Old School Arizona

[Madjag]

Thanks

Thanks

Hemphrey,

You're too kind....the musings of an old school guy....I suppose I'll keep on posting enough short clips until it merits an edit into a book. I've had that idea all along and this year I got a chance to finally start the flow of memories and current impressions, posting them here as a log.

I figure the book will happen in the next few years or so once I think it might have an audience outside of the Maryjane forums. I will then take it to the next level.

Right now I'm spending time relating to the Arizona MM experience...the first of approximately 100 dispensaries are opening in the next few weeks, the 25 mile rule that eliminates cultivation if you're within 25 miles (straight line) of a dispensary, the chance to see that law over-ruled by the judge hearing the anti-25 mile rule case, many cool precedent cases on the way. That and Colorado going ballistic, what a time.

Peace,
Madjag

 

[wolfhoundaddy]

what a time

what a time

I went to the cannabis farmers market saturday. Blew my mind. Too cool I had to pinch myself.
It's a new Arizona!

 

[g0dzilla]

Hemphrey,

You're too kind....the musings of an old school guy....I suppose I'll keep on posting enough short clips until it merits an edit into a book. I've had that idea all along and this year I got a chance to finally start the flow of memories and current impressions, posting them here as a log.

I figure the book will happen in the next few years or so once I think it might have an audience outside of the Maryjane forums. I will then take it to the next level.

Right now I'm spending time relating to the Arizona MM experience...the first of approximately 100 dispensaries are opening in the next few weeks, the 25 mile rule that eliminates cultivation if you're within 25 miles (straight line) of a dispensary, the chance to see that law over-ruled by the judge hearing the anti-25 mile rule case, many cool precedent cases on the way. That and Colorado going ballistic, what a time.

Peace,
Madjag

[URL=https://www.icmag.com/ic/picture.php?albumid=38164&pictureid=956217&thumb=1]View Image[/URL]

It is now open in tuscon

 

[Madjag]

As a young boy, maybe 10-12 years old, I collected butterflies. Not only that, I collected rocks and minerals, coins, stamps, and comic books. Why I became such a collector is a mystery but I can tell you that my younger brother is an even greater collector even to this day. He’s exponentially greater, too. Guns, ammo, hot wheels, lanterns, motorcycles, cars, guitars (he doesn’t even play), and baseball cards.

One day I met an older man collecting butterflies in one of our neighborhood empty yard fields. He was obviously a professional based upon his skill, age, and gear. My friends and I stood in awe as he showed us that he used cyanide to kill butterflies instantly rather than the much slower and crueler carbon tetrachloride that we boys used. He warned us about the cyanide and carefully tutored us in its use. He also suggested that we wait until we were adults to even consider using it. Good advice I think. He invited us to visit his home nearby on another day if we wanted to see his butterfly collection. It turned out he lived right on the corner, near my friend's house, just two blocks away.

My buddy and I went over one day to see this guy's collection. He was a proper lepidopterist (also called an aurelian....dig that name!) and his collection was stunning. Never did find out, or can remember, if he was a professor or something or just collected for pleasure. His mounting board, where he mounted butterflies with fine pins in order to have them set up after killing and retain the perfect mounting form, was incredible. We used a piece of cardboard much to the same effect however our mounts would sometimes slide or tear the wings because of improper pins and no corkboard below. I still have two dozen butterflies collected by me in the 1960's, some behind glass in frames and most in soft cotton fluff within the classic used cigar box.

When we visited this gent’s house, he walked us through various rooms on the way to his workshop. One of the rooms we passed through was his library, complete with floor to ceiling built-in bookcases on all four walls.....you know the type, with shelves built above and around the doorways as well. Oh yes, the shelves were full to the max. I was totally stunned and have always said, to myself and others, that one day I would have a library like that, too. I was impressed more with that room than by all of his butterfly collections. It represented knowledge or something deeply powerful to my young boy’s mind.

My collection has grown slowly over the years and now numbers perhaps 1500 books, almost all being reference books. Since the advent of the internet I have bought fewer and fewer since much of the reference info I seek is readily available on the net. Still, as you say, it’s so nice to hold the info in your hands and be able to take it anywhere….no electricity or batteries needed.

I also have a tidy collection of magazines: selected old Arizona Highways from the 1930’s to present, selected National Geographic mags starting in 1912 and up to the 1940’s, 1950’s, and 1960’s, an almost complete collection of High Times from the first issue up to the 1980’s, all the original Whole Earth Catalogs and later quarterlies, early issues of Outside magazine as well as Soldier of Fortune , and even a complete set of Black Belt magazines from the first issue to the late 1970’s. The BB set I have been slowly selling off over the past few years in order to, yep, buy a nice variety of cannabis seeds. Crazy that a complete year of BB from 1968 might fetch $200 or more. Better yet, one issue with Bruce Lee on the cover and a major article inside on Jeet Kune Do brought $225 just by itself. Hey, that’s a new, simple hoophouse….

My first inspiration concerning books, being a young collector at heart, was to delve into old books, first editions, and odd books from the past. Every few months, with money that I had saved up from my paper route, I would ride the train from my suburb to downtown Chicago and visit 3 or 4 antiquarian bookshops. I would buy old books that cost $8 - $20, a range that stretched my dollars. If I found a book that I just had to have and it cost more, maybe I’d wait until later and get it by saving up a bit longer.

