The New York Timeshas a very interesting account of Sami al-Hajj, a Sudanese man who spent seven years in Gitmo.
"The journalist, Sami al-Hajj, was working for Al Jazeera as a cameraman when he was stopped by Pakistani forces on the border with Afghanistan in late 2001. The United States military accused Mr. Hajj of, among other things, falsifying documents and delivering money to Chechen rebels, although he was never charged with a crime during his years in custody.
Now, more than a year after his release, Mr. Hajj, a 40-year-old native of Sudan, is back at work at the Arabic satellite news network, leading a new desk devoted to human rights and public liberties. The captive has become the correspondent."
Here is what Al Jazeera said about al-Hajj's arrest and subsequent release in 2008.
"Despite holding a legitimate visa to work for Al Jazeera's Arabic channel in Afghanistan, he was handed to the U.S. military in January 2002 and sent to Guantanamo Bay.
Al-Hajj, who is originally from Sudan, was held as an "enemy combatant" without ever facing trial or charges.
Al-Hajj was never prosecuted at Guantanamo so the U.S. did not make public its full allegations against him.
But in a hearing that determined that he was an enemy combatant, U.S. officials alleged that in the 1990s, al-Hajj was an executive assistant at a Qatar-based beverage company that provided support to Muslim fighters in Bosnia and Chechnya."
Al-Hajj is back at work at Al Jazeer. He is a correspondent for the Arabic language channel.
I was in a steady relationship or hooking up with random guys or a victim of sexual assault.
At some point of my life, I was all of these things. Does it matter, really, when I had the abortion? This is my experience, and this is what matters:
I found out I was pregnant and knew immediately that I wasn't yet ready to become a mom. I didn't have to think very long or hard about it; I knew that, given who I was at the time, I simply did not want to give birth to a child.
I Googled "abortion clinic New York City" and found a professional facility. I also found tips on looking for reputable abortion centers, which I committed to memory.
Next came the phone call. "I'm pregnant," I said to the kind yet mature female voice on the line (this kind of voice was a sure sign, according to the tip sheet, that I had found a sound clinic). "I need not to be."
The woman asked the date of my last period, then told me I wasn't far along enough to have an abortion; I had to wait another three weeks. We set a date, and she told me where to go, how much it would cost, and what time to show up. Then she asked if I had any questions and also asked me to describe my appearance. I told her that I didn't have any questions, then I explained my build, my coloring, and my height. She counseled me not to wear any bulky clothing or things in my hair; this struck me as odd since it was a muggy August in New York City. At that moment, as I swam in my thoughts, I thought of the movie If These Walls Could Talk, and especially the last scene, which was a shooting scene. I thought of picketings and bombings and shootings that happen at abortion clinics; the tip sheet had warned me about these happenings, and I wondered how I would react if they happened on the day of my abortion.
The following three weeks were full of nausea and fatigue. I felt bloated and my libido sky-rocketed. Also, my hormones were all over the place; not only did my mood swings indicate this change, but the barrage of sexual attention pointed at me reached new heights.
I thought a lot about my decision, about the morality behind taking the potential life of a human being and about the selfish decision I'd made. I wanted so much out of life, and I didn't want the complications of pregnancy or motherhood to deter any of my aspirations from becoming realities. I wasn't yet ready to give anything up, not for anyone or anything, especially if it could be avoided.
But, then again, I knew that I didn't want to be a mom; but what exactly did that mean? Even then, I'd learned enough about epistemology to realize that knowing was a subjective and abstract verb and not a literal and definite one. I thought about becoming a mom, and the more I thought about it, the more I knew that it just wasn't for me. Not at that time, possibly never.
I'd set up the appointment and I'd keep it.
It was a rainy day in August when I went to get my abortion. The clinic was in an intimidating-looking high-rise in midtown Manhattan, and amidst the doorman and elevator staff, I kept on expecting to see protesters and picket signs. Thankfully, the latter two were absent from my entire experience. In their places were instead many respectful and caring health professionals: the technician who took ultrasound photos of my fetus; the therapist (social worker? Psychologist? Psychiatrist?) that interviewed me and made sure that I did indeed want to get an abortion and wasn't being forced; the anesthetist and doctor and nurses who made the process quick and painless.
In terms of anesthesia, there were two options: partial anesthesia, in which I would be cognizant of everything happening but unable to feel below my waist, and the knocked-out kind of anesthesia, which greatly appealed to me. I wanted to close my eyes, open them, and magically not be pregnant anymore. Pretty much, that's what happened.
Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the finality of signing legal documents stating that I intended to abort my baby, or the anesthesia, but as I closed my eyes, I felt resolute in my decision. This was it. There was no backing out now.
The moment I opened my eyes, a wave of serenity washed over me. I felt giddy, euphoric, completely at ease. I knew I was no longer pregnant, and I was certain in that moment of tranquility that I had made the right decision.
I was led to a waiting room, where I was to meet with nurses before being allowed to go home. I sat there, smiling like a Cheshire cat, triumphant in all of my perverse glory. I remember wondering if I was indeed happy, or if I was just feeling the effects of the drugs. Then I saw her: another girl who'd had an abortion. Crying. Weeping. So obviously and completely upset at herself for having killed her baby. When she was led out of the room, I asked the nurse if she, too, had been out cold when getting her abortion. The nurse had silently nodded, a grave smear of worry rearranging her kind features.
