Buying ganja Sapporo

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Buying ganja Sapporo

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Buying ganja Sapporo

A friend suggested my wife Rebekah and I visit it while on our honeymoon in Osaka. Although I no longer smoked weed or dropped acid, I still loved the psychedelic: surreal books, occult verbiage, hippie satire, and trippy music that sounded like it was made on mushrooms. They were fun and reminded me of the risky excitement required to warp reality in order to examine it. The thing was, neither ganja nor acid were legal in Japan. While marijuana shops had popped up all over Portland where we lived, over there, even the smallest amount of weed brought first-time offenders a minimum of five years hard labor. Because modern pharmaceuticals have recreational uses, Japan also outlawed the unauthorized possession of many opioid painkillers like codeine and banned amphetamines like Adderall that are used to treat ADHD. The laws treated them with the same firm hand as heroin and cocaine. In June , a high-level Toyota Motor Corp executive was arrested for having 57 oxycodone pills hidden in a package, mailed to her Tokyo hotel from the United States. Authorities held her for 20 days, and, after she resigned her high-profile post, and after she was widely discussed in the media, they let her off without formal charges. This is common in Japan, where the process is often the punishment for people who apologize and express remorse. In , 13, people there were charged with drug crimes. In America in , the FBI reported 1,, drug arrests. They still do. Converging on his family home like they were breaking up a smuggling ring, the cops found a small stash and a pipe. This made me nervous. What did people do at Ganja Acid? What if the cops raided the place during our visit? Besides photos and some bad blog posts, very few details were available about it in English. Oddballs and touring musicians went there to drink and listen to indie music. Bands seemed to play there and DJs threw parties, which confused me: I thought it was a four-seat bar? Some photos showed a large club. Others showed a dark enclosure. Japan did a lot with limited space. I pulled back the door and cigarette smoke rushed out. The door closed and sealed us in darkness. Inside: four stools. The only other patron sat in one, and the bartender stood up behind a counter that was cluttered with what, in the faint light, only registered as a bunch of shapes: curved glass vases, paper concert flyers, dangling things. Calm electronic music played, a wash of slow twinkly guitars and harmonized synthesizers. Rebekah and I inched between the wall and counter, fumbling to see any obstacles. It was barely — not that you could tell. Inside, it was midnight. She took the stool at the end. I scooted one back so I could lean against the wall beneath a yellow t-shirt. The guy beside me nodded hello and drew on a cigarette. A black pack of Peace brand sat on the counter between us. He was in his early 30s, wearing a white t-shirt with short black hair. In the darkness, he seemed tan. Lots of people in Osaka seemed tan. A floppy, low, wide brim hat hid his features. He had cannabis beer from Germany, three Japanese beers, and Budweiser. You pay for the ambiance in these small bars. Before I ordered, I asked the other guy what the cannabis beer tasted like. Behind the counter, the bartender clicked a hand-crank flashlight to fetch beer from a tiny refrigerator. It only put out a tiny beam before it quit working. The beam was so faint that he held the bulbs directly on whatever needed illuminating. It was comic. It was schtick. He seemed to enjoy it. His name was Kaihei. He spoke excellent English. Without him, Rebekah and I would have sat in the dark struggling to exchange words with the bartender, who spoke as little English as we spoke Japanese, and would never have learned anything about this place. We explained: A friend insisted that we had to come here. She and her husband were walking around Osaka a few years ago and spotted the name Ganja Acid on the building, so they came back at night to check it out. As he translated, the bartender leaned in excitedly, his brows raised, before asking follow-up questions: How did I know her? Where did she live? They lived in California, I said. She was a writer, and he played in punk and pop bands and loved crating for rare pop, rock, and psychedelic records in Japan. The phone was the brightest light in there. And he is strong. It could be. There was another master before. He is the second. Tetsujin pressed his little light against the back wall and scratched at something. I wondered what he did for work before this. Another bar? The music business? With his chill posture and low hat, it was hard to picture him taking orders from some straight-laced citizens, called katagi, in an office somewhere. Host clubs sold male companionship to women, hostess sold female companionship to men. As Tetsujin scrolled through his phone in search of songs to play, Kaihei explained how the host business worked, how, for the last three years, he got paid to catalog the same men over and over, in the same type of photos, as they posed in nice jeans and pressed shirts. He showed us images on his phone. They looked like members of K-pop bands: boyish and thin but almost asexual. Like many sex businesses, this took place at night while the rest of us slept. Kaihei laughed. The hosts drink even more, he said. They have to control it, to be careful. I am bored with boys. Want to photograph girls now. Rebekah and I asked questions about host clubs, and he asked us questions about sex work in America: Do you have host clubs? Is prostitution legal? Rebekah explained how prostitution was only legal in one state in America: Nevada. Kaihei nodded. I know it. That confused us. Our surprise confused him. No, Rebekah explained. They are ashamed. But Japan had its own systems that worked on their island. Outside of it, it seemed idiosyncratic. Here, it made sense. Love hotels lined entire city blocks. Special vending machines sold used underwear. While we talked, Tetsujin sat and watched us, studying our lips and faces. Rebekah and I felt the same at nearly every Japanese bar we went to, except this one. Often, Tetsujin would press his phone to his face and search for music to play. Tetsujin scrolled through songs, drinking from a large brown and yellow milk carton, not even smoking. Tetsujin pressed his index fingers into both temples. He shook his nearly empty latte carton at