I visited Europe for the first time in 1969 where I also smoked (tried to at least) hash for the first time, too. Club Paradiso I think was the name of the café and it offered a full line of edibles, teas, and plain old hash. Not much weed was available the day we visited except some Turkish herb that a guy was trying to move. He stopped by all the obvious foreigners, like me and my friend with our tourist look and short hair, and made his pitch: one kilo for $15 USD and no bargaining. Gee, why don’t you gouge us why don’t you. HA! Anyway we passed and instead took a hit off the hash pipe that was circulating. Not being a smoker I coughed my ass and didn’t get high. It was the kind of cautious inhale that only reached the back of the mouth and the accompanying cough was not the kind that indicated a head rush on its way. Nope. I just left it at that and instead brought a nice 5 gram chunk home. A year or so later I was able to truly inhale and enjoy it. Not bad looking back either.

Part of my 7 week visit found me in Bath, England at an amazing bookseller and bindery, George Bayntun – fine bindings and books. It was here that I was allowed to go upstairs and look through their antiquarian collection, books that they had accumulated over the years…..since 1829 when the bindery began. Imagine my stunned consciousness when we were turned loose, with no supervision, and allowed to hold first editions like Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress or a copy of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. My friend and I were looking at books, very carefully of course, with price tags in the $2000-$15,000 range. Dreams were made of this but that day it was real. Now I was really hooked.

Here’s a little example of a current Dickens offering…..about $4500 USD.

I spent a precious $100 USD that day on two books. I was doing Europe on $10 a day, but it was more like $20 and every dollar counted. One book I bought was a decent edition of H.G.Wells' First Men on The Moon and the other book was Parson On The Creed, which I bought merely because it was printed in 1689, on a hand-operated printing press, and was the oldest book at the shop that I could afford. I just had to have it. So old! Leather bound with thick, extremely heavy covers. The paper is handmade and exhibits its age with tiny moth holes throughout. It cost about $25 USD and I still have it in my collection today. It evokes “oohs” and “aahs” when I break it out and pass it around to friends, kids, or librarians…..especially librarians. Though I have never read much of it because I have no interest in its primary subject, the Catholic creed at the time, just to hold it and dream on about those times, those days, is a trip and a ½. Try it sometime and I’m sure you’ll agree. Have a nice Sativa handy if you do…..

So, I digress…..hahaha. That’s life for ya’. Anyway, I have collected reference books primarily over the years because I like having knowledge at my fingertips. Great libraries are fantastic, too, but I don’t live near one anymore so I had to figure out a way to recreate my own version. The Berkeley university library had close to 7 million volumes back in the early 1970’s…it was a prime place for researching anything. Some of my first cannabis investigations took place in their card catalog files. I needed something in-house and though it cost a chunk over the years, I saved bucks by becoming a master at finding used book stores, yard sales, library sales, and friends who were tired of carrying around 100’s of books throughout their travels and moves. Now I do have the library that I dreamed of as a boy….I have 3 walls in my library/office covered almost floor to ceiling with an additional bookshelf in the bedroom that hosts only my spiritual books and drug library collection (interesting combo, eh?). Boxes full of overflow still can be found in most closets throughout our house.

My wife reads books all the time but has never wanted to keep them unless they were natural history guidebooks, gardening/farming reference books, or special volumes on wilderness survival, amazing outdoor adventures, or other true-life stories. Thus, her section of the library accounts for only three shelves or so. She never keeps magazines either and puts them in the recycle bin where I high-grade them and bring selected mags back into the library. So it goes….

None of this truly matters, though. I count my riches in experience, health, and in friends, family, and lovers. I still have friends in my life, at least occasionally, from the early 1970’s. Some live in Switzerland, some in Taos or New York, a yardy or two from Jamaica, and the rest from Arizona, the desert I have called home for 40 years this winter. Riches aren’t material, that’s for sure, though the Illusion wants us to believe so. I always remember what Jesus said when he stated that it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. True, true.

And thanks for your kind words….I know I get carried away…I hope some of it helps.

 

[Sforza]

Your writings bring back old memories

Your writings bring back old memories

I hope some of it helps.

I have enjoyed reading your stories. They ring true. We are about the same age; you are a couple years older than I am. I spent a lot of time in Negril, starting in 1972, so I was there before your time. I had a tin roofed shack in Red Ground. The beach was nearly empty back then, with no hotels down at the west end, by the island, except for the small original one, whose name I forget now. I was there before Steve married Erica. I imagine that Steve you ran across Steve at some point during your stays in Negril.

I also spent a lot of time in Santa Marta, Rodadero, and Taganga, trying to avoid the DAS to Ras. I spent some time in Cartagena de Indias, where I met a really good looking blond girl with big green eyes on the beach, along with her younger, but still beautiful sister and her mother. They said that they were from Bogotá and had flown into Cartagena for the Christmas Holidays. The blond said that they were staying at the navy base in Cartagena and asked if I would take them out on the town that night. Naturally I said, F'n A Right I would, although not in those exact words. My Spanish is not very good and she did not speak any English, but I was an experienced and fluent speaker of girl, and we were able to make ourselves understood. I knew that I was into something a little different than what I was used to picking up on the beach, when it came time to leave the beach and they insisted that I get a ride with them. We got into a black sedan with police marking and a military driver. He drove us to the base, where we dropped the women off. They showed me where I was supposed to come in a couple hours to pick them up to go out on the town, then they had the driver take me to where I was staying.

I was staying in the back bedroom of a house in a lower class neighborhood on the outskirts of town owned by some friends or relatives of my main man in Santa Marta. I did not have much to do with them, but was just crashing for a few days until the business was done. During my stay at their house, one evening they were sitting outside in front of their house drinking and talking. I had just smoked some ganja and came out to enjoy the cool evening breezes. They pointed out the beauty of the full moon. It was gorgeous. In my halting Spanish I agreed that it was beautiful; then I said that Americans drove a car on it, which ended the conversation.