I went home that day and proceeded with my life as per my usual custom. I thought about my abortion, about my dead baby, about the life I took, and I didn't feel the least bit upset. I wondered if that fact meant that I was a sociopath in the making. Surely, it meant that I wasn't supposed to be a mom. What kind of mother didn't care about killing her child?
But then, sometime later, I decided to become a mom. It all happened so suddenly, and there was no simple explanation as to why I was ready this time around. Like love or hate, the maternal instinct invaded my every cell, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to be a mom. I had a very easy pregnancy and labor and delivery, and as my son, my boyfriend, and I learned how to be a family, I found my dreams permeated by thoughts of my aborted would-be child. Could I have mustered the maternal energies to be a good mom to that person? Did I do the right thing? Is there ever really a "right" or a "wrong" anyway?
There are times when I find myself staring at my son and being in complete awe of him. I wonder what life would be like if he'd had an older sibling. I wonder what I would be like, how different things would be. Undeniably, there is a sense of loss when I think of the baby I could have had, but it is short-lived and superficial. It is a loss that echoes in the memory of my bones but is also couched in too many hypothetical situations to be granted much importance.
One thing is for certain: I made my decisions, and though I'll always wonder "What if?," I'll never doubt my happiness. In the end, that's what it's all ever about anyway.
"Dozens of terrorism suspects being held at the U.S. naval base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, will be moved to a little-used Illinois state prison that will be acquired and upgraded by the federal government, an Obama administration official said.
The critical step toward fulfilling President Obama's pledge to shut the Guantanamo detention center will be announced Tuesday, said the official, who reported that Obama has ordered the acquisition of the eight-year-old Thomson Correctional Center, about 150 miles northwest of Chicago."
Wikipedia has some interesting information on the prison itself; for example, controversy surrounding its construction so near the Mississippi River.
"Thomson Correctional Center is a maximum security prison located just outside of Thomson, Illinois. It has an area of about 146 acres (59 ha) and comprises 15 buildings. The facility is enclosed by a 12-foot (3.7 m) exterior fence and 15-foot (4.6 m) interior fence.[1] There are eight cellhouses with 1,600 total cells. There is an additional minimum security unit with 200 beds. The facility currently houses about 150 minimum-security prisoners.
Thomson Correctional Center was built in 2001. The building of the prison was controversial; early plans suggested using the site of the former Savanna Army Depot, several miles north of Thomson. One of the main reasons the prison was controversial was concern that the prison would have a negative impact on the environment, especially being so close to the Mississippi River."
I hadn’t seen her in months.Her personality was indelible.She was ageless.
We had worked together at a production company in LA.I knew the sound of her voice before I knew her.KW is her name.I would listen to her voice as she, of screen, interviewed talent.She was very good at getting what she needed from them – exceptionally skilled.I was often annoyed with her technique.Whatever I may have thought about it, she was effective.
While I wasn’t very close to her, I find myself thinking of her often.I won’t be dramatic enough to say that I feel her with me, but I do conjure her.She had a big spirit and incredible energy.Now that I think of it, I understand the concept that nothing ever dies – energy just evolves and transmutes.KW is still here…well the spirit that her body housed is.She lives in me, in my mind, in my actions as she does in many, many others.It’s not corny (I know it sounds it); it’s real.
During my last shoot, she was with me.As I engaged the talent.My skill wasn’t all her, but it was definitely influenced by her.I am better because I knew her.
"Rukum-based journalist Tika Bista was seriously injured in an attack by an unidentified group at Musikot on Tuesday.
Bista was found unconscious with a severe head injury and cut wounds, apparently made by a razor blade, some 20 metres below a cliff.
Police recovered Bista’s laptop, radio and a mobile phone in wrecked state from the incident site.
Bista, a former district vice chairperson of Press Chautari Nepal, is a news coordinator for a local Sisne FM. "
Bista had been threatened by local Maoists for publishing a critical story. She has been admitted to a hospital in Kathmandu and the information minister has promised that the government will pay her medical bills.
It is important to note here that the Maoists signed a comprehensive peace agreement in 2006 and agreed to renounce violence and participate in Nepal's political process peacefully. But there have been a number of attacks against journalists and civil society leaders to show that the Maoists may not be serious about peace after all.
Inertia, as a physical force, seems capable of exerting influence over the events of our lives as well as movements (or lack thereof). Once set on a path, we tend to continue toward an inevitable end, each step of a progression as typical as the last. It is the path of least resistance. Anything else would require a choice, an action, and everything would change. The life that I’ve led until now would come to an end.
This month, we take a look at endings. In Sentenced, Buffy Charlet takes a look at the sweeping changes occurring in state marijuana laws from the inside as she works at a medical marijuana farm. Jillian York departs from Morocco in Leaving Meknes. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt reflects on the most devastating of endings in her series of poems titled Alexis, stone walls, and butterflies. In Airborne anxiety, Ellen G. Wernecke reviews two different books about air voyages with very different motivations and very different endings.
And so here we are. Inertia moving us along in the same channel, through the same endless routines, and grinding away our lives a second or a year at a time. We can persist. This much is clear. The question is, do we want to? Isn’t it time to put an end to these patterns that bring us nowhere?
