I am Edgar Phillipe.
In the process of my travels to Earth, I developed an obsession for weed. After the long space ride through galaxies, wormholes, rides on asteroids, I had nothing to do but study, and I took a huge interest in what your planet calls “weed.” On my planet it is called kibō. And now that I am here, on Earth, and have traveled around extensively, I can share some of the things that I have learned about your planet. I don’t know why I haven’t done it sooner.
Just to know: I shall not reveal the name of any dealers, pimps, or individuals that I might score from. Their anonymity is as sacred to me as it is to them. I do not know who is writing me for information; could be an eager, meager detective hoping to get another stripe, or a dumbass who doesn’t know how to keep their mouth shut. I shall only reveal establishments or locations where you may be able to get it… locations change/establishments close, and now that I am sitting on my favorite street in Bangkok, I see that things are business as usual. It might just depend on the night. Be that as it may, I will still point you in the right direction. As always, don’t look like a dumbass, act like a dumbass, or treat those you are dealing with like dumbasses, and you won’t go against the unwritten, unmentioned code about buying kibō abroad.
Buying kibō in Pokhara, Nepal
It’s easy! You can get it from any tuk-tuk driver in front of a Buddhist/Hindu temple in Kathmandu, but there’s no fun in that. By this time, you probably have made the tuk-tuk deal time and time again. If you walk slow alone just check their faces to see what gestures they make towards you. Generally it’s always the two fingers to the lips, and always do it alone, or at the most one other person that you know is a player in this 420 game, that knows the in and the outs, where to look when you’re doing a deal, and what to look out for.
For the ultimate adventure, grab a bus out of town headed to Pokhara, rooftop seating optional. Just be mindful of the power lines, don’t drink, or do anything that might affect your reflexes. They air is rich, the sun is warm, the Himalayas breathtaking as they come into view, riding your chariot. Find a hostel, drop off your bags, go to the lake. Pokhara is situated at the very Southeast corner of the lake, walk North with the lake on your left side. It will feel like a LONG walk, but just stick to the lake and enjoy the scenery of butterflies, random people riding motorbikes, and sights only lakeside in Nepal can give you.
I was looking for a 3-day yoga retreat because I wanted to sit in a hotbox, the kind where your head is above the box, not being boiled llke your body underneath. Towards the north, up the hill, you can find that kind of yoga studio. Don’t go to the fat one that has flies buzzing around his belly. I don’t mean to judge, but he did not look like a yoga teacheer/practitioner in THE RIGHT WAY. I met with the yogi on the hill, we hit it off, he sold me, I stayed. We had the best planned, yogic laughing meditation and I just about pissed my pants.
I bumped into a farmer, “Hello,” I said waving my hand. I’m always friendly because you might be walking somewhere you shouldn’t, but his first question to me was, “Kibbie?” *see a few blogs ago but I said: “No, I want kibō." I went on to the yoga studio, decided to stay and never went back down off the mountain until the retreat was over. When I came down the same farmer had both kibbie and kibō ready for me, and I bought both.
Word has it that same farmer is still asking passersby 420 questions. Just walk through with a smile on your face always wave hello.
Pokhara WEED QUALITY: 4/5
. Hash Quality: 4.5/5
PRICE COMPARED TO WESTERN COUNTRIES: 5/5
DANGER LEVEL TO BUY AND SMOKE: 2/5
If you smoke with an anorexic Jodie Foster lookalike. 4.25/5
A Weed Tail/Tale
The air was cool and I was tired. I had just hiked the straight line of the Q-shaped mapped course of Anna Purna, done a three-day yoga retreat, and had gotten elevated past base camp. I was dressed in long sleeves, and some red, jelly donut eyes, and a few layers of warm stuff and decided I wanted to wander off to a cafe that had a lake view of the little boat that is tied in the middle. Three ladies were sitting there and invited me over. I was calm. I was a calm motherfucker.
They started talking amongst each other. I ate slow and listened slower, with a slobbering grin, this incredible smile the entire time. One lady looked like an anorexic Jodie Foster. I’m sorry, but that is the only image that can get me to explain how she looked. Made sense. She literally worked as a forensic analyst in London somewhere. The other girl (the third one left) was young, about 19, and had this wandering vibe about her, wandering soul, but attention focused on what you were feeling when she was listening to someone. The topic got onto 420 things and how she wanted to try some “because it was the experience of traveling.” I learned pretty quickly that it is not a typical experience of traveling.
We met on the roof for the first round. The hotel was in a little compound, the office all the way at the back and quiet. The mosquitos were too much, eating our faces off actually, now, the air, a little chillier. Farming fires smelled themselves in the air and burned a bit at the nostrils if you know what I mean. But we pressed on. We talked about life, jail, forensics, traveling under the moonlight. The mosquitos were way too much and forced us to go inside, either the older one, or the young one’s room.
There were three of us in the wanderer’s room, myself with my bag. The light was dim, the air musty, and everyone wanted the window’s closed. That’s understandable. It wasn’t my room, I was just going with the flow. It felt a bit tight and the overexcitement of the anorexic Jodie Foster to try it. One puff and she started flailing her lips a bit involuntarily, but nothing so dramatic that I hadn’t seen before when I was traveling. It got to the wanderer, and we puffed around for about three more times, no tobacco, but sticky, Nepalese farmer’s weed, even Jodie taking a toke here and there. Wanderer and I were talking about traveling and the ABC trail, snow, seeing people walking up and down 1000s of steps and carrying refridgerator sized wire cages of empty bottles. Yeah, because when you want to buy a beer at tea house #17, somebody had to have brought that bottle TO you. Helicopters and trucks are not shucking these things up the sides of the Himalayas to bring you beer—AND THEN, OH MY FUCKING GOD, THE ANOREXIC JODIE FOSTER JUST STARTS GOING CRAZY.
She starts screaming out, “I can’t be here, I need to leave!!!” and Wanderer tried to get in between her and the door. I just sat there in the corner, eyes wide open, I’m the guy with the weed, I’m the ONLY GUY in this situation—AND OH, Fuck she just started screaming at ear ringing decibles not being able to get the lock unlocked to storm out. I sat back, jaw dropped thinking WTF IS GOING ON?
I ran up to my room after the women ran out. I don’t know where they ran too. That ordeal had gone on for a solid, long two minutes, and if you have seen someone freak out, you might not have seen a first time smoker FREAK OUT LIKE THE ALIENS WERE COMING TO HARVEST US level of freak out. I went into the bathroom (clean!) and sat on the toilet to THINK. A medium level tapping on the door shattered through the wood into my room.
“Sir, can you open your windows, please?”
“I can’t, mosquitos will come in,” I said with a very elevated heartbeat.
“Um… er…” and then there was nothing.
I hid in the bathroom for another five minutes before I squandered out. Front door open, screams floating up, angry, male screams in Nepalese destroying my soul. I saw criss-crossed bars in my head with 100 men jammed into a closet sized cell that had one toilet and the irony of the whole damn situation. I grabbed what was equivalent of $8, ran down, right to the hotel manager, shook his hand with the Nepalese money inside, and said I’m sorry for the… something er… other. He took it and (a bit) embarassingly averted his eyes and turned quickly to go back inside the office. Which brings me to one of the most important lessons of buying kibō: You should sometimes tip your hotel manager. And in this situation, when 420 is involved, is the only time anyone should get a “tip”.