I took a shower, shaved, and changed clothes to get ready to go meet the girls. I can't remember if the family gave me some dinner that night or not. I did take some meals with them, but it was hit or miss, not a regular thing.

I do remember that I had some pretty good weed during that stay, but no papers or pipe. I could have used bread bag paper and rolled a spliff, like I used to do in Jamaica, but this weed was a lot stronger then the usual Jamaican weed. What I did was use an Aguila beer can. I just dented in the side of the can, whipped out my ratchet knife, poked a few small holes in the bottom of the dent, and used the hole in the top of the can as the mouthpiece. It was not the greatest pipe, but with the dark green and red dried bud, it only took a few hits to set me right.

With a good buzz on, I went out in the street and caught a cab to the Naval base in Cartagena. The cab driver dropped me off where I directed him to, then, stoned out of gourd, I walked down the palm lined drive to the main gate, where I was given a dose of guff by the guards at the gate. Knowing that fine looking green eyed blond was inside the base somewhere and remembering the look in her eyes when we parted that afternoon, it was going to take more than a couple of Colombian navy guards to run me off.

Eventually, after some calls and some waiting, I was escorted into a building near the gate to wait for my date. Being a naval base, there were a lot of sharp looking officers in their uniforms, who all seemed to be giving me the evil eye. The scowls on their faces turned to rage when the gals came sashaying into the room looking like a fine tropical salad.

My girl was a knockout in a pastel off the shoulder dress, thick wavy blond hair set off with a tropical flower behind her ear, huge green eyes framed with black mascara, and full luscious lips glistening rosy pink. One did not have to be a mind reader to know that those officers were outraged that a gringo was taking out the best looking woman in Colombia, a country that is full of good looking woman. Hey, it was not my fault that I am 6' 3" with baby blues that women melt for.

Little sister was also looking good, although she had light brown hair and brown eyes, so she was not as striking as my date. Mother was dolled up as much as she could manage, but she was still small and mousy.

Again the navy driver and the black sedan were used to take us out, first to a beach bar that I had been to a couple times before during the day. We had a few drinks and a lot of laughs and then we headed to the disco, which was a sort of cave with all the typical lights and décor of the times. We danced and hugged and kissed and a good time was had by all. Little sister was funny and Mom was a good sport.

Blondie gave me her address and I told her I would write her, but with her father being some sort of finance minister in the government at the time, I was afraid of pushing my luck and never wrote her or saw her again. But it was a night to remember and cherish.

Later in Cartagena I would meet the woman from Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia who would persuade me to visit her there and who would visit me in Negril.

Eventually I took Steve from Negril down to Santa Cruz and we had a memorable time there, although much to Steve's chagrin he did not make any money on the trip, although he could have if he had played his cards right because I did make money.

I don't have old times in Arizona, but my father left his ranch to me, so I am thinking of locating back to Arizona so that is why I am checking out this forum.

 

[Hemphrey Bogart]

Another great story, Madjag. It's funny that you bring up books because I've been getting back into reading now that the cold weather is starting to settle in here. Something about the cold, rainy day weather that makes me want to sit down with a hot cup of tea and enjoy a good book.

All your quotes and talk regarding Carlos Castaneda got the better of me and I've been looking around for some of his books to purchase.

Could you recommend one of his books to start with or should I just start at the beginning and work my way forward in time?

Thanks again and keep the stories coming, please.

HB.

 

[Madjag]

Hey Sforza,

Wonderful trip down Colombo lane....nice that you shared a bit of that time with the readers here. Most of them were not yet on the planet so our old school stories can help fill in the gaps concerning the early hippie dayzzz.

So, a ranch in AZ huh? I'd love to hear about its location. Since you are a new member I cannot send you a PM (private message) until you reach 50 posts. Not likely to happen quickly, so if it's not a problem, at least add a line or two as a post here about what part of the state, nearest town, and if you've been there. Perhaps I can give you an alternate email for contact then. I've been in AZ 40 years now and have explored a whole lot of it....by 4x4 as well as by foot.

Peace,
MJ

 

[village green]

Another great story, Madjag. It's funny that you bring up books because I've been getting back into reading now that the cold weather is starting to settle in here. Something about the cold, rainy day weather that makes me want to sit down with a hot cup of tea and enjoy a good book.

All your quotes and talk regarding Carlos Castaneda got the better of me and I've been looking around for some of his books to purchase.

Could you recommend one of his books to start with or should I just start at the beginning and work my way forward in time?

Thanks again and keep the stories coming, please.

HB.

Hey HB,
You're no doubt older than I was 30 years ago when I discovered the Castaneda series. Otherewise, I'd warn you to buckle up! You have to start with the first one for subsequent installments to make sense. VG

 

[wolfhoundaddy]

"I don't have old times in Arizona, but my father left his ranch to me, so I am thinking of locating back to Arizona so that is why I am checking out this forum. "

I love this sentence.
Start of a new chapter, lingering threads of dads old time at Arizona ranch ...wind blowin through the old ranch house windows... push open the weather worn front door...step over the horned toad came to welcome you...back.

 

[Sforza]

My father left me 40 acres off 77 between Globe and Winkelman. It is the Dripping Springs area. I was at the place putting in a new pressure tank for the well while my wife was cleaning the house over the Thanksgiving holiday. I will be driving back over the Christmas holidays to do some more plumbing work to get it into shape.

