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This contrast paints a vivid picture of the divergent paths nations are taking in the realm of cannabis legislation. Cannabis, introduced to Indonesia in the 19th century by the Dutch primarily for fiber production, found traditional usage in regions like Aceh. The Aceh region, with its ideal climate, became renowned for producing high-quality cannabis. However, the Dutch colonial government imposed restrictions in the s, leading to a gradual crackdown on cannabis use and cultivation. This strict approach has continued, with frequent large-scale destruction of cannabis plants, reflecting a no-tolerance policy that has remained unyielding despite the global shift towards more lenient cannabis laws. The legal landscape for medical cannabis in Bali and Indonesia is unequivocally prohibitive. The legal framework offers no room for recreational use, with severe penalties, including life imprisonment and the death penalty for possession or distribution of large quantities. This rigid stance is part of a broader zero-tolerance policy towards all narcotics, distinguishing Indonesia from many countries that are moving towards decriminalization or legalization of recreational cannabis. In Bali, as in the rest of Indonesia, possession, cultivation, and consumption of cannabis are strictly prohibited. The law makes no concessions, with the cultivation of as few as five plants potentially resulting in the death penalty. The prohibition extends to all forms of cannabis, including hemp and CBD products. The future of cannabis legislation in Bali seems to be firmly anchored in its current prohibitive stance. Despite the global trend toward more lenient cannabis laws and the regional shift seen in countries like Thailand, Indonesian law shows no signs of relaxation. While advocacy groups continue to push for reform, the political and legal environment in Indonesia suggests that significant changes in cannabis legislation are not imminent. Is Marijuana legal in Bali? The answer is a definitive no. Cannabis in Bali, reflective of Indonesian law, remains illegal, with some of the strictest penalties globally. Rita is a seasoned writer with over five years of experience, having worked with globally renowned platforms, including Forbes and Miister CBD. Her deep knowledge of hemp-related businesses and passion for delivering accurate and concise information distinguish her in the industry. Rita's contributions empower individuals and companies to navigate the complexities of the cannabis world, and her work remains a valuable resource for those seeking a deeper understanding of its potential. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Stay informed about the latest developments in the world of cannabinoids. Subscribe to our newsletter for valuable insights and updates. Join us on this journey of knowledge and discovery. The Marijuana Index offers general information on the cannabis industry and related stock markets, not intended as financial advice. Our content, backed by trusted sources, is based on our rigorous research. Disclaimer Terms of Use Privacy Policy. Laws to Know if You are a Tourist. In Bali, cannabis is prohibited, with severe penalties including life imprisonment and the death penalty for major offenses, and there is no legal distinction between its recreational and medicinal use, contrasting starkly with the global trend of evolving cannabis laws. Rita Ferreira. March 25, Table of Contents. To Sum Up. Is Weed Legal In Guam? Is Weed Legal In Indonesia? All About Cannabis Legalization. Latest articles. Proposed U. Hemp Legislation Targets Synthetic Cannabinoids. Reply Moritz Gellert March 30, at am. Leave a reply Cancel reply. The Marijuana Index. Global Cannabis Index U. Subscribe to the Marijuana Index Newsletter. All rights reserved.