Aaron Richner I am a writer/editor turned web developer. I've served as both Editor-in-chief and Technical Developer of In The Fray Magazine over the past 5 years. I am gainfully employed, writing, editing and developing on the web for a small private college in Duluth, MN. I enjoy both silence and heavy metal, John Milton and Stephen King, sunrise and sunset. Like all of us, I contain multitudes.
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As I get ready for work, I finger a row of books on the shelf, tickling the spines of favorite titles, like John Updike’s Brazil and Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, until I reach a tiny volume. My fingers rest upon the broken and bent spine of Allan Hibbard’s Paul Bowles, Magic, and Morocco, and I’m transported to the day when I stumbled upon it in a bookstore, lead to it by kismet, in search of some biography, some nonfiction work I never found. Then I remember the days I spent reading it, shaded by an orange tree in the hot Meknassi sun four Augusts ago. I remember those first days more clearly than any that succeeded them: sitting coyly at one of the two outdoor tables at Coin de Feu, attempting to flirt with the waiter, watching Japanese tourists — who always seemed to find this tucked-away treasure of a café — from behind my sunglasses, and sipping on mint teas and cappuccinos. The café was surrounded by flourishing orange trees, and occasionally, an orange would fall to the ground with a thud, only to be picked up or kicked like a soccer ball by a passing child. I would watch the child as curiously as he watched me, my sunglasses the only thing preventing a full-on staring contest.
Though that time four years ago wasn’t my first time in Meknes, Morocco, it was my first time there alone, having just moved my life across the ocean in one giant suitcase and a hiking pack. I remember the smells of that first summer and fall, my solo trip to Chefchaouen, where I was harassed — not because of my gender, but because of a presumption that I wanted to buy some hash — and got food poisoning on the eve of Ramadan. I remember the scent of the crisp air and how I didn’t want to leave the small town, in all its isolated beauty. I remember shopping for a night table on a very hot October afternoon, the smell of its Atlas cedar mixing with diesel and sewage as we rode the truck back to my apartment. I was so proud to have navigated the furniture souk by myself and bargained the price of that handmade cedar table down to the equivalent of $25.
But no memories of my two years in Meknes are as clear as that first August four years ago. On my first day, I bought some potatoes, some fruit, two Casablanca beers, milk, butter, cereal, and a pack of Marlboro Lights. I attempted to make mashed potatoes for dinner, failed miserably, and cried a little while I smoked a cigarette in my kitchen. Then, realizing the sheer madness of crying over potatoes, I hoisted myself up onto the kitchen counter, looked out the window toward the sky, and all of a sudden it hit me — where I was, what I was doing, and the fact that I’d be doing it for at least another year. I smiled, suddenly feeling freer than I ever had before. I took photos that first night, of the sunset, of myself sitting on the floor against my futon, walls bare, suitcase not yet unpacked.
I was barely twenty-three and still amazed by everything around me. I hadn’t yet experienced the frustration of Morocco. I hadn’t yet been pinned up against a truck on my way home from work at night, saved only by my trusty neighborhood car guardian, the eyes and ears of my block. I hadn’t yet had gut-wrenching food poisoning, or the giardiasis that hit two months later, wrecking my insides and knocking 30 pounds off my already lithe frame. I hadn’t begun to feel cheated or ripped off for my foreignness, despite earning a local salary. I didn’t, at that point, feel the pain of leaving things behind.
The week before I left Meknes is a blur. Packing, 100-degree summer heat, and tears — everything happened so quickly, and I was ready to just get the hell out that I don’t think I took the time to savor everything I loved. I was tied down by obligatory good-bye lunches and teas during those last few days, so I didn’t have time to walk the 1,000 or so paces down my favorite street and back. I didn’t get to walk up Rue des FAR, down Ave. Mohammed VI, past the conservatory, where I’d strain my ears for sounds of the violin, then up Rue de Paris, where I’d buy a marrakshia and an espresso and sit amongst lecherous men watching football, hiding behind my sunglasses as I’d learned to do in that first week. I’d sit for hours in the same café, watching teenagers strut up and down the tiny, almost provincial, pedestrian lane, the girls dressed up for each other and the boys doused in cologne, and wonder what I would have been like had I come of age there.
And yet certain vistas in my mind remain distinct; everyday places were now poignant memories to record vigilantly in case I never saw them again. Or perhaps in case things had changed so much that by the time I ever made it back, they’d be unrecognizable.
I remember my beloved Rue de Paris. When I first walked it in 2004, it seemed almost decrepit, but when I left three years later, the storefronts were filling with chic new local additions: Marwa, the clothing store where I bought my favorite fingerless gloves; Novelty, a piano bar, which was only novel to me because it was the only bar I could sit alone unharassed and where one could find draught beer. I miss the uneven sidewalks, the wilted potted plants, the ubiquitous cats. I miss the shouts of teenagers, the smell of apple shisha wafting past my nose, the homeless men on the corner, always grateful for even a penny.
I always knew I’d miss Marrakesh, and on some nights, I swear I can hear the adhan of Fez. But Meknes, ya Meknes, most of all, I miss you.
Glossary: Souk: The marketplace in a traditional Arab city. Car guardian: A man whose job it is to watch over the cars on a portion of street, help people park, and generally watch out for the neighborhood. Marrakshia: A sticky sweet Moroccan pastry common to the city of Meknes. Adhan: The Muslim call to prayer.