Using Google, I see that it is more than 25 miles to the new dispensary that they are setting up on Broadway in Globe. But doing a little research on this site, I see that the 25 mile rule is as the crow flies, not by road, so I am a bit bummed. I don’t know if the ranch is more than 25 miles as the crow flies or not.

Many years ago I did some growing indoors and outdoors in Connecticut and Texas. Needless to say, the plants were a whole lot bigger at the end of the season in Texas then they were in Connecticut, where I had to deal with the danger of frost. I enjoyed growing and smoking the fruits of my labor, but eventually my wife persuaded me to stop growing and smoking and to go completely legit, which I have been doing for many years now.

As many close calls as I had, I never caught the flu, so I never had to spend any time recovering. I did catch a 24 hour bug a few times, but always managed to skate. I also never gave anyone up to skate and really never had the man try very hard to get me to talk. A simple no, did the trick. I trusted my lawyers and they managed to get the job done. Of course I helped, since I have a good head on my shoulders and staying well was a lot more important to me than it was to my lawyers. You have to give them something to work with.

But as you mentioned, there comes a time when if you are true to yourself, you know that the law of averages is going to catch up with you and that there are signs that things are getting tighter and tighter and you can either push those thoughts out of your mind and keep on keeping on, or you can listen to your inner voice and make a change. Thanks to my wife, I made the change. I did hack up first black, then brown, and eventually green phlegm from lungs for months after I stopped smoking so I am sure that my lungs are in better shape than they would be if I had kept smoking. I remember an old Rasta named Bosco who had himself a hell of a cough every morning from hitting the chalice hard for years.

My wife is Dutch and when I was growing back in the day, I used Dutch Skunk #1 seeds. As you write, it sure made a big difference compared to using the best seeds from the best bag weed as I used previously. That was sativa from Thailand, Jamaica, and Colombia, so it was not very good for growing indoors or outdoors in Conneticut.

I worked in California in Sunnyvale, the Silicon Valley, producing chemicals for the industry. I went from worker to foreman in about 2 months. I had mostly black workers, with a couple of Mexicans, and we used to toke up under the fume hood, crank up the soul music, and run the production packaging line in time with the beat. I took the hardest job, which was usually the bottleneck and challenged my crew to run the line faster than I could keep up. Sealing boxes of chemicals and stacking them four high from a seated position, I earned the respect of my crew and got a damn good workout to boot.

Between my math and chemistry skills optimizing the production of the chemicals and the high volume packaging runs to the soulful beat, the etchant department set all time production records and made the company lots of money. And my guys and I could take long lunches drinking beer and stoking buds from the Emerald Triangle without anyone in management giving us any grief.

So I know a little about the vibe and smoke available in the Bay Area in around 1980.

I was one of those guys that you mentioned who could smoke a lot of ganga and maintain my function. Living in Jamaica and Santa Marta, the ganga was cheap and we all smoke a good deal. Of course, I also drank a great deal of rum, took a lot of Mandrax, and snorted a great deal of blow. When I started to feel too drunk, I took a snort and when I felt too jittery, I had another drink and smoked a spliff. It was a balancing act. One's body can adapt and become hardened to drug abuse, just like it can become adapted to other stressors.

I now have a beer once or twice a year. It is not that I do not like to drink, it is just that I do not like to drink, so why bother? I do not have any desire to take any pills or do any sort of speed or coke, but I still miss smoking the weed. That high I really to enjoy.

The only time I have smoked in the last 20 years is when I go with my wife to visit her family in Holland. I go to the coffee houses and smoke some hash and buy some for my use while I am in Europe. My brother in law took me to a coffeehouse where he was friends with the barista, and had him bring out the good stuff for me. After years of not smoking anything, a couple of bong hits had me wiped out. One of the younger guys in the coffeehouse saw how wiped out I was and made a smart ass comment. He made it in Dutch, but it was easy to tell that he was calling me a candyass for not being able handle my hash. Since he was right, I was all f'ed up, I did not say anything, but I did think that there had been a day, long ago, when I could have smoked him under the table. Every dog has his day and I have had mine and it is time for the young bucks to take over. Good luck to them.

I am thinking about retiring to my Dad's ranch and growing a little ganga, within the legal limits, to give myself a little hobby and to bring back the enjoyment of when I was growing large quantities out in the woods. But if it is not legal to grow it because of the 25 mile rule, I am not going to do anything illegal. I have been operating legally for way too long now and do not have the nerves to deal with the paranoia that comes from breaking the law. I know that Globe has approved the dispensary and have driven past the building they are going to use to sell it and the area they are going to use to grow it. I just cannot see myself spending the sort of money that the dispensary is going to charge for the herb of the earth.

 

[Sforza]

"Start of a new chapter, lingering threads of dads old time at Arizona ranch ...wind blowin through the old ranch house windows... push open the weather worn front door...step over the horned toad came to welcome you...back.

Nice. Very nice.

Been a long time since I have seen a horned toad. I used to see a few of them in North Texas, but then no more. I think I read that the fire ants have pretty much wiped them out.

From what the neighbors have told me, I am more likely to have to step around a rattle snake. Neighbor said he moved one from right next to Dad's front door a while back while Dad was still alive.

Dad had two dogs die from rattle snake bites.

I live next to a creek in Texas and had a lot of problems with water moccasins. One bit my dog but a trip to the vet saved her. I couldn't hit the snakes with my 380, so I got a 410 shotgun and that was the ticket for dispatching snakes. Birdshot put a nice pattern around them, whether they were in the water, on the bank, or in the grass. I had once up against the house that I dispatched with multiple shots from a BB gun, since I did not want to damage my foundation.

