking for adventure and there was none to be had in this cosmopolitan city.

Some folks we met told us about a town in the far north of the country called Louangprabang that had become a favorite destination for the hoards of ‘world travelers’ then circling the globe.  The term ‘world traveler’ was the polite name given to the vagabonds produced by the turmoil of the 1960s who were bringing ‘drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll’ to the unsuspecting citizens of many third-world countries where the living was cheap and anti-drug laws non-existent or very forgiving.  We learned that Louangprabang was the traditional home of the Laotian royal family and a place where old ways continued to be honored, meaning no French influence.  The town sat on a quiet stretch of the Mekong River and was the stepping off point for some truly remarkable one-day trips to nearby points of interest.  A week in Luoangprabang was just what we needed.

Early one morning we joined a motley collection of other folks and boarded an old DC-3 flown by Laotian Airlines to make the short trip to the former capital.  One of our fellow travelers was an attractive young woman who had made the trip several times.  She helped us plan our stay and was full of good suggestions, many of which we followed in the days to come.  In the midst of talking with us she made an offhand comment concerning the local outdoor market - a ‘must-see’ place in her opinion - to the effect that the law was so loosely applied in Louangprabang that market vendors openly sold marijuana to one and all.

Now, to people under the age of thirty during the 1970s such a comment would have been immediately recognized as information of the most important kind.  It would have been stored safely away and acted upon as soon as they reached the market.  We were the products of an earlier generation and, in fact, quite against the use of marijuana or any other kind of drug.  (Of course it was a matter of common knowledge among our kind that gin, wine, and beer were not drugs to be confused with those other ‘controlled substances.’)   Little did we know that the devil, himself, had arranged to teach us a couple of lessons.

As we thought about this exotic market we began to see a risk free opportunity to sample this new craze among the young.  Surely, we told ourselves, we would be better able to teach our children about the dangers of marijuana if we had some first hand experience on which to base our certain-to-be-wise counsel.  And, how could we understand the younger generation if we could not ’speak’ its language.  Within a couple of days we had made the decision to ’sacrifice’ ourselves in the interest of the greater good.

All Asian markets are large, nearly chaotic, dusty (or damp in the rainy season), filled with goods for which we outsiders have no names and places of immense fascination for those who can conquer their unease in such a foreign environment.  After a bit of looking we found the marijuana sellers section of the market.  As is the custom sellers of like goods tend to concentrate in the same location and here we found row after row of neatly rolled and stacked individual ‘joints,’ although we could not really say ‘joint’ with anything like the authority someone half our age would have.  Nevertheless, using universally understood non-verbal symbols of communication I managed to buy six of the most expensive of the items on sale.  (This was no time for economizing; nothing but the best for our educational experiment.)

We walked to the nearby banks of the slow moving Mekong River, found a bench with a fine water view, and settled down.  Mary had decided to ’stand watch’ during the first event so I proceeded to light up.  I inhaled carefully and not too deeply at first.  This proved to be a good thing because the smoke was pretty harsh.  But I was no wimp!  I took deeper and deeper drags waiting for the magic moment when the promised ‘high’ would descend.  Minutes passed.  I took more drags.  Nothing happened, except I got a bit dizzy from the unaccustomed smoke in my lungs.  Then I remembered hearing that often first time users get no ‘kick’ because they are too tense.  OK, we’ll try again this evening, I said to Mary.

Damn!  The same thing happened that night in our hotel room.  My conclusion was that this marijuana stuff would never pose a commercial threat to those old standbys one bought at the local package store.

The next morning when we met a young fellow from the plane I described my experiences with marijuana.  “Let me see that stuff,” he said.  I handed my remaining four ‘joints’ to him.  After a quick look he said, having no regard for my being many years his senior, “You idiot.  That’s tobacco!”