The body of 13-year-old Alexis Glover was found Friday, January 9, 2009 in a shallow creek near PWC’s McCoart Administration Building, two days after she went missing. Alexis was adopted when she was six. She had reactive attachment disorder, among many medical problems. Her adoptive mother has been convicted of murder.
One needn’t know the river to know the way it flows — that’s the way the Buddha knew beneath the Bodhi tree. He emptied his mind into water, washed his thoughts away, came to know an afterlife:
The feather becoming the fawn, dawn passed into Banyan Tree, the no-shores-needed mind.
The shell of every walnut rises up to drink, parched Orchid tongues finally wetted.
Speaking in the language of trickles — that is how it is even for the smallest stream: flowing, rising, flowing, then weeping one more time, go peaceful little girl, into ocean again.
The jail cell
Brentsville Courthouse Historic Center, Brentsville, Virginia
The jail cell. Claw marks in cemented walls, cold air. They think it’s the ghosts.
The protagonists of Walter Kirn’s 2001 novel Up in the Air and Jonathan Miles’ 2008 book Dear American Airlines represent opposite ends of the air-travel spectrum. Consultant Ryan Bingham, the narrator of Kirn’s book, spends virtually his entire life in transit, professing to prefer the rhythms of travel to a more stationary existence, while translator Benjamin R. Ford of Dear American Airlines finds a once-in-a-lifetime family obligation a good reason to leave his Manhattan townhouse for the first time in decades. Still, both these characters reflect that, however ambivalent Americans may be toward air travel, it’s a privilege they take for granted and are loath to give up.
Up in the Air’s Bingham has just resigned from his job as a “career transition counselor,” called in to talk to employees who have just lost their jobs — an occupation he fell into because he “wasn’t strong,” though it’s not hard to imagine him returning to it in this current economic downturn. (A movie adaptation starring George Clooney as a noticeably older Bingham, this time tailed by a bright-eyed trainee who openly challenges his lifestyle, is scheduled for release later this month.)
Bingham’s primary means of entertainment during the near-constant traveling (so intense, he has even given up his apartment) comes from racking up miles on the fictional Great West Airlines in pursuit of the elusive one-million-mile mark. He’s idealized the moment down to where it ought to happen (over the Great Plains) and how he’ll celebrate (with a disposable camera and a copy of a story he wrote in college about his happy childhood).
Bingham sees himself as a citizen of “Airworld,” a largely anonymous, sanitized life in which recognizable chain restaurants represent open arms and every city is a series of ring roads, while simultaneously aware that his ardor for it is perhaps the most unique thing about him. As he faces the end of his traveling days, Kirn suggests he won’t be able to give up his highly mobile lifestyle by writing in a love interest (who, in a twist, was laid off by him on a previous trip) and dangling in front of him the prospect of working for a mysterious international conglomerate called MythTech, which Bingham believes is spying on him at various stops. While Kirn begins his book with the itinerary of Bingham’s last week, his destinations are unimportant; for Bingham, the cities are meaningless without the miles that will allow him to achieve his goal.
Bingham would never want to get in line for security behind Benjamin R. Ford, the narrator of Dear American Airlines, whose lengthy complaint forms the text of Miles’ debut novels. (Both narrators are writers, though Ford is largely a translator; Bingham’s book The Garage, which he discovers he unwittingly plagiarized from one of his counselees, is a vacuous management parable.) Unlike Bingham, Ford is not a frequent traveler, nor is he on the road on business. After receiving an invitation to his estranged daughter’s wedding in California, he decides to book a ticket based on a long-ago gibe he made to the girl’s mother about walking her down the aisle. (Both women are named Stella; since Ford formerly lived in New Orleans, inevitably he finds himself locked out of their shared house before his wife leaves him, yelling out her name before feeling properly foolish.)
Ford catalogs the indignities of his position — stranded at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport — as if experiencing the well-known inconveniences of air travel for the first time: Each type of seating is uniquely uncomfortable; the best offer of a diversion is Sudoku; and the stores in the terminal don’t carry his brand of cigarette. As Ford periodically leaves the terminal for a smoke break, he believes that one particular guard has been singling him out for extra searches. For a middle-aged white man, such scrutiny is merely an irritant, but his predicament hints at the very real debate over racial profiling at security checkpoints.
As one of thousands stranded at O’Hare due to an undefined error, Ford is on the verge of not being able to fulfill his promise — “Dear American Airlines,” he writes, “since when did you start canceling flights in midair?” — but his request for a ticket refund blossoms under author Miles’ careful cultivation into an homage to a life well lived as well as a laundry list of regrets. In the final pages, he confesses that he was thinking of committing suicide at his destination, making his unexpected layover a Beckettian pause, not just a disturbing interruption. Like Bingham, Ford is on a quest, and he is never so insistent on his right to travel as when he believes that it is about to be taken away by the titular airline.
In believing himself alone in “Airworld,” Ryan Bingham errs; more Americans than ever took to the skies in the past 10 years thanks to discounted rates and the rise of new carriers to challenge the legacy airlines. But if the doomsayers are correct, Bingham’s way of life may become the stuff of fiction in a generation or two. Even though oil prices have fallen from last year’s highs, experts continue to predict the demise of affordable mass air travel.
