(Laughing Buddha Page 3 of 6)
Although complimentary samples of some entries are available in the Judges' Lounge at the Arena Hotel, the majority of entries must be purchased at the sponsoring coffee shops, which are government-regulated and allowed to sell small amounts of marijuana and hashish for personal use (up to 5 grams per transaction). In fact, most Dutch coffee shops don't even sell coffee. And if you try to order a Grande iced caramel macchiato from one of these establishments, the proprietor will likely pitch you into a canal. This year, we must visit 28 of these coffee houses scattered across the greater metropolitan area--an extraordinary logistical feat to accomplish over the four-day judging period. The task must be attacked with military precision and a clear head--two traits not generally associated with stoners.
This year's Cup includes 36 entries, so in order to sample them all, I need to smoke nine types of weed and hash a day for four consecutive days, which means getting stoned every 2.66 hours for 96 straight hours. As I soon discover, it is impossible to evaluate different types of weed when they are smoked in rapid succession. After a few tokes, I cannot taste the difference between the strains. After five or six, my judgment becomes clouded, and after eight or nine, I'm wandering the city aimlessly, frightened, and unable to find my hostel. Aside from the obvious pitfalls associated with this type of deranged marathon, there is a twist to this story: I do not use marijuana. Sure, I smoked a little grass in college. And I hit the bong during my bohemian phase in the early '90s, when I lived in the Haight-Ashbury and wrote terrible poetry about ex-girlfriends and pretty leaves I found in the yard. But over the years, the giddy euphoria and soulful introspection induced by pot gave way to debilitating paranoia, fueled by an insatiable desire for chili cheese fries and Pop Tarts smeared with chocolate-chip cookie dough.
I begin the judging process at Barney's Breakfast Bar, a popular coffee shop that took home the Cannabis Cup in 2001 and 2002. I purchase a gram of Barney's current cannabis entry, a saucy full-bodied herb called Laughing Buddha , and a gram of its hash entry, Helter Skelter Ice . Sitting at a table, I roll a Buddha joint and pack a small ceramic pipe with the hash. For the competition, we've been instructed to grade the entries based on taste, smell, strength, and appearance. I light up and take a deep drag of the Buddha , which goes down smooth, with a pleasant fruity aftertaste. It's strong, but not too strong. Then I fire up the hash. The first hit almost knocks me out of my chair. The room starts to spin. (I have never been good with hash.) Exhausted from jetlag and now very stoned, I head back to the hostel for a good night's rest, stopping at several coffee shops on the way, choking down samples of Kali Mist , Shiva , and Gandhi Ganja .
I barely sleep the first night. The maddening, relentless clamor of bongo drums reverberates down the hall, through the air ducts, and into my skull. I drift off shortly before sunrise, but am soon awakened by a wretched cacophony of inhuman screeches. Monkey screeches, to be precise. Pete looks over from his bunk. "It's the zoo," he says. "Those furry bitches shriek like hell when the sun comes up."