Laughing BuddHA
SPIN magazine, September 2004
I am peering out a tiny, rain-spattered window on a blustery November morning, seven miles above the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. I'm headed to Amsterdam where I will judge some of the world's finest marijuana and hashish in the 16 th Annual Cannabis Cup competition. But I am not alone in my journey. There are at least 30 drunken, unwashed hooligans seated nearby who also will participate in the four-day event. The 13-hour trip from San Francisco is not unlike a fraternity party at 32,000 feet, complete with beer bongs, projectile vomiting, and some questionable under-the-blanket activity from a young couple seated behind me. After the bathroom smoke detector has been set off for the fourth time, the pilot reprimands us over the loudspeaker, threatening to land the plane in Greenland if it happens again. It reminds me of my drunken stepfather behind the wheel of our wood-paneled station wagon, scolding my brothers in the back seat: "You girls shut your holes. Don't make me pull this car over!"
Upon arriving in the Netherlands, we are greeted in baggage claim by Tad, an impish man holding a sign that reads, " cannabis cup judges " in a childlike scrawl. We follow Tad to a waiting bus, and as we climb aboard, we are each given a package containing a gram of weed, a small brick of hash, some rolling papers, and several disposable lighters. Free at last from the tyranny of U.S. drug laws, my jubilant comrades light up their joints in unison, raising a smoky toast to freedom.
A few months earlier, my friend Chris, a pothead I've known since college, invited me to join him in Amsterdam for the Cup. He said we were going to have the ultimate counterculture experience, and with any luck, this could be our generation's Woodstock. I hadn't been to Europe in years and my accountant said I could use the tax write-off, so I booked a non-refundable ticket. But three days later, Chris backed out citing "personal reasons" (read: impending court date); I would forge ahead on my own. When I booked the rest of my trip with 420 Tours, an herb-friendly agency specializing in Cannabis Cup travel packages, I decided to forego the insulating comforts of a luxury hotel for accommodations more in tune with the spirit of the event. The unnervingly perky travel agent said she knew just the place.
The bus drops me at a youth hostel in a crumbling pre-WWII building just outside the city loop and adjacent to the Amsterdam Zoo. At 8:30 a.m. , the lobby is bustling with festivalgoers--mostly 18- to 20-year-olds--and the marijuana fog is thick enough to obscure the " no smoking " sign hung prominently above a candy vending machine. I check in at the reception desk and the clerk indicates that my roommates have already arrived. I follow the echo of bongo drums up a narrow winding staircase, and walk down a darkened, dormitory-style hallway. Wet hacking coughs emanate from behind each door, conjuring visions of a turn-of-the-century tuberculosis ward. My room, only slightly larger than a prison cell, is an odiferous potpourri of urine, vomit, and stale pot smoke. Six rusted Hitler-era bunks with oily mattresses line the windowless wall, and a broken chair leans precariously in one corner. There is no television, phone, or radio. And in the lone shower stall, a large dead rat lays slumped across the hair-matted drain. I am fairly certain this is how the Black Plague spread across Europe in the 14th century. I make a mental note to check myself for ticks.
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