In “Airworld,” it’s the Binghams, not the Fords, who fill most of its seats. Take away the road warriors — or make their journeys unnecessary with videoconference equipment and “greener” office policies — and the legacy carriers will be courting bankruptcy within a year. But the Fords, who choose to travel, will suffer the most as commercial flights become more expensive. In the closing pages of Dear American Airlines, Ford is finally headed to his destination, planning to make it if not to his daughter’s wedding, then to the reception. The obstacles to his journey have, if not exactly melted away, only served to convince him of its necessity.
By Buffy Charlet Photos by Buffy Charlet and Jenn Pflaumer
We knew only one thing: We needed to pack sleeping bags and rubber gloves. Jenn, my friend and farm coworker, and I were gearing up for our trip to Humboldt County.
It was the old “friend of a friend who knows a guy” scenario. Yes, that’s how we committed to working on a medical marijuana farm. We didn’t know specifically where we were going, what the work entailed, who we were going to be working for, where we would stay, or even how long we would be there. But somehow, from our comfortable couches in Los Angeles, the complete omission of specifics only heightened our anticipation of the adventure. All Jenn and I needed to hear was “$20 per hour cash” and “marijuana farm.” We were in.
Fresh-cut and de-leafed marijuana branches ready to go up to the trim tent. Jenn Pflaumer
We had been instructed by the Bossman to wait in a small town about 40 minutes away from our destination. He would meet us nearby and then escort us to the farm because there was “no way” we’d find it on our own. He was right.
During our hour or so of waiting for him, we were entertained by the sight of packs of dirty hippies. I say the term “dirty hippies” lovingly, as I spent the first seven years of my life in a hippie commune. But apparently in order to qualify as a dirty hippie in Humboldt, you must A) have a dog with a hemp rope tied around its neck, B) be barefoot, C) smell like BO, turmeric, and flightiness, D) ask for money, and E) style your hair with nail clippers and mud. A tension exists in Humboldt County’s new social strata, as the locals are repulsed by this ganja-reeking crowd but attracted by the money they spend.
Finally, we got the call from the Bossman. It was time to go to the farm.
We were instructed to meet him by the side of the highway, which seemed rather gangsta. We were excited and nervous, but mostly excited.
And then we saw him waiting for us, our Bossman — an energetic, bandana-wearing Southern boy with a slight Eau de Hippie.
How it all began
I’ve long had a fascination with marijuana. When I’m numb from hearing about health care, unemployment, foreclosures, and H1N1, I turn to the debate over legalizing medicinal marijuana for stimulation. The agri-counter-culture that is budding in California is at the very least interesting.
For those in an ethical struggle over the value of legalizing pot for medicinal purposes, try a more pragmatic angle: the United States would experience staggering economic benefits from its legalization. According to a National Public Radio report, each Southern California pharmacy contributes hundreds of thousands of dollars per year in state tax revenue. Then there’s the geopolitical bonus: Stateside-grown marijuana directly threatens the dominance of Mexican drug cartels.
In fact, according to CBS, “The shifting economics of the marijuana trade have broad implications for Mexico’s war against the drug cartels, suggesting that market forces, as much as law enforcement, can extract a heavy price from criminal organizations that have used the spectacular profits generated by pot sales to fuel the violence and corruption that plague the Mexican state.” Yeah, duh. Of course “market forces” can take a bite outta crime. Think Al Capone and the repeal of Prohibition.
And then there’s the social justice angle. Users — perhaps you and I — will no longer have to risk buying weed from the sketchy kid down the block. Instead, we can take our cash and our self-respect and purchase our sack from the local, taxed, state-regulated pharmacy. I’m thinking you’d rather go to a pharmacy instead of waiting for “Tyler” to text you back to let you know the “Red Head” has arrived. Do we really think that by keeping marijuana illegal it’s going to go away and that bunnies and unicorns will run free?
Grape ape. Buffy Charlet
I was once in a grow house up in Sonoma County, but it was literally that — a regular suburban house with its bedrooms converted into marijuana grow rooms. Each room had 30 6-foot-tall plants and an exceptional amount of lighting and fans. It was very impressive, very well contained, and definitely NOT “green” (as in carbon-neutral).
Because medicinal marijuana in California is an emerging industry, the laws are murky. According to the Drug Enforcement Administration’s website, “In California there is no state regulation or standard of the cultivation and/or distribution of medical marijuana. California leaves the establishment of any guidelines to local jurisdictions, which can widely vary.”
The laws are different in every county and every city. In Los Angeles County, each card-holding patient or “caregiver” (someone who grows marijuana for patients) can grow fewer than 10 plants. In Sonoma County, the maximum jumps to 30 plants. And in Humboldt County, a caregiver can grow up to 99 plants! Seems like encouragement to move from houseplants to farming. How much bud a caregiver or patient can carry at any one time also greatly varies per county. So as long as you’re following the specifications of your city and county for growing, you have nothing to worry about as far as the state’s law is concerned.
The thing you do have to worry about is getting robbed. It’s not the law that is the danger, but rather gun-slinging criminals. People associate growing marijuana with mountains of cash, which is a fairly accurate assumption. Grow houses are risky, as the smell alone, wafting from the house, is enough to give someone a clue. The blacked-out windows and the air-conditioning turned on full blast in January are additional clues. So if you’re considering starting your own grow house, do yourself a solid and get an off-site safe.
Anypuffpuff, speaking on the phone about the details of our trip wasn’t smart. Marijuana, medicinal or not, is still illegal federally, so Jenn and I could only assume the situation in Humboldt would be similar to the one I witnessed in Sonoma.
