T o get to Hempfest this year, you started in downtown Seattle on a humid, cloudless Saturday. You walked toward the waterfront until there were buskers on every street corner and the foot traffic thickened and you could smell sweat and weed smoke on clothes and skin. Police were everywhere, directing traffic. Men and women with their backs to the cops guarded portable coolers and hawked brownies in low voices. Up ahead, a man was shouting through a crappy amplifier. Something religious. Hellfire.
A story he tells about his Romanian grandmother: When Short grew his first significant crop, in 1979 — about four pounds of bud — he stored the bud in glass jars and took them to his grandmother’s house in Eugene, hoping to impress her. She opened the jar with the greenest buds, smelled them, and put the jar aside, discouraged. Then she saw that Short had also brought some Thai from his dealer. She grabbed the Thai out of his hand, lunged toward the sliding door of her living room where the light was coming in, and poked her nose in the illuminated bud. “That’s what Moisu smoked,” she said — Short’s great-grandfather.
After dessert, I paid the check and we walked outside and sat for a while on a park bench. Short smoked his tobacco pipe. “Put it out there, “he said. “Go for it, man. If they come after me, and the jig is up, fuck it, I don’t have to hide anymore. Here’s my story, here you go.” I didn’t detect any bravado, only the basic human desire to explain and to be understood. There are no Fresh Air interviews for pot breeders, no award dinners at the Rotary. “If my life ends right now, fuck it,” he said. “I had a good ride.”
As of Hempfest, anyway. Three weeks later, in early September, he allowed himself to be photographed at the High Times Seattle Cannabis Cup.
Now, sitting on the grass, I asked him where he’d learned about genetics. He pulled an old-fashioned tobacco pipe from his bag, lit it, and took a heroic puff. He said that in the ’80s, he’d studied biology for a time at the University of Oregon, along with cognitive psychology, but he never ended up working in either field: “I’ve always been a lone wolf.”
Legislation: Marijuana is illegal in Thailand, and so is any related activity.
Keep the ganja away from police unless you happen to be carrying around $1500 – $2000 USD or the equivalent in thai baht to use as a bribe. If you should get caught, as happens, if you are going to bribe, do it straight away before he calls his mates over and tell him that the ‘gift’ is only for him. Otherwise you could end up paying 4-6 thousand US to keep his buddies quiet.
Brands: ganja, nepalese hashish is also available but you need a contact
In Pratunam, near the markets and the hotel Indra Regent you will find what you are after but be sure to be discreet. I lived in BKK for 8 months and I always just went here for my ganja supply rather than giving any local dealer my address or phone number. Outside this tourist hotel I mentioned, towards the main road, you will see (after 6pm) a group of tuk-tuk drivers waiting around for passengers and just chatting jovially to one another, or possibly even drinking thai whisky (sangsom) Ask any of these guys for ‘ganja’. They are the same guys who hang there any day of the week so you ain’t getting ripped off here. The way it works is they will call their buddy who will be a cab driver (I will not give names or cab numbers) they will arrive 10 mins later driving a green and yellow ‘meter’ taxi. You will get into the taxi (the guy that organised him will tell you when the driver gets their and which taxi he is in) and once you are in and
Kawa-San street, home to many of Bangkok’s guest houses, is also the center of Bangkok pot. When walking around Kawa-san, ask any of the guest house clerks or owners, who will either sell you the weed their selves, or point you in the right direction.