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Bali buying hash

It was my first time outside of a western country. It was my first time in Asia proper and everything was bright and vivid and new to me: the scents, the architecture, the people, the food, the drinks, all of it seemed like another world. It felt as though I had wandered into a fantasy novel. But it was only Kuta. Which, for the unfamiliar, is not exactly a paradigm of paradise. Kuta is more like the Mos Eisely of the Pacific, a true hive of scum and villainy, a place where rowdy Australians go on holiday to break things, drink things, eat cheap, buy sex and feel lucky. There are many beautiful parts of Indonesia and many beautiful parts of the island, Bali. However, Kuta is not necessarily one of them. Kuta is a place for scoundrels. The Australians had warned me. But reality has a funny way of derailing my intentions. Money, that great and powerful illusion, was a necessary evil that I was running out of. And quickly — as always. Which meant that my journey was nearing its end. The End. The terminus of a long tramping campaign that had taken me from Colorado to California to Australia and now to Indonesia. It had been an insane journey, full of new places, new faces, beer, wine, weed, women, beaches, wild animals, wild parties and psychedelic mushrooms you can buy all the psilocybin in the world in Bali, legally. But cannabis? Nah that stuff will get you 5 years easy. Anyway, this was my final morning. It was 4 a. I had determined not to. Why bother? I thought. Why tease myself with a few hours of honest rest and waste my last glimmer of Asia unconscious in a bed? I was going to fight through the fatigue I already felt creeping over me, order a goddamned pizza from the kitchen, watch the sunrise and bask, alone, in the rays of one of my last days on the road. Like a true tramp. The Surfer Bliss Hotel pool. Where it all went down. The pizza arrived quickly, but my solitude was not absolute. Across from me, likewise enjoying an early morning pizza, was an agent of fate, a karmic emissary come to test the size of my testicles. He was a portly Indonesian fellow. Mid-forties probably, burned out, inked up and dangerous looking. And he wanted to talk. I did want to smoke some weed. I almost always do, when the opportunity arises. I love weed. Weed is my weakness, my vice of vices. However, I was also wary. Just the idea of smoking bud in a country so strict and tight assed about pot gave me The Fear. But this man was not offering to sell me weed, he was offering to smoke it with me, I reasoned. I had not sought the marijuana out. It had sought out me. So where did that leave us? Besides, a good blaze before my flight home sounded like just the ticket. Nothing makes a long flight more digestible than a good blaze right beforehand. If you are a tourist caught in possession of cannabis, the minimum sentence is four years in prison. They do not take kindly to drugs in that country — even though psychedelic mushroom smoothie stands line the streets and men selling Viagra out of hollowed out AA batteries prowl the sidewalks at night like horny ghouls. I knew all this. And still, only moments later, this stranger and I were passing a dokha bowl packed with weed back and forth, laughing, bullshitting, talking about tattoos and women. Finishing our pizzas. Phelix was a local. He was a father and a husband, who, as he explained, was staying at the Surfer Bliss Hotel because his wife had kicked him out. This man, whoever he was, was dark. Something about him made me uneasy, unsure and anxious. Or maybe that was just the weed? It had been a while since my last toke, after all. Was I just being paranoid? Probably, I decided. When we finished the second bowl Phelix rolled a couple of joints. I was feeling good and stoned and I had nothing to do. Plus, a ride to the airport would save me some cash for a meal on the way home. Phelix pulled a flipflop off his foot and threw it at the men. The two men groaned. Get the fuck up! Both of them were huge, hulking humans, that barely fit in the back seat of that Hundai. I almost laughed at them. We dropped them off unceremoniously. Phelix pulled right up to the front door of some lavish looking hotel, unlocked the doors and told the Arabs in the back to get out. They obliged. We had another joint after all and he was determined to smoke it with me. He laughed at that. Phelix lit then second joint, took a long draw from it and handed it to me. Kuta beach. Just trying to travel, though, really. Right in the middle of the dashboard, above the sound system controls, was a small orange Ducati motorcycle model. I had noticed it as soon as I got into the car. Again, he laughed. And, at this point I started to feel uncomfortable. Look behind it. I leaned forward and peered over the model motorcycle and my blood froze in my veins. As soon as I laid eyes on it I felt a cold, moist hand close around my wrist. His eyes now burned fiercely. Furious, malicious joy was etched upon his face, as his wolf-like smile spread. But I know I somehow rolled out of his car, breaking his grip and spilling awkwardly out and onto the pavement, strangers watching with surprise. I rolled again. I lost my flip flops. I stood up and saw Phelix getting out of the car as if in slow motion and took off down the street. I hailed the first empty taxi I saw and leapt inside, sinking in the back seat, low, beneath the windows to escape his view. As he threw open the door on the passenger side, reaching in, grabbing at me, I screamed and jumped out the other side. Indonesian taksi I have never been much of a runner. In fact, I absolutely hate the exercise and always have. But in that instant, without shoes and with so much adrenaline coursing through my body, I ran faster and further than I have ever run in my life, before or since. Down the street, up an alley, back to the beach, through a neighborhood, left, left, right, left again, trying to lose this insane man before he caught up to me. At a certain point, I realized, though, that there was only one way I was going to get out of this situation safely. I needed to get back to my hotel room, back to the hotel where Phelix knew I was staying, grab my bag which had my passport and my wallet in it and get the fuck out of dodge. However, if this bastard had any brains, that was where he was going to be waiting for me. He knew I was headed out of the country that morning and he knew I needed to get back to the room in order to get my stuff. I was absolutely certain that Phelix would be waiting there for me, perhaps with more cops, ready to bust my stoned ass and send me to Indonesian prison — which, from what I understand, is not exactly a cheery place. Every part of me trembled with terror as I scurried back to the Surfer Bliss, still buzzing on adrenaline. I peered in the lobby — no sign of Phelix. I snuck up the stairs and glanced down the hallway, towards my room. No one. With a deep breath, I sprinted down the hall and blasted through and into my room. It was empty except for me and my backpack. The window curtains waved gently in a quiet breeze. I started cramming things into the bag, hastily jamming my clothes and anything else I could see into it. As I was doing so, my phone started ringing. I was getting a facetime call from, of all people, my mother. What in the world could she be calling at this hour for? No need to worry! You sound anxious. That was the weirdest thing. I was so scared for you. Nothing to worry about here. I froze at the sound. I stared at the door, ready to shit my pants if I heard Phelix on the other side. Room service. Less than a minute in fact. When I came barreling out of that door the Indonesian room service woman was still standing there and I almost bowled her straight over. But I would never see Phelix ever again. I got a taxi, made it to the airport and then to my gate where I half expected to get stopped by police. It was a wave of warmth, happiness and sheer liberation. I felt dumb when I finally got back to my bed. I felt lucky and stupid, brilliant and foolish all at once. Would I still, today, be fending for my life in some hell-hole Asian prison? Sometimes I wonder. Am I actually in that prison? Am really here? For now I believe that I am. And I feel indescribably lucky that I somehow managed to slip through a crack in the walls as they closed in around me. Call it what you will, to me that is proof of telepathy, evidence of some psychic connection that mothers feel with their children, no matter where on Earth they might be. When I finally, some 36 hours later arrived home in Colorado, my very first order of business was to smoke a fat bowl of Colorado bud. I loaded my bong, covered the weed with a generous blanket of kief, packed the ice catcher with fresh snow and sunk into a bliss that cannot be accurately described with words. It was the safest I have ever felt in my life. Leave a Reply Cancel reply Your email address will not be published. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Notice: JavaScript is required for this content. Like this: Like Loading Related Articles. Get the Latest Notice: JavaScript is required for this content.

Bali buying hash