us, rattling the remaining bits inside. Then he tipped back his head, swallowed the rest and tossed it across the room, where a stack of spent cartons filled the corner, floor to ceiling. They were all Yokankyo, his favorite brand. Then he hit some switches and the place went black. Only one light remained. It glowed blue on the wall behind him. We laughed and sat in the dark for a moment, then he switched on a high red light. We sat in a red state for a while, staring at each other and taking in the vibe, then he flipped a switch and aimed a tiny yellow clip light at us which hung over the counter. With that, he returned us to the original dimness and the conversation continued. About a third of Japanese people have bad physical reactions to alcohol thanks to a genetic inability to efficiently metabolize it. Maybe he was one of the third, but it was amusing to think that the owner of a bar named after two drugs consumed neither. When they ask for them, he tells them no, no weed. They can get some at other bars. Not here. This bar is clean. Just alcohol. Japan has a reputation as a hard-drinking country tolerant of public drunkenness. Sauced businessmen pass out in train stations. Coworkers haze each other at company booze parties, yet most mass-market Japanese beer contains five percent alcohol, with a few craft beers going as high as six or seven percent. Ganja Acid only served five beers, yet I drank mine and felt nothing. Maybe it was the trippy environment. It was weird. A young guy who drank beer for breakfast at one bar before going to work at a sex bar. Beer that gave me no buzz. Nothing was what it seemed. It was two. Acid next door. Ganja was a psychedelic bar. I liked the idea that someone felt their bar needed a name so powerful it required two illicit substances. That felt potent and comically subversive. Generally speaking, many Japanese people viewed drug use as a symptom of moral corruption, spiritual deficit, or personal weakness, a sickness rather than recreation or experimentation, as we view it in America. The people who did drugs were a certain type of people, so maybe some of them were the admirable kind who carved their own path, because in a country where concentric rings of social obligation influence behavior to the point that they can strangle individuality, many Western icons of rebellion are celebrated: James Dean, Buddy Holly, Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Marley, The Beatles. You just have to associate with them, like how Japanese youth had famously embraced the marijuana leaf and Rastafarian yellow-green-red color scheme in advertisements, business logos, t-shirts, and album covers. Fuck your way of life. Fuck your opinions. Fuck your sense of obligation and judgment and thoughtless support of the status quo. Fuck what you think of us in here. This was a very American way of thinking. I was projecting and was way off base. Acid meant loud, wild, crazy. Ganja meant chill. One side hosted live music. One offered a meditative space to drink. Ganja was a psychedelic bar, and its name announced the vibe. That was all. The glass domes on the counter turned out to be speakers, not incense holders or vases. Not all of them worked. The bar stayed open until 6 a. He does it all. Black Sabbath. After an hour, the door finally opened. One woman came in. She took the stool by the door and ordered a beer. Kaihei turned to see if he recognized her. They exchanged a few words. He turned back around. She drank her beer and left. Rebekah decided to buy a Ganja 20th Anniversary t-shirt. She touched the hem of one hanging on the wall behind us. It looked yellow to me. Maybe he had different ones in stock. I asked for black. He ducked behind a thin transparent curtain and pawed through a bunch of shirts in a cramped back area whose rear wall had the rough, gray patina of a cave. His flashlight cut a thin cone through the smoke. Eventually he emerged holding shirts. It hung like a dress. Sadly, too big, I said. Yusuka Chiba, another musician, designed the white one, which fit Rebekah perfectly and made me jealous. I wanted a souvenir. Unfortunately, the smoke was killing us. Kaihei kept lighting cigarette after cigarette, filling the ashtray with butts, until his tiny pack lay crumbled beside us. Coming out of the bar around , shuffling down the alley, drunks fumbled out of narrow doorways while others sipped from glasses at outside tables. Three guys in black jeans and jean jackets rolled guitar amps out of a tiny club and abandoned beer cars stood on curbs under the street lights. This city had so much life. Under the street lights, we could see something else: The demo shirt we identified as yellow and that Tetsujin called white had actually been yellow. It was stained from the smoke. Rebekah held a strand of her hair to her nose. I really do. Go home tonight. Take all your albums, all your tapes and all your CDs and burn them. The Beatles were so fucking high they let Ringo sing a few times. Thinking back on it, it almost makes me shudder. He was a stoner, and stoners rarely travel without weed. It kept on that way for a while. He got arrested for possession in Los Angeles in , though got let off. He brought weed everywhere. Once security found the bag hidden in his packed suit jacket, McCartney spent nine days in a ten-by foot jail cell where he slept on a mattress on the floor. He cleaned his cell with a reed brush, got one cigarette break a day with other prisoners, and he got up early and went to sleep early — with books but no guitar. Facing seven years in prison, his band Wings had to cancel their eleven sold-out Japan concerts, which lost them upwards of a million dollars and pissed off the other players and roadies. Somehow, probably because of his celebrity and lawyers, the Japanese government decided to deport their famous criminal without a single charge, and he never played Japan again. Sir Paul got lucky. People certainly are different out here. For a night spent at a bar named after two drugs, we got up at seven the next morning feeling refreshingly awake. No hangover, no tracers. Rebekah ran for an hour up to Osaka Station, and I drank tea and took a stroll. Kaihei had probably just gotten off work. What stayed with us was the smoke. Our clothes and skin reeked of it. When Rebekah unfolded her Ganja t-shirt to take in its glory, she let out an amused groan. Stored in the back room, it had absorbed nicotine. Rebekah held up her shirt and studied the stain. Skip to content. Revolution on Two Wheels. Reading, Writing, Chanting.

Buying ganja Sapporo