Dragon Mountain. Daniel Reid

firmly into the socket of the saddle was a clay bowl about the size and shape of a doorknob, with a small hole drilled into an aperture in the middle of its convex surface.

      As he worked in the lamplight, Moreau transformed before my eyes. No longer the listless hunch I'd seen in the village, his face now glowed with enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkled with life. His hands fingered the pipe and accessories like a musician tuning his instruments.

      "Now we are ready to begin," he sighed. He dipped the tip of a long, steel spindle into a tiny cup of thick, black syrup, then dangled the droplet over the chimney. It bubbled and spluttered, swelling and expanding like burning rubber. He dipped the gob into the liquid again and repeated the process several times, until it formed a sticky ball the size of a pea. With the tip of the spindle he kneaded the hot wad of opium on the smooth surface of the bowl until it gradually achieved the consistency of gum and its color turned slowly from dull black to chestnut brown and finally to a beautiful burnished gold. Then he rolled the golden pellet into a perfect cone, spun the cone swiftly in the hot spot over the lamp until it became soft as taffy, and inserted the cone quickly into the tiny hole in the bowl. Twisting the spindle a few times to release the cone from the shaft, he pulled the spindle out clean, leaving the wad of opium stuck around the hole like a little doughnut.

      With the look of a man about the enter the gates of heaven, Moreau tilted the pipe over the lamp so that the wad of opium hung directly in the "sweet spot" over the chimney and started puffing mightily with a deep, rhythmic draw. As the wad of opium began to sizzle and vaporize, the sound reminded me of the gurgle made by sucking the last drops of a soft drink up through a straw. He kept puffing until the little wad shriveled up and disappeared completely into the hole, plumes of blue smoke trailing from his nostrils. It smelled strong and sweet, like licorice or burnt chocolate.

      Then it was my turn. It took me a couple of tries before I got the hang of it, but finally I drew the pipe properly and got some smoke down my lungs. It tasted good and was not at all harsh on the throat. The key to smoking is to create just the right pressure in the tube and maintain a steady draw. The Chinese call it "Swallowing Clouds, Spewing Fog."