When I was at the ranch over Thanksgiving, the grass has grown high around the house. The neighbor said it had all come up after the monsoon. While I was up in town getting parts he used his tractor mow the grass down so that there would be a place for any snakes to hide. That was right neighborly of him. Another neighbor, a friend of my father, helped me do the set up on the pressure tank for the well, since he a lot of experience and I have none. I tried to give him some money for his help, but he wouldn't take any. Good people.

 

[Sforza]

I have enjoyed reading your stories. They ring true. We are about the same age; you are a couple years older than I am. I spent a lot of time in Negril, starting in 1972, so I was there before your time. I had a tin roofed shack in Red Ground. The beach was nearly empty back then, with no hotels down at the west end, by the island, except for the small original one, whose name I forget now.






I was there before Steve Sharp married Erica. I imagine that you ran across Steve at some point during your stays in Negril.

I also spent a lot of time in Santa Marta, Rodadero, and Taganga, trying to avoid the DAS to Ras.





I spent some time in Cartagena de Indias, where I met a really good looking blond girl with big green eyes on the beach, along with her younger, but still beautiful sister and her mother. They said that they were from Bogotá and had flown into Cartagena for the Christmas Holidays. The blond said that they were staying at the navy base in Cartagena and asked if I would take them out on the town that night. Naturally I said, F'n A Right I would, although not in those exact words. My Spanish is not very good and she did not speak any English, but I was an experienced and fluent speaker of girl, and we were able to make ourselves understood. I knew that I was into something a little different than what I was used to picking up on the beach, when it came time to leave the beach and they insisted that I get a ride with them. We got into a black sedan with police marking and a military driver. He drove us to the base, where we dropped the women off. They showed me where I was supposed to come in a couple hours to pick them up to go out on the town, then they had the driver take me to where I was staying.

I was staying in the back bedroom of a house in a lower class neighborhood on the outskirts of town owned by some friends or relatives of my main man in Santa Marta. I did not have much to do with them, but was just crashing for a few days until the business was done. During my stay at their house, one evening they were sitting outside in front of their house drinking and talking. I had just smoked some ganja and came out to enjoy the cool evening breezes. They pointed out the beauty of the full moon. It was gorgeous. In my halting Spanish I agreed that it was beautiful; then I said that Americans drove a car on it, which ended the conversation.

I took a shower, shaved, and changed clothes to get ready to go meet the girls. I can't remember if the family gave me some dinner that night or not. I did take some meals with them, but it was hit or miss, not a regular thing.

I do remember that I had some pretty good weed during that stay, but no papers or pipe. I could have used bread bag paper and rolled a spliff, like I used to do in Jamaica, but this weed was a lot stronger then the usual Jamaican weed. What I did was use an Aguila beer can. I just dented in the side of the can, whipped out my ratchet knife, poked a few small holes in the bottom of the dent, and used the hole in the top of the can as the mouthpiece. It was not the greatest pipe, but with the dark green and red dried bud, it only took a few hits to set me right.

With a good buzz on, I went out in the street and caught a cab to the Naval base in Cartagena. The cab driver dropped me off where I directed him to, then, stoned out of gourd, I walked down the palm lined drive to the main gate, where I was given a dose of guff by the guards at the gate. Knowing that fine looking green eyed blond was inside the base somewhere and remembering the look in her eyes when we parted that afternoon, it was going to take more than a couple of Colombian navy guards to run me off.

Eventually, after some calls and some waiting, I was escorted into a building near the gate to wait for my date. Being a naval base, there were a lot of sharp looking officers in their uniforms, who all seemed to be giving me the evil eye. The scowls on their faces turned to rage when the gals came sashaying into the room looking like a fine tropical salad.

My girl was a knockout in a pastel off the shoulder dress, thick wavy blond hair set off with a tropical flower behind her ear, huge green eyes framed with black mascara, and full luscious lips glistening rosy pink. One did not have to be a mind reader to know that those officers were outraged that a gringo was taking out the best looking woman in Colombia, a country that is full of good looking woman. Hey, it was not my fault that I am 6' 3" with baby blues that women melt for.



Little sister was also looking good, although she had light brown hair and brown eyes, so she was not as striking as my date. Mother was dolled up as much as she could manage, but she was still small and mousy.

Again the navy driver and the black sedan were used to take us out, first to a beach bar that I had been to a couple times before during the day. We had a few drinks and a lot of laughs and then we headed to the disco, which was a sort of cave with all the typical lights and décor of the times. We danced and hugged and kissed and a good time was had by all. Little sister was funny and Mom was a good sport.

Blondie gave me her address and I told her I would write her, but with her father being some sort of finance minister in the government at the time, I was afraid of pushing my luck and never wrote her or saw her again. But it was a night to remember and cherish.

Later in Cartagena I would meet the woman from Santa Cruz de la Sierra, Bolivia who would persuade me to visit her there and who would visit me in Negril.

Eventually I took Steve from Negril down to Santa Cruz and we had a memorable time there, although much to Steve's chagrin he did not make any money on the trip, although he could have if he had played his cards right because I https://www.icmag.com/ic/picture.php?albumid=41423&pictureid=979636 did make money.

I don't have old times in Arizona, but my father left his ranch to me, so I am thinking of locating back to Arizona so that is why I am checking out this forum.

I finally figured out how to put some images in with the story. Live fast, die young, and leave a good looking corpse was my motto back then, now I am an old guy and I am glad that I had the fun that I had back then but I am also glad that I did not die young.