We had heard through the grapevine — from the friend of a friend who knew the guy, our soon-to-be Bossman — that our job description on the farm was to be “trimmers.” We were unsure of what being a trimmer entailed, but it sounded like something you might learn in home ec class.
In addition to our sleeping bags and rubber gloves, we also packed running shoes for daily jogs by the river; yoga mats for morning asanas; DVDs for movie nights in the cabin; bikinis for the possible Jacuzzi on premises; multiple purses, because really, you just never know; tweezers, just ’cause I’m in Humboldt doesn’t mean my brows have to go to hell; our computers for intermittent Internet distractions; and a plethora of different outfits. We were starting to think of this as our “Humboldt Vacation.” The marijuana gods were laughing.
But that’s the lifestyle we were expecting to live for two weeks while communing with nature and trimming some ganja. This is what actually happened …
Inside the trim tent. Jenn Pflaumer
The road to nowhere
After following our Bossman for 30 minutes up a winding, deserted mountain road, I not only started seeing our town outings evaporate, but I also began to see our faces on milk cartons.
We pulled up to the bottom of a very steep dirt road, and Bossman jumped out of his car.
“Okay ladies, some cars can make this road, and some cars can’t.” ’Nuff said. I’d like to be in a car that can, por favor.
It should be noted here that I have a Prius, which I now know is perhaps the world’s all-time worst off-roading car. It barely clears speed bumps, and Priuses are to steep hills what I am to corporate ladders — you’ll never see it climbing one.
Bossman continued. “So you should start way down there, at the bottom of the paved road [about 50 yards], and gun it. Then once you hit the dirt road, just keep pushing on that gas, and hopefully you’ll make it to the top.”
“Um, can I just park it down here?”
“No, ’cause during trimming season there’s lots of weirdos up here who will strip your car.” Flashing red light in brain…
I was in over my head. Why did I feel the need to add “marijuana trimmer” to my already ridiculous resume? But at this point, I was in too deep. We had just driven 11 hours from Los Angeles, and I was now depending on this money. The market showed its ugly face again. No turning back.
I told myself, “Okay, I’m cool. I’m cool. No worries. I can do this,” as I tried to ignore the image of my mom’s face when I’d tell her that I totaled my car by driving it up a dirt road to trim weed. I drove to the bottom of the hill, and at the last minute I yelled out the window, “Oh, what do I do when I get to the top? Go straight?”
“Oh no! You’ll go off the side of the mountain if you go straight! You gotta cut hard right.”
Good to know.
Jenn turned to me and, in the calmest manner possible, said, “How you feelin’?”
“Like I might barf and have diarrhea at the same time.”
You know those friends who are really good influences on you? The ones who really put your issues in check? That’s what Jenn is for me. I have a tendency to be neurotic and high-strung, but Jenn is calm … really calm. But at this moment, I needed Valium.
Port-o-potty and Prius. Jenn Pflaumer
So I gunned it. We barreled up the hill and I cut hard right, and then the Prius coughed and pooped her pants and stopped. I floored the gas pedal, but the wheels just spun and whined, and we went no further. Bossman ran up and told me to back down the hill (oh, piece of cake!) and that he would go get his truck and they would tow us up.
My level of anxiety shot through the roof, and my shirt was now covered in sweat. But I was trying so hard to be cool. At this point, I began to feel sentenced.
A few minutes later, he sped down the hill in a beat-up truck with Bossman No. 2. They jumped out and started tying a rope (which I could only imagine was made of hemp) to my bumper.
Jenn crouched down with them, coolly inspecting the situation and knot-tying, while I stood a few feet away with pee trickling down my leg. Then Bossman dropped this load: “So, we had a little land dispute and lost the cabin. But there’s space for you ladies to sleep outside.”
My brain immediately jumped to the weather forecast (watching the weather is part of my genetics) and the fact that it was going to drop to the 30s at night while we’d be there. A) I might’ve grown up in a commune, but I do NOT enjoy sleeping outside. And B) I live in L.A. and I get cold if it’s below 70 degrees. I was speechless.
Jenn, Queen of Calm, said, “Huh. Well, we didn’t bring a tent.”
Bossman No. 1 replied, “Oh, that’s okay. You can share with the guys.”
Suddenly, we were not going to have movie nights, town outings, and Jacuzzi Sauvignon Blanc-sipping; we were going to be sleeping outside in 30-degree temperatures with “the guys.” I imagined these guys were like the dirty, barefoot, grime-caked, BO-stinking hippies we’d seen in town. In my head, Mom’s face was replaced by my boyfriend’s, shoving my belongings into a box and dumping them on the sidewalk.
“Well, that about does it,” said Bossman No. 2 as he secured the rope. “I just hope it doesn’t rip off your bumper.”
Well, gosh, me too. I didn’t think Toyota Financial would recognize “bumper ripped off on marijuana trim adventure” under my warranty.
But I stuffed down all my good sense, and with paranoia burbling to the surface of my brain, I said, “Okay, let’s do this.”
And so we did it — we towed my citified car up a dirt roller coaster using a hemp rope. Miraculously, my bumper remained secure and I kept my lunch down.
