Chitre buying marijuana

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Chitre buying marijuana

The Jamaican entrepreneur and Bob Marley's son has a new cannabis line and a whole lot of wild stories. The Jamaican entrepreneur and son of late reggae legend and activist Bob Marley is well-known for his love of marijuana, tied to his cultural beliefs and lifestyle. That's why he says it's only natural that he launched his cannabis line and lifestyle brand Lion Order. This is the perfect opportunity now that the stigma has been lifted. In his opinion, the growing push to legalize marijuana has caused a level of widespread acceptance that his dad had hoped for. It was looked upon so bad back in the day. They downgraded us because we smoked, but now you realize lawyers are smoking herb, judges are smoking herb, all these people with clean faces and haircuts smoke herb. Asked who was the coolest person he ever smoked with, Marley plays coy. That was the one. Marley stops short of giving more details, but offers up another great memory: the first time he got caught smoking by his dad. Once I was smoking and my dad saw me and says to me 'Hey boy, where you get that from? Who give you that? Take that out your mouth! Next year, he and his many siblings are gearing up to celebrate their father's legacy with the release of the highly anticipated film Bob Marley: One Love, executive produced by his brother Ziggy Marley and hitting theaters in January. He adds, 'I'm just happy. Everything Marley is about love. What we're doing with the movie, with Lion Order, with life. We just continue the message of Rastafari, which is love, peace, serenity and togetherness. For more People news, make sure to sign up for our newsletter! Read the original article on People. After offering its customers free adapters for Tesla's Superchargers, Ford is telling its customers to stop using them. That's not great for a broadcaster. Alabama fans are dealing with a whole new reality this season. Texas fans are coping after the Longhorns' first loss of the season. Week 8 brought with it a new outlook for many teams after a surprising Saturday of action. Which of them will remain unscathed and which will stumble? What, you're surprised that Nvidia's stock is crushing it again? Try these health and wellness tips to live your best week. UCF defensive back Braeden Marshall thought he had a pick-6 touchdown against Iowa State, but dropped the ball before crossing the goal line. Selected edition. Sign in. Close this content. Read full article Janine Rubenstein. Nikhil Chitre Rohan Marley. Nikhil Chitre Lion Order Cannabis. View comments. Recommended Stories. Sports Yahoo Sports. Business Engadget. Business Yahoo Finance. Health Yahoo Life.

Can the Feds Stop Colorado and Washington From Legalizing Pot?

