The next promise to be broken was the flight reimbursement, the "cash in hand" he’d mentioned in the email.

"We’re having a cash flow problem." He shrugged, then handed me a pipe filled with black Xinjiang Hashish. And I felt better, much better in fact. But as any drug user will tell you, such harmony is transitory at best.

Of course I agreed without reserve. We were responsible for putting out the finest English language weekly in all of China. Hashish would keep us productive. We stayed up late that night, swapping war stories of China and beyond, and wound up getting a very late start the next day.

The next evening, I was busily writing my first story when Severin came over to my desk. After a brief look over my shoulder, he nodded approvingly.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I threw some reporter gear into my messenger bag, and together we lit out through Beijing in Severin’s Toyota SUV. Somewhere around The Gate of Heavenly Peace, he lit a fat joint.

So we drove, smoking in silence, and the space between working streetlamps grew further apart. By the time the joint was gone, the only man-made light came from burning trash cans. We were on a street that seemed to have been demolished some time earlier, piles of brick and rubble 200 feet deep were on either side of the road, beyond which was some dilapidated housing. This was a neighborhood not marked on tourist maps, a part of Beijing where few Han Chinese lived and police ventured tentatively and in large numbers. This was Uigherville, Beijing’s Muslim ghetto.

I couldn’t tell how happy anybody was, but I wasn’t feeling entirely safe myself. The chemicals worming their way through my synapses did not mix well with the Beirut ambiance, and I felt that we were extremely conspicuous with our milk-white SUV and our pinkish skin. On both sides of the road were men in earth-colored gowns and round-knit caps, milling about, roasting bread and meat over open fires.

My new employer rolled down the window and bought some pita bread, breaking off a chunk and handed it to me. It stuck in my throat like curry-tainted sawdust." 

A banging from behind made my head jerk violently. A bearded Uigher in snow white robes was smacking the car with the business end of a large cudgel.

Severin rolled the window down a crack.

Severin shut the window and went back to his bread. The rapping began again, faster, more insistently.

We drove half a block and parked. The man with the Cudgel continued yelling at us, telling us that he was our friend, and he would not cheat us. Other people were looking at us now, and I was ready to call the mission off then and there, to go back to the office and get drunk instead. But I wasn’t calling the shots. We crossed the debris and came into an alleyway crowded with people; walls of red brick and mud, doors and windows rose around us. This was one of those places where people disappear easily, sometimes by choice, sometimes, not. Severin quickened his pace, his eyes darting left and right.

Indeed, these were not Han Chinese. And at the moment, one of them was robbing me. I felt a tug at my bag. I jerked at it and whirled around to see strange fingers on my camera case. I zipped the bag shut, clutching it to my chest as fingers and owner receded into the crowd.

When I turned back, my new employer was nowhere to be seen. My heart rate shot up. I clutched my bag even tighter, searching in vain. Should I yell? Stupid idea. What the hell was I doing in a crumbling ghetto peopled by a bitter, oppressed minority group in the middle of Beijing? Did I really need to ask myself that? Were drugs somehow involved? Shit, shit, shit. I was too old for this.

I kept walking forward through the crowd in the narrow, dirty lane. Rough hands grabbed at my bag, and tried to pull me into a doorway. Smile politely, keep walking. No sense in getting a knife in the kidney over a cultural faux pas. I was beyond panic, no longer looking for my new employer. I was just hoping for a glimpse of familiar rubble, something that would get me back to the SUV. Just then, an old man approached and spoke to me in gentle, halting English.

and pointed down a dark alley.

What else could I say? I ran down the alley until I found the rubble strewn clearing from where we’d entered. I found the road, and the white SUV, without further incident. Severin was already there, engaged in heated negotiation with Cudgel Man and a few of his friends. He unlocked the door for me, and I hopped in.

Cudgel Man produced two wadded chunks of tin foil from inside his robe and handed them to Severin, who gave them to me, telling me to "check them out."

The first rock crumbled into dirt and cumin at first touch.

I examined the second lump. This was the bona-fide article, about half an ounce of sticky brown hashish. It, too, smelled of cumin. This was the source of our trouble – what we had come for.

My new employer began negotiations, and after much gnashing of teeth, beating of breasts, and random threats from both sides, a price of 500 Yuan was agreed upon. Mission accomplished, we were now free to leave and get stoned in a better part of town.

But something inside my new employer had snapped in that ghetto; some piece of his ego had been taken from him, and he was not prepared to leave just yet.

He said, parking the car 20 yards away from the spot where we'd just scored drugs.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, and turned to me, his eyes filled with a sad, eerie light.

Before I could say another word, Severin was out of the car and walking towards the rubble. Of course, I followed him. Iggy Pop said it best. "You buy your ticket, you take your chances." And my ticket was bought the minute I got off the plane.

Moments later, we were pushing through the crowd in the darkened alleys, Severin whistling in the dark for both of us by chatting up the restaurant – "famous in Beijing…great lamb…homemade bread." Black eyes stared at us as Severin poked his head into various doorways before finding the one he was looking for. He pulled me through an unmarked wooden door into a smoky, crowded little restaurant with six tables and a TV.

We were handed a menu and steered towards the table closest to the door. We sat down, Severin grabbing the seat facing the door, leaving me with my back exposed and my eyes on Hwan Ju Ge-Ge, China’s most popular evening soap opera. I wasn’t hungry. The Editor ordered for both of us, barking imperiously at the waiter while I glanced around the room and tried to avoid meeting the gazes coming from all corners. To our left sat a table of Uighers reading The People’s Daily. On the cover was a photo of the Chinese embassy in Yugoslavia, bombed by America a few weeks earlier, with the caption "The People of China are united against American aggression!"

While I couldn’t speak for the people of China, the people of Uigherville didn’t seem overly pleased with our presence. I tried to ignore the icy stares, feigning interest in the soap opera, an ongoing tale of romance and intrigue set in the Ming Dynasty. My new employer stared out into space, stoned.

Our meal arrived, slabs of bloody meat served with a side of char-broiled bread. My nerves were too shot to eat; I had a Pepsi. All eyes were on us as Severin wolfed down the meat with gusto, picked his teeth at the table, and asked for the bill. They were still on us as we exited back into the dark alley.

Soon we were driving back through the heart of Beijing. We pulled up in front of the office, and Severin let me out, handing me the whole ball of hash.