 

[Madjag]

Breakfast in the Czech Republic

Breakfast in the Czech Republic

 

[Madjag]

25 Mile Radius Tool

25 Mile Radius Tool

My father left me 40 acres off 77 between Globe and Winkelman. It is the Dripping Springs area. I was at the place putting in a new pressure tank for the well while my wife was cleaning the house over the Thanksgiving holiday. I will be driving back over the Christmas holidays to do some more plumbing work to get it into shape.

Using Google, I see that it is more than 25 miles to the new dispensary that they are setting up on Broadway in Globe. But doing a little research on this site, I see that the 25 mile rule is as the crow flies, not by road, so I am a bit bummed. I don’t know if the ranch is more than 25 miles as the crow flies or not.

Use this tool suggested by ICMag member "Mofeta", the guy who started this thread for us. He's somewhere out here in the low desert I believe....mighty busy so he hasn't posted much. Read his stuff about Globe and other small towns in the first 1-2 pages of this thread.

http://www.freemaptools.com/radius-around-point.htm

Here's a screen shot of 25 miles from Globe. Unfortunately Dripping Springs lies just inside the extreme limits of the 25 mile radius stemming from Globe.

I live within 40 miles of Dripping Springs!

Peace,
MJ

 

[Madjag]

25 Mile Radius Tool

25 Mile Radius Tool

!!!!

 

[Madjag]

!!!!

 

[Madjag]

I love the huge conch shell pile next to the street shack in your old 70's West End Negril photo. It was so common back in the 1970's to see the fishermen bring in the conch and other catch and for certain other guys to remove and pound the conch meat for hours, softening it for the dinner crowd. Fresh conch chowder has no peer in my book....

I stayed at Ossie's Shack on the beach next to The Treehouse. Lester and Lena, and now their son Ossie and his wife Madge, have had their shack there since the 1960's and everything else grew up around them. Negril was just a quiet little fishing village then with the big morass/swamp across the street from the beach row. I plan to go back and visit in the next few years because my German friends have shacks I can rent cheaply by the week or month that are a lot like your old shack, just a little better built, in the woods opposite the West End cliffs.

I miss the Ocean and spent many a night there just getting high and listening to the waves lapping up on the beach.....reggae music drifting in the air from all sides....earthy smells of conch, beans, rice, and jerk chicken floating out from between the shacks.

 

[Sforza]

Thanks for the information on how to check my distance from Globe. I did find that tool and unfortunately, Globe is within 25 miles of the ranch. Bummer! I guess I will have to hope that the Globe dispensary has trouble opening or that the 25 mile rule is thrown out.

 

[Sforza]

I love the huge conch shell pile next to the street shack in your old 70's West End Negril photo. It was so common back in the 1970's to see the fishermen bring in the conch and other catch and for certain other guys to remove and pound the conch meat for hours, softening it for the dinner crowd. Fresh conch chowder has no peer in my book....

I miss the Ocean and spent many a night there just getting high and listening to the waves lapping up on the beach.....reggae music drifting in the air from all sides....earthy smells of conch, beans, rice, and jerk chicken floating out from between the shacks.

Negril was a great place to spend the 70's. They cannot take that away from me. I liked the conch soup, but I did not have it that often. I had curried goat at the Wharf Club while listening to tunes on the juke box more often. One of the tunes my buddy and I liked on that juke box was Duppy Gunman.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=duaG3pmaLDU


My pitbull is named Duppy. Previous pitbulls were named Rasta, Irie, and Dready.

I remember getting cleaned up after a long hot day on the beach. Since I lived in a tin roof shack on blocks, without running water, I used a communal outdoor shower with only cold water. Even cold water was a bit of a luxury, since they turned off the water to Red Ground frequently. I found a birth certificate in that shower once, which I kept; it came in handy later. I also found a library card, social security card, and other cards in a toilet stall in a little hotel right off Times Square back when the area around Time Square was not very nice. Someone probably got mugged and the thief took the money and ditched the ID there. I put that to use too. A man has to recognize his limitations; he also has to recognize when he is handed an opportunity.

I would do a couple lines of blow, then walk, jog, and run from Red Ground, past the roundabout, to the all inclusive resort, the aptly named Hedonism, which they eventually built down by the island. It was supposed to be seven miles but it was probably closer to five miles, and the way my heart was beating, I knew that I must have a strong heart or it would have burst the way it was pounding from the combination of blow and exercise.

I was determined to get to the discotheque and the never ending bounty of beautiful young woman from around the globe that showed up there night after night. The women were there for romance and I was there to see that they got it. They were not in town for long so time was of the essence.

The DJ at the discotheque was a buddy of mine and I brought him back a heavy silver bracelet from Lima that he loved and that looked great against his dark chocolate skin. At some point in the evening he would always play Wake Up Everybody by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TDfPgd3Kyc one of my favorite tunes. These days I use that tune on my alarm clock to wake up to, but I almost always awake before the alarm goes off.

I was living in the Bay Area of California when Bob Marley died and I went to the memorial concert that they held in Berkeley, CA. At that concert I met my old buddy the DJ who was by then living in Berkeley with his American wife.

I don't know if you ever drove along the main road in Jamaica late at night when the land crabs were crossing the road to get from the swamp side to the ocean, but the road was crawling with crabs and it was impossible to drive down the road without hitting lots of crabs.

My buddy, Steve Sharp, borrowed someone's motorcycle one day and even though it was a small bike, a 125 or 175 cc if I recall correctly, he still had it going as fast as it would go on the relatively straight, smooth, and level road. Back then, we could go to the pharmacy in Savanna-la-Mar and buy Mandrex, Tuinal, and Seconal over the counter without a script. A cab ride to Sav to hit the drug store and buy some ratchet knives was usually one of the first things we did after getting settled and buying and smoking some ganga.

