Here's a pair of old writings from our first global trip, both about Nepal. They're not really all that edited, put you get the point I'm sure...

What It's Like In Thamel, Kathmandu, Nepal

Amidst the offers of rickshaws and taxis, rafting and trekking expeditions, chess sets and shawls, come charras and smoke. Hashish, ganja, sensimilla, or sometimes just a gesture – Thamel may be a “tourist ghetto” in the Lonely Planet's eyes, but so far from Amsterdam it's hash heaven. “Pollen” is even available, what would be kief if it were slightly better cared for.
In a four-block radius, practically 24/7, it's hard to be walking and white and not have it be assumed that you are in need of charras. They may start as high as 3000NRs per tola (10g), and would love to see you several, but 500NRs is a fair and reasonable price even if you're not stocking up for a trek. What constitutes your tola will certainly vary though it seems older pushers are preferable. If it's their full-time job they won't be selling a product cut with dirt or incense or something – they have some semblance of a reputation to uphold. A lot of younger hustlers carry too-soft brown logs, the smell is fine but the consistency combined with their behavior is suspicious. Go for solid, not hard, versus overly flexible. It should attract flame fast, as well, but then most things do.
Don't be put off if they have to go get it, just set the price first and make sure the product is what you want – you may see this guy the next day, or never again. Based on the sellers' wariness and caution (not carrying much, if anything), risk for a Nepali dealer is a concern, but as a Western tourist end-user discretion is a bit less important.
Since Thamel actually has head shops, one of the best glass selections in the subcontinent is at your disposal. Israeli favorite chillums are of course available, as are generic handpipes, double-bubblers, bongs, and the European choice of papers in abundance. Check a shipping company just north of Thahiti Thole on the right-hand side for starters. Handpipe was 185NRs negotiated down to 150. Bubblers were around 1000NRs.
Now for what to do once you're nice and cheefed? Plenty of culture abounds plus there's the endless challenge of street navigation, or the Snowman's tasty cakes if you're near Freak Street. Just remember to be careful wandering about, and don't be too proud of the fact that you are supporting the local economy...

Ketamine At Midnight?

It was the Kumari's annual big night out – we'd even briefly spotted the King, but thanks to duty-free Chinese brandy the crushing crowds blurred with the dhaba's nan, rajma, and rice, and whether a Snowman cake was indeed eaten that night cannot quite be remembered. “Freak” is now more “Jacchim” than its' former hippie name, but Kathmandu craziness can usually be found on the adjacent Durbar Square. On this revelrous night men pushed to line-up for a girl's blessing – tikka powder on the forehead, while Shaivite children performed a freeze-frame drama on a make-shift stage, and even the police were unconcerned with what the hell was going on. Giant wooden carts were parked mid-square only partially enveloped in sekuwa smoke. They'd previously borne the Kumari – Kathmandu's pre-pubescent Living Goddess – through the streets, but now lay still, presumably to wait patiently for the next festival extravaganza.
The embattled monarch appeared briefly, to a small chorus of Maoist catcalls, but the crowd seemed more concerned with the general air of pageantry than the presence of the man on their money. Typical touristic confusion arose: was there more to gawk at, to catch a glimpse of, or even anything to do? Apparently not, besides waiting in line all night to be personally blessed by a child-goddess, which is rather mundane, really :-) - so we devoured some skewered and scorched water buffalo meat, and ambled off towards our hotel, unwittingly in search of the explanation for this story's title.
The streets have no name, really, it's the squares that count, so from Durbar to Chaatrapati to Thamel we went. Past some boys with drums, piles of garbage, strip clubs under different names, temples, dogs, shrines, and introspective semi-wasted Westerners. It was one of those walks that dissolves in front of you...
Thankfully residual bowls of charras coupled with “Sino-Surprise & Coke” primes one well for our next mission: doing something about the dwindling supply of the former, since any more of the latter leads to a hammer (and sickle) haeadache. At any other time the spoken whispers, well-rehearsed, of “smoke” and such find us with frequency. Apparently drug dealers need blessings just like everyone else, so instead we just found glue-huffing 8-year-olds, a brown bag in hand and twisted smiles on their faces. One's own need for charras is greatly diminished upon seeing dirty, barefoot boys, moving as a pack in the streets, completely whacked out on glue. Small side-note: glue-huffing in no way decreases begging, presumably just the rate of success.
The depressing nature of the modern world was fortunately overcome by our personal exultation of an offer for dope. To an alleyway – looked OK for five minutes before midnight, sketchy quality but an almost generous quantity. The haggling ensues and a deal is reached, one half of the exchange completed. Everything's going smoothly – but the rupees aren't adding up... Only 300 in the wallet – we'd forgotten to refill at our hotel! So the deal's canceled, no alternative apparently possible, leaving both sides annoyed and disappointed.
Which finds us on a corner, with a drunken older American countryman, who is expounding on the virtues of Ketamine Hydrochloride, available at your friendly neighborhood chemist for some minor baksheesh.
“Just cook it in the spoon,” he says, “until there's only powder. Then snort it – it's a trip.”
How informative, Mr. I've-Known-You-For-Five-Minutes-And-Already-Bragged-About-Doing-Acid-Over-300-Times. Who's counting and why's that your social opener? Why is it that instead of expanding conversation (and consciousness), drugs have simplified it? Rather than taking drugs and then doing stuff, just taking the drugs sounds less complicated, apparently. But where's the fun in that?
“Drugs” is a noun, not a verb – reality check.
Now, back to the horse tranquilizers – maybe being absorbed by one's couch is fun at 19, but now it's only natural/safe drugs. You know, what's been established as personally reasonable, reliable, and recreationally enjoyable. And riotous.
But does that mean that if those glue-huffers are just doing their thing, and the tranquil tranq-master is doing his, then who am I to draw lines for them...?
It was past time to escape the philosophy from the street-corner Socrates, a San Miguel in hand and prescription suggestions on his lips. Now we're street-walkers again, still listening just on an unexpectedly low budget. Past rickshaws, fruit sellers, potholes and police. The search now has been appropriately deemed futile, our hotel home beckons. Surreally we cross paths with an out-of-town Nepali friend on the dark streets. His drunken friend falls over mid-conversation, but no else notices. Everyone's evening needed to end evidently, so we pressed onwards, pausing to check out a bar and some hash for sale – finally – but both were un-noteworthy. Anti-climax indeed, but one last bucket remained to smoke, and the streets would hopefully be more merciful in the morning.