Chitre buying marijuana

Mike and I were crammed in the way-back, the provisional row of seats in the trunk, and the rhythmic, metallic clang was striking directly below our feet. We looked at each other, concluding the dismal inevitable. Midway up a tortuous hill, the jeep gave a terrible, final clank and stopped, and our driver shook his head sadly. We stood on the roadside in the jungle. Soon the boorish hooting of howler monkeys began nearby, an intimidating sound, which is its purpose, since howlers defend their turf with jeering boos. He seemed confident the situation would be speedily resolved, for every few minutes a car or jeep would hurtle around the visible bends of the solitary road. The young French couple with a plane to catch were awarded the first two open seats. Of all things, I found myself thinking about the trash bag I had stashed in the jeep. Now I was wondering—should I transfer the trash bag into the next jeep, or leave it in our busted ride? But what was I going to do with it back in Panama City? On the other hand, if I left it in the abandoned jeep, the noble gesture became pointless, even more futile than it already was. A token act of environmentalism, but I would see it though. This was at the end of our two-week trip through Panama. Back in Boulder we were roommates, renting a rustic ranch house on a horse farm a few miles from town. Ours is an intimate, old-fashioned friendship. When we travel together, we try to follow our instinct, seeking a kind of pure experience, the reality of a place, rather than any proscribed route. Panama is an isthmus—a wave-shaped strip of land between the Pacific to the south and the Carribean to the north—connecting Costa Rica to Colombia like the root of an umbilical cord. She was tanned and straw-haired with an appealing Joni Mitchell thing going and a Midwestern rambling manner. He had to bribe the police to avoid jail and now he was under their thumb, on precarious parole. Mike and I were fine with cheap local beer and a bit of the grungy pot Karen liked to smoke from a perforated apple. That evening, sitting on the veranda of her apartment which hung on a cliff above a secluded crescent of rugged Pacific coastline, I could feel euphoria sifting into my system. We had escaped the hectic capital; it felt like we had finally arrived in Panama, the place I had imagined, laidback and idyllic. Motionless geckos on the ceiling chirped to each other, surprisingly loud tongue-clucking sounds from such tiny conversationalists. The waves below crumpled and hissed in retreat. In the morning we watched pelicans dive-bomb for fish in the bay. The giant birds hovered in the humid sky, cruising the updrafts, scanning the surface, then gave into gravity and plunged like a squadron of kamikaze into the waves, bobbing upright, swallowing their catch. Mike and I swam out to see them up close, their long sword-like bills and yellow-feathered heads. The water had a delicious chill and reeked of chum. A good life, it seemed, retirement in this sleepy pacific paradise. Cheap rent, fresh fish and produce, and if you apply for and acquire a visa, heavy discounts on accommodation and transport around the country. A growing number of gringos appear to agree. They all wore the contentment of being in on a luxurious secret. Private gated communities with names like Bella Mar and half-constructed mansions had already sprung up along the pitted coastal road. The massive photo displayed a slender beauty from the bikinied buttocks down, a surfboard leash around her ankle, strolling toward the limitless blue shimmer. Regardless, the way was irrefutable, and depressingly familiar. A similar transformation was occurring in Casco Viejo, the up-and-coming neighborhood in the capital. Spanish colonial flair still lingered on the narrow streets in the rippled red rooftiles and wrought-iron verandas, but half the housefronts were crumbled into decrepitude. Heavy renovation was happening, scaffolds climbing dilapidated lanes, rows of architectural ruins converting into sleek avenues of gelato shops and boutique hotels and tapas restaurants, drawn in creamy pastels like parts of Havana. At night dolled-up partygoers trawled the main square in their cars while outdoor cafes blasted reggaeton; from the veranda of our hostel we could see a rooftop hotel bar encased in glass a la Miami. Casco Viejo was becoming uber-hip, perhaps too quickly for its own good. The district was situated on a small fortified peninsula, and the prow-like harbor wall looked over the hazy bay to the astonishing skyline of downtown Panama City, bristling with spires, company monoliths, residential towers, skeletal works-in-progress, a high-concept skyscraper of spiraling green glass that belongs in Dubai—a vision of the future from the ramparts of the old world. Along the Pan-American highway we rode through clouds of red construction dust, past caterpillars and backhoe loaders chewing red earth from a cross-section of hillside, small armies of workers and traffic coordinators wearing bandanas over their mouths. Panama is taking command of its destiny, after a bloody history of bombardment, oppression, and interference by Spain, France, and the United States, not to mention their own malignant rulers, like Noriega. Control of the lucrative Canal was finally ceded to Panama in and fully assumed by the government in , and plans are underway for its expansion. More traffic, more infrastructure, more money, more tourists, more displacement of locals, more upward mobility for the few. Who am I to judge this inevitable trend, to find it discomforting—me, the privileged, visiting American? In Venao after dark, Mike and I stumbled upon a wedding party on the beach. The celebrants were dressed in white and setting Chinese sky lanterns adrift into the night: oil-paper orbs with fires lit inside which carried them upward like hot-air balloons, up and up until they were luminous blobs against the blackness. It was beautiful to watch, the white-garbed clique holding the lanterns aloft like worshippers, the levitating balls of orange flame lifting from their fingers. But what happens when they come down, I wondered. Afloat in the ocean it becomes a perfect net to entangle a tortoise or dolphin. Or a perfect firestarter, if the wind hooks it inland. A perfect metaphor, too, for the unintended consequences of it all: releasing fireballs into the dark for the oohs and ahs, the picturesque ephemerality, the unseen descent. My good-humored misanthropy became