So Steve was hauling ass on this borrowed bike high on reds and rum in the middle of the day and he managed to bump into a Jamaican, also on a motorcycle and they both came off their respective bikes. As fate would have it, the Jamaican slid off his bike along the grassy shoulder, but Steve slid right down the tarmac, each little rock chip embedded in tar acting like the tooth of a rasp. Did I mention that Steve was wearing his typical daytime apparel of a bathing suit and flip flops?

The Jamaican who was knocked off his bike by Steve and his buddy who was riding a third bike but was not involved in the accident were vexed that Steve had caused damage to his bike through is bumba clotness, so they proceeded to pick up whatever was at hand, palm fronds and sticks, and beat Steve about the head and shoulders until they were eventually stopped by cooler heads.

Steve, being Steve, did not break anything, but he was skinned up all over his body. His feet and hands were also all ate up with road rash and one hip was skinned, so while he was recuperating, he could not wear underwear or shorts.

He would lay on a bed or the couch with a towel strategically arranged over his private parts. He had some bandages on, but large patches of raw seeping meat were slathered with antibiotic cream and let open to the air to aid in healing. In the mornings, I could hear Steve screaming in pain as the sheets that had stuck to his weeping wounds overnight were pulled away. To get Steve from a lying position to a sitting position, he needed help from his Jamaican wife, Erica. He had one finger, a pinky that was not skinned raw, so Erica would use her index finger and hook his pinky and pull him up to a sitting position.

Luckily antibiotics could also be purchased in Sav without a prescription and eventually Steve healed up from that accident.

It was a good thing that Steve was a hardy soul. I took him with me on a trip to Santa Cruz, Bolivia. Among other things, we struck up an acquaintance with two girls from Chile who were hiding out in Bolivia until the heat was off from Pinochet. Both girls were good looking but I got the one who was really beautiful. Long blond straight hair, blue eyes, nice body, not too tall not too short, not too fat not too skinny, just right in all respects.

In Santa Cruz they had a type of hotel that is common in Latin American countries, where you rent the room by the hour. In addition to the main door to the room, there was a little door in the wall that had an inside door and an outside door. You could order up room service and such and they would put it in the outer door and then you could get the stuff in private and not have the hotel people see who was inside the room. They also had curtains outside the room so that you could hide your car once you parked it. I did not have a car, she took us to the hotel by taxi. I don't remember ever talking to the hotel desk clerk, so she must have done so but I think I paid for the room. It was not expensive, I do remember that. It was well worth every penny to me, that’s for sure.

Steve finally used the same hotel with his girl. But Steve was married and I was not married at the time. Also, Steve's girl gave him a dose of the clap and my girl just gave me a good time. Neither girl was a prostitute, just young party girls in a relatively small town out in the middle of the jungle.

So it was getting time to go back to Negril and Steve is worried about his wife finding out that he has the clap from screwing other girls. We find a little store front medical place, and it is more of a shack than an office. Steve makes his problem known to the proprietor, a swarthy devil, Indian or Arab perhaps, even though Steve does not speak Spanish and the quack does not speak English. The quack dug out a great big horse needle from a stainless steel pan full of some sort of disinfectant liquid. He filled the needle with a white milky substance from a rubber stoppered medical bottle that holds multiple doses. Steve got a shot in the ass, paid a couple of dollars worth of pesos, and problem is solved, right?

For most people, yes, that would be the end of the story, but not for Steve. On our trip back to Jamaica he starts to feel like shit and notices that the whites of his eyes are turning yellow. The quack gave him Hepatitis with the shot, since he reused the needle or perhaps the antibiotic was contaminated from an earlier injection. Either that or the gal gave him both the clap and hepatitis. Hepatitis is a disease of the liver so to recover, it is necessary to stay away from alcohol.

There is no direct flight from Santa Cruz to Jamaica, so we have to layover in Lima, Peru.

I know a place outside of Lima, called the Granja Azul, where the airline stewardess from the European airlines stay on their layovers. I stayed there in the past and met and bedded some gorgeous stewardess there, including a Brazilian from Rio de Janeiro, who I spent a week with at her place just off Copa Cabana beach. She worked for Lufthansa. Apparently, each Lufthansa flight has one stewardess from South America to help deal with the South American passenger’s requests and who understand the culture.

In any case, I take Steve to the Granja Azul to spend the night before we catch our flight to Kingston the next morning. One of the delights of the place, besides the excellent ceviche they served, was the fact that the European stewardess would all sun themselves by the pool topless. Nice!

But Steve and I get into town too late to go to the pool. I had also picked up some real cuties in the bar in the evenings where they have a tiny area for a dance floor, but this night, there were no girls in the bar and no music for the dance floor. The place was dead.

I told Steve about a cool drink that the bar made called a Pisco Sour. It is Pisco brandy, which is poured out of a black ceramic bottle shaped like an Incan head, mixed in a blender with lemon and perhaps egg whites, because it has a frothy head.

We have a couple of piscos while I beat Steve in a game of pool. Steve gets a buzz on from the piscos and starts to get his game face on. Steve is a major league partier. We had managed to bring along some fine blow from Santa Cruz, so Steve was able to drink pisco after pisco without passing out or going to sleep. We closed the bar and although I had a good buzz, I did not drink nearly as many piscos as he did. Since there were no females around to pursue, my party instincts were on standby.

The next morning I had a hell of a time getting Steve awake and out of bed so that we could make our flight. He had a huge hangover. Also, drinking so much when you have hepatitis is a very bad idea. His liver probably could not process the alcohol as well as a healthy liver, so he was one hurting puppy.