The resin on our gloves after only two hours of work. Buffy Charlet
Down on the farm
The farm really was something beautiful to behold. Nestled amongst the redwoods, the land was pristine. The only man-made items on the property were a small trailer where Bossman No. 1 and his girlfriend slept (and cooked most of our food), a large tent for trimming the marijuana, two small sheds where the marijuana dries, and THE GARDEN! This Eden boasted 45 marijuana plants ranging in size from 2-foot-tall babies to bushes well over 6 feet tall and 4 feet wide. These were some impressive plants.
We were then introduced to our workspace — the tent — and there was no getting prepared for the sight. Not scary or grotesque or hilarious, just reeeaally strange. Seated around a long table were 10 latex-gloved, heavy-metal-listening dudes — “the guys.” The air was thick with pot smoke, pot pollen, and dust from the dirt floor. The table was piled high with marijuana branches to be trimmed, and there were several large chafing dishes filled with the completed product — trimmed buds. Beautiful, perfect, and pounds and pounds of them. But the most peculiar thing about the tent was the flat-screen TV at the end of the table.
Here was a place where no one got cell reception, where we only had a Port-O-Potty, where there was no refrigeration or even ice, and where we had to sleep outside, yet we had DirecTV and a flat screen.
Metallica blared on the speakers and a baseball game filled the screen. Jenn and I were suddenly very aware that we were two women from Los Angeles in a male environment that chose TV over refrigerating meat. When we were given the option to go work in the garden by ourselves or stay in the tent to trim, in one voice we opted to work in the garden.
That first day in the garden, we couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t the pot — it was either laugh or cry. We kept asking ourselves what had possessed us to put our lives on hold and drive 11 hours to do manual labor with a bunch of dudes and then sleep on the ground? What were we thinking? So we just kept laughing. And pulling leaves off marijuana plants.
That was our job in the garden — pulling the leaves off the mature plants that were ready to be harvested. Doesn’t that just sound like a sweet little painless chore? That’s what we initially thought too. We had grand visions of finishing the entire garden in two days. And then we began our first plant.
First of all, we had to wear latex gloves because the resin from the plants is so thick and so sticky, in a matter of minutes you are covered in the gummy tar, which is impossible to get off. Later we learned an interesting fact: The resin can be removed from the gloves and smoked as hashish. At that moment, though, this information was not a bonus.
Anyhigh, we had to wear latex gloves, long-sleeved shirts, and long pants to avoid becoming resin babies. What we thought might take a few minutes of leaf-pulling per plant actually took over an hour per plant. There were zillions of leaves, and we had to pull delicately so as not to rip off the bud. We were immediately daunted, and as the sun bore down, we had a notion of what it must be like to be a migrant field worker.
Once the sun dropped, we joined the guys to work in the trim tent. The dust from the floor mixed with the pot smoke (yes, the trimmers smoke pot the entire time they trim — but as anyone who’s worked in a coffee shop knows, the last thing you want is a cup of joe) mixed with the airborne debris from 12 people trimming plant matter causes a sinus horror show. I blew my nose, and actual pieces of bud flew out. Listen, potheads, this is not okay. The tent was a constant cacophony of sneezing, wheezing, nose-blowing, hacking, and spitting. It was there we learned the term “the Humboldt hack.”
Trimming the buds into perfect little sellable nuggets was more mind-numbing than the garden plants’ deleafing, thus the flat screen. It also caused our hands and back muscles to cramp.
My multitasking, iPhone app-fiddling, Twittering, emailing, blogging, texting brain started to short circuit. I began to have a panic attack reserved expressly for middle class white people. How in the world was I going to do this for over a week, 12 hours a day? All the while sharing a Port-O-Potty with 10 dudes? I was not only dirty and disgusting (already!) I was bored. Picking and trimming leaves all day and night? Really? The social injustice was primarily body odor, and it seemed hardly worth the financial reward.
This was the temper tantrum my brain threw for the next two days. Bossman must have sensed my panic, because he got everyone a hotel room to share. And by hotel room, I mean a $25-a-night cell with a goat in the yard, 45 minutes away, in which we crammed as many bodies as possible. But hey, it had hot water and a roof, so I was grateful. I felt as though I were on Survivor, only without a million-dollar grand prize for surviving.
Meditations on pot
I’m not sure what got me through those first couple of days. It was probably Jenn’s constant calmness. And the fact that I needed to make this money or else I wasn’t going to be able to pay rent. It was also the knowledge somewhere deep, deep down in my gut that I needed this experience. I needed to be ripped away from my electronics, my comforts, my routine, and my false sense of control.
On the evening of day two, I had this epiphany: The universe sentenced my ass to a marijuana farm, and I had to do my time. I had to chill out, relax, and let go. If I counted the seconds, they would only get longer. I had to commit and be in the moment here more than in any of my previous meditations.
On day three, I embraced my epiphany and the work and living conditions. It started to feel less like prison and more like a spiritual retreat. I was becoming unplugged from my own expectations. That’s when I began to be fully aware of the unique experience I was having.
I started to ask the guys questions. I was amazed to find that what I once thought to be a motley crew of potheads and metalheads was in fact a group of interesting human beings. One had been a monk for 17 years in Laos. There was a chef, a firefighter, an actor, a screenwriter, a musician, a sports TV project manager, and a dad. We all had a desire to fall off the grid, if even for a brief period, and to experience some of the last days of the Wild West. And to make some fast money…
This truly was the Wild West. Our bossmen were in the throes of a major land dispute over another piece of property on which they had 350 mature marijuana plants. A mature plant can yield anywhere from half a pound to 2.5 pounds of dried bud. A pound of dried bud can sell anywhere from $2,000 to $4,000. So we’re talking about a lot of money.
