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For many it is difficult to believe that marijuana is a drug that needs to be banned. The favorite of Lord Shiva and publicly consumed by the Nihang sect of the Sikhs, it is considered to be a harmless hobby that gives pleasure and helps concentrate on the reunion with the soul. Even in the west a debate is raging and there is a strong lobby that advocates its medicinal use.
His experience also points out to the reason so many foreigners throng to the Kullu valley and then stay put. There is no need for subterfuge and the person needing a smoke can just help himself at any point of time on the road side. The west has a system of controlling banned substance and therefore equally effective system to beat the ban. A Google search revealed plenty of options when he typed in medicinal marijuana + Los Angeles and within seconds. He felt as if there was practically smoke coming out of the back of his computer. Among the seemingly endless stream of entries was the 420 Evaluation Center (420 is a local nickname for marijuana). It's a "medicinal clinic" where "qualified patients" could obtain a doctor's recommendation allowing them the legal use of marijuana. They offered a $25 discount for new patients. The reporter called and made an appointment for the next day. The 420 Evaluation Center was in a stucco-fronted brick building opposite a roast beef sandwich shop in a sweaty suburb of Los Angeles known as the San Fernando Valley. One of the walls was taken up with a Salvador Dali poster showing swans merged with elephants: perfect for those who needed a hallucinogenic fix before they got their prescription. A man behind the counter took his money ($100 for a consultation) and handed him a questionnaire. One section dealt with his medical condition. According to the rules one has to be virtually at death's door, suffering from cancer, Aids or multiple sclerosis or in chronic pain in order to qualify. The best, to qualify for the prescription, the reporter could come up with was anxiety. Soon, the doctor appeared - a softly-spoken Vietnamese man who introduced himself as Dr Do. He wore a white lab coat and scrubs and led him into a spartan room where he proceeded to take his pulse and blood pressure before asking precisely how long he had been anxious. When told that he had this conditions for years the doctor asked if he suffered from panic attacks. Despite the negative reply Dr Do wrote panic attacks in his notebook. They spent a few minutes shooting the breeze about Asian cuisine and he signed a prescription for medicinal marijuana, valid for a year. His friend Will was waiting for him when he got outside. A concert oboist who once performed with Pavarotti, he had developed a deep affection for the herb during his time on the road, yet managed to conceal it from his fellow musicians even after once losing concentration in the middle of the Messiah and playing all the notes in the wrong order. There was another episode - during a performance of Stravinsky - in which he became convinced he was Petrushka but that incident he blames on rogue hash brownies. He was happy with the find because he had all along said that the place was like Amesterdam where marijuana can be easily had. Then he was keen to show him where he went to buy his cannabis. It was a short drive from Dr Do's and recently voted dispensary of the year by one of the pot smokers' magazines (the most famous of which is, incidentally, called High Times). With more than 200 dispensaries now operating legitimately the street dealers are all but obsolete and the state is happy because it collects the taxes. The place was a nondescript building next to a Thai restaurant which contained cosy couches and a big picture of the Mona Lisa on the wall with that inscrutable grin and a fat joint in her right hand. Who said pot smokers do not have a sense of humour? Will and the reporter were buzzed through a metal gate by an attendant, who himself looked slightly buzzed, and ushered into a small room which could pass as an Aladdin's Cave of narcotics. Beneath a glass-topped counter were dozens of different varieties of weed laid out in plastic pots, and alongside them an arsenal of drug-taking paraphernalia including pipes and infusion implements, all in iridescent colours. The different varieties of dope were listed on a white board. They bore exotic names such as Maui Mist, Blue Dream and my personal favourite, Super Train Wreck. David Willis’ prescription did not place a limit on the amount of marijuana he could buy a day and he asked the man with the trippy smile behind the counter what he recommended for anxiety. He pointed me in the direction of one called Purple Kush. "How much should I take?" The naivety of the question seemed to catch my moon-faced pot sommelier off guard. "I guess start with two or three puffs and see how you go..." The benefits of medicinal marijuana to the seriously ill have been widely chronicled. People with conditions such as cancer, arthritis and Aids say the drug helps make their symptoms bearable. With more than 200 dispensaries now operating legitimately, the street dealers are all but obsolete and the state is happy because it collects the taxes. Yet with some dispensaries installing vending machines in order to deal with out-of-hours customers one has to wonder if the situation is in danger of becoming a farce. Getting on for 250,000 Californians are said to carry prescriptions for medicinal marijuana, and who knows how many of them - like David Willis - suffer from little more than the occasional bout of self-doubt. David Willis did not buy any weed and is thinking that one day he will frame his prescription and put it on the wall. In the meantime - to paraphrase Bill Clinton - if I smoke, I certainly won't inhale. | |
Recently
a BBC reporter came across strange facts when searching on the net the
use of marijuana in California. Marijuana is supposed to be prescribed
only to people suffering from life-threatening conditions but the
reporter David Willis found the reality was quite different. 