more focused, more aware of human impact on the planet, the rise in population and spread of homogenized culture. Mike and I discussed it often back home: the blind denial of climate change, damaging power of greed, presumption of ownership over the earth. We would sigh, wearily resigned to the doom of our species, and then toast to being alive as the end of the party draws nigh. But I see how deliberate obliviousness happens, abroad and at home. Yet what still exists holds more species biodiversity than any other New World country north of Colombia, and from lookout points in the highlands, the jungle seems boundless. Curtains of deliquescent mist down from the mossy mountains where icebergs of cloud pile and drift in their valleys. How could anyone worry about forest devastation in the midst of such splendor? Industrialization, deforestation, trash accumulation—there was nothing I could do about these things. The Guna are the first Latin American indigenous people to gain autonomy of their comarca , after a violent revolt in Crossing into their territory was like permeating a lax international boundary. A Spaniard in the jeep next to me murmured about the booming cocaine trade that runs through the region from Colombia, just down the coast, a popular route for sailing tours and drug-runners. The isles closer to shore were more populated and packed with ramshackle bamboo huts and corrugated metal structures leaning crookedly over the lapping waterline. They looked like an overburdened flotilla slowly sinking. We had arranged to stay on Chichime, one of the larger outlying isles, covered in coconut groves with a few thatch-roofed huts. Mike and I were given a hut all to ourselves: two beds, a table, a sand floor, slats of light piercing the wicker-lashed walls, the patchwork sapphire-and-emerald water twenty feet away. He was Guna, an elder of the tiny group that ran the island. Like the other Guna men he seemed barely above five feet tall, leathered and sinewy. At last he said, with a studied offhandedness, like an afterthought, that if we were going to smoke marijuana, we should go off in the trees. I live just over there, he told us, pointing vaguely; he must have caught the smoke on the breeze. We nodded, vaguely chastened—absolutely, we agreed. He looked at us with his canny, aged face. After a surprised pause, we shook our heads. No, not us, no thank you. We demurred, and he shrugged and nodded, and wandered away. Half a dozen other travelers were staying on the island. The Guna attitude toward us all was curious. The women cooked and served meals; they wore bright woven molas , patterned fabrics, and deadpan expressions. The food was plonked down on the table with little love or fanfare: simple dishes of rice, salad, and fish. The fish was fresh but often cold, as if left sitting out, and unseasoned, and the women did not respond to our hearty gracias. Their stone-faced manner was perhaps a defensive response to the picture-snapping hordes off yachts and cruise ships that regularly stopped here. All these visitors, daytrippers and overnighters, generate garbage, of course. And the shoreline of the island all the way around was ringed with washed-up detritus: plastic bottles, beer cans, styrofoam containers, discarded flipflops, shredded clothing, fronds of dead coral. Bags of trash left behind by daytrippers sat in the palm grove for days, blown about by the wind. We heard rumors of the other way the Guna disposed of trash. The sailor had been warned to refuse, since the Guna supposedly ferry the trash out to sea and dump it. The tide pulls away and redeposits the flotsam on neighboring islands until all are equally adorned. Mike and I picked our way around the littered shore, looking at crabs, starfish, Fresca bottles, Soberana beercans, something that resembled a diaper, while a fleet of sailboats cluttered the view of the neighboring island and a cruise liner hulked like an office building farther asea. In my imagination I erased it all, and tried to envision this place a hundred years ago. A timeless scene, the Guna paddling dugout canoes, the shallow harbor bristling with healthy coral, the shoreline strewn only with coconuts and palm fronds. From their perspective, they must have other, more important fish to fry, like organizing and hosting the legions of backpackers who show up every day, more and more every year, armed with their cosmopolitan expectations of paradise. So there I was, transferring the plastic bag into the jeep which had rescued us from the side of the road in the jungle. I was starting to feel carsick, myself. There was no armrest, nothing to hold onto as the Land Cruiser careened around the steep bends. And a warm, sordid odor was beginning to waft from behind me: a saturnalian frathouse stink of beer dregs and rotting banana peels and chorizo wrappers. Our trash bag, undeniable, inescapable, was riding atop the luggage directly behind my head. This was perfect justice, a well-deserved reminder of the futility of our petty gesture. For what were we going to do with the garbage back in Panama City? Leave it on the curb, alongside the bins of our hotel, to be taken god-knows-where? Human beings love beauty, above almost all else. But our love is death to natural beauty, for where we go, pollution follows. The act of traveling itself, hopping on an airplane, is an insidious contributor to climate change; a seven-hour flight dumps two to three tons of carbon dioxide emissions into the atmosphere per passenger. And as Panama expands its canal, pretties up its cities, lures expats into ritzy beachfront developments, more tourists will arrive every year, a simple mathematical formula. On the one hand, of course we should go, for travel is also what defines our species, and we must live our lives. Why walk when we can fly, has been our credo. Yet we face forward when we fly, never truly looking ahead, and the wake of our descent is always unseen. Created by Grove Atlantic and Electric Literature. Sign Up For Our Newsletters. How to Pitch Lit Hub. Advertisers: Contact Us. Privacy Policy. For the past decade, Literary Hub has brought you the best of the book world for free—no paywall. But our future relies on you. By Daniel Levine. Article continues after advertisement. Remove Ads. He lives in Boulder, Colorado. Next Article When Writers Attack. Support Lit Hub. Join our community of readers. Close to the Lithub Daily Thank you for subscribing! Read More. Dismiss without supporting Lit Hub.

Chitre buying marijuana