The daily news told stories of local robberies and even violence. We would hear gunshots in the distance. Target practice on squirrels? Possibly. More land disputes and more robberies? Very likely. Small planes would fly over our heads as we worked in the garden. Private joyriding? Perhaps. Scoping outdoor gardens? Maybe. This is big business, and it is largely unregulated.
We often mused about how once marijuana is legal on a federal level, it will be so regulated that working on a pot farm will no longer be a retreat of sorts for those of us who are wandering and could use $20-per-hour cash. We could eat, drink, and pretty much work when we wanted. We just kept track of our hours, on scraps of paper, through a perma-haze. But once it’s universally legal and regulated, there will be masses of real migrant workers who, being paid $8 an hour, will be required to produce a certain amount of pounds per hour. There will be no DirecTV, no free Coors Light, no joint being passed around the trim table, no constant chatter, no getting to know a monk from Laos, a chef, or a musician.
But this is how it’s done now. This moment of time presents a brief opportunity for an opportunistic few to make a considerable amount of money. Cash. And let’s be clear: This Wild West scene has been created by the law.
The ambiguity of the law is tough to navigate. Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act, under which California voters approved the use of medicinal marijuana, is completely silent about transportation, distribution, and sales of marijuana. In 2004, SB 420 was passed, but it only focused on cultivation and possession.
Contradicting the very keystone of this debate is that while pharmaceutical prescription drugs are not taxed in California, medicinal marijuana is taxed. So medicinal marijuana is being treated more like alcohol and cigarettes under state law. This is just more evidence of the hazy laws and California’s own indecision of how it wants to treat marijuana. Like the citizens of Humboldt, the state likes the money it brings in but is having trouble with the stink.
The debate over pharmacies is likewise thick and convoluted. The laws themselves conflict and clarify little. In similar murky waters, the pharmacies and the patients who buy the bud are taxed, but the growers — the caregivers — are not taxed. Typically, a caregiver will sell his bud to a pharmacy (also called a “dispensary” or “collective” under state law) that will then sell it to the patients.
According to the California Attorney General’s elusive guidelines —
Well, isn’t that a fluffy mouthful? Let’s be real: Medicinal marijuana is a multibillion dollar business that could potentially help rescue us from a pulverized economy. The state of California stating that a pharmacy “might have to organize as some form of business to carry out its activities” is like refusing to admit your daughter is going to have sex at her senior prom.
Come on, give the girl a condom. Let’s look with eyes wide open at medicinal marijuana as the emerging, booming industry that it is. We need clear, concise laws to be mandated so that the grower, the transporter, the pharmacy, and the patient are at no risk for infringing on the law. And once we can do that, then maybe California — and the nation — can welcome another taxable business into the mainstream.
Who says size doesn’t matter? Jenn Pflaumer
The give and take
Jenn and I went to the farm with our own agenda. From Los Angeles to Humboldt, we carried with us plans and schedules — an itinerary of what we wanted to accomplish. Humboldt took our plans and bitch slapped them. On the marijuana farm, we weren’t so much seduced by the high of weed, but rather by the buzz of letting go and being in the moment.
On the eighth day of our stay, it became overcast and cold. The forecast called for rain — lots of rain. Jenn and I took this cue and realized it was time to return to L.A. After hugs and promises to stay in touch with our new “trim” family, we packed up our sleeping bags and resin rubber gloves. Then, reeking of ganja, we headed down that winding road. In the redwoods, on a farm up in Humboldt County, we left our agendas, our naïveté, and our phone numbers for next season.
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According to the AP, the UN has voiced its concerns over the ban, calling it "discriminatory":
"U.N. human rights chief Navi Pillay said Sunday's referendum to outlaw the construction of minarets in Switzerland was the product of 'anti-foreigner scare-mongering.'
The criticism from Pillay, whose office is based in the Swiss city of Geneva, comes after an outcry from Muslim countries, Switzerland's European neighbors and human rights watchdogs since 57.5 percent of the Swiss population ratified the ban."
But the strong support for a minaret ban in Switzerland shows that the international community — overwhelmingly against the ban — is missing something. SiwssInfo says
"The party (right-wing Swiss People's Party) said the outcome of the minaret ballot showed that Swiss voters did not want parallel societies and special rights.
'Our laws apply to everybody. We have to control immigration. Those who break the law have to leave the country,' a statement said."
Isn't it time to start discussing openly and freely how to integrate various religious and ethnic groups in countries that welcome immigrants from around the world, rather than focusing on cosmetic procedures like the minaret ban? Where is the discussion and debate on why Muslims might feel compelled to live in a parallel society in Switzerland and elsewhere?
For more on the Swiss side of the debate, you can visit:
Here, in the Philippines, politics is something you can get killed over.
A woman went to file for her husband's name to be on a ballot, and she and at least 19 other women were raped and murdered.
I know I should describe it more, tell you more details, explain more about these events, but I can't. There are tears in my eyes. A rush of adrenaline in my veins. A streak of fear turning my blood to ice. I want to do something. I want to not be afraid. I want to convince myself that I am safe….But I can't even find the words to feel solace. I am shaken to my core.
Please read this article in the Philippine Star for more information.
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