Some holy men are holy. Some are just posers.
I watched one such “holy man” make the rounds today. He seemed to be at every cafe I visited. He was dressed in the telltale orange robes and faded turban of a baba, he carried a silver-tipped walking stick. His beard looked like it hadn’t been cut in years.
At Blue Heaven, he hit every joint that came his way. At the World Peace Café, he showed two tourists how to smoke from a chillum, taking generous puffs of his own to demonstrate. And at the nameless café at the top of the road, which is merely a few tables and chairs set up against the side of a hut, he produced his own chillum, and smoked my friends’ hash the entire time I ate dinner.
By the time I left, it was dark outside. I had to squint to make out the proper bills to pay. Dim red lights had come on in the “restaurant,” and rain slid off the tarp that marauded as a roof. The baba was smoking and smoking and smoking. He looked thoroughly happy, slumped a bit sideways in his seat, a stoned smile on his face.
He’s a bit of a weasel, but I’ll give him this… he wears his sunglasses at night.