Somehow, Steve managed to find a doctor at the Lima Airport. I know he got at least one shot, but I was not there with him when he got it so the details are bit fuzzy. He may have got another shot for the clap, but it seems like he got a shot for hepatitis too. I am not sure that there is a shot for hep, but if there is one, he got it there.

In any case, I do remember very distinctly that once we got settled on the plane and before it took off Steve was bitching about feeling so bad and he claimed to have a bad case of the pisco blues. He slept the whole flight to Kingston.

We made it to Kingston, but again had to layover before catching a flight on a small prop place to Negril the next morning. I always stayed at the Kingston Sheraton when I stayed in Kingston, which was not very often.

In fact, we had stayed there overnight on our way down to Santa Cruz. That night we had gone to a local discotheque. There was a beautiful Chinese girl there that night that I had been chasing for years in Negril, but had never caught. She had a boyfriend and while she would flirt, she would never let me taste that honey. She danced with me most of the night, but when it came time to come back to the hotel with me, she begged off.

As the club slowly closed down and I was bemoaning coming so close yet again but not scoring with the Chinese Jamaican girl, fate stepped in and restored a bit of justice and cosmic balance. Apparently a light-skinned Jamaican girl who had seen me around Negril and always liked the way I handled myself saw her opportunity when she saw her competition beating a hasty retreat. I had never noticed her, since she was not beautiful. She came on to me and since I was all hot and bothered from flirting all night the Asian Lovely, I told her she could come back to the hotel with me. High and drunk, I remember that we had sex, but not much about the details. Apparently it was not bad or particularly good.

I do remember the next morning though. Steve and I had to get up and get to the airport to catch our flight. Steve used the bathroom first. Then the girl and I took a shower together. We dried off and I shaved and brushed my teeth. I started to put my underwear on, but she stopped me. Without saying a work, she sat down on the toilet, had me square up to her, and started to give me the most amazing head. She knew her business and I was enjoying every minute of bliss. The fly in the ointment was Steve yelling for me to get out of the bathroom and get going or we were going to miss our flight. So we picked up the pace and eventually she got what she was after.

It was a mad scramble afterwards to get dressed, packed, and out of the hotel in time, with no time for words of tenderness between us, but just the fact that I still remember that moment so clearly is testification to the intensity of our encounter.

So now on our way back to Negril, Steve and I were at the same Sheraton. This time we went down the hotel bar and had some rum and cokes. I guess Steve had recovered somewhat from the pisco blues. Steve as tough as shoe leather. He had to be to survive what he put himself through. Occasionally in Negril a tourist would get carried away drinking Overproof and end up dying of alcohol poisoning. Steve was too tough to die of alcohol poisoning.

This night at the hotel they had a limbo show. A tall skinny Jamaican gay guy was the star. He also worked at Hedonism in Negril so I knew him to talk to, but we were not friends. I knew that he was smart and a good guy and we respected each other. There were also six or so young Jamaican girls who were part of the show, doing the limbo and dancing and whatever else was needed as part of the show.

Steve knew a couple of the girls from Negril so after the show we went over and had a drink with them. Then we went up to their room and smoked some ganga with them. The girls were in sleeping two to a bed and two beds to a room. Hell, they may have all been sleeping in one room for that matter. In any case I ended up sleeping with the cutest one and her bedmate. I screwed my girl and it was quite nice. About ten minutes later I was ready to have another go at her. But for the only time that I can recall, this girl did not want to go another round. But I did want to go another round and I was insistent, so we got to fussing with each other, which woke up and disturbed the entire room.

I got ejected from their room and went down to my own room. But one of the girls, also quite cute, decided she would come along to my room with me. She liked my colorful silk shirt that I had bought in Toronto and said that she would lay me if I gave her my shirt. She got the shirt and I got laid again that night after all. Brown sugar, how come you taste so good?

Steve and I made it back to Negril, but the story does not end there. Without going into the details, Steve figured that a guy who had a really nice place on the cliffs, between Rick's Café and the Wharf Club, owed him the money that Steve spent on airfare, hotel, and living expense while on the trip to Santa Cruz and back. I managed to make money on the trip, but Steve did not follow my advice and so he was out quite a bit of cash.

The guy Steve was leaning on was a really good guy and I liked him a great deal. He was really fat, but rich, so he had himself a good looking Jamaican Chinese girlfriend. One time we spent a wild night together with some beautiful hookers in a swanky hotel in Coconut Grove, FL. He footed the bill for everything, the hookers, the hotel, and the room service. The next morning he drove me to Miami Airport in a really nice Porsche 911 with the nicest tan leather interior. That was the trip where I flew down to Rio to spend a week with the stewardess who I had met at the Granja Azul. I had a couple little cups of strong Cuban espresso coffee in the airport to help me get over my hangover from the Coconut Grove orgy.

So I liked Steve and I liked Mr. Big. I did not get involved with their argument one way or the other. Mr. Big had property on both sides of the road out to Rick's. One the sea side, he had perhaps a three foot high stone wall following the contours of cliff. The house was wood and thatch. The patio offered lovely views of the Caribbean Sea, turquoise and sapphire shimmering sunlight.

On the other side of the walled patio, were the cliffs. Thirty feet of the sharpest, most jagged coral rock imaginable. No one was going to approach the house from the cliff side. Mr. Big also had two of the biggest Rottweilers, a male and a female, I have ever seen. They were fine to be around, but they were well-bred for guard work and were ready to leap into action if need be.

I don't know all the details, but apparently Steve confronted Mr. Big at his seaside house and in the scuffle that ensued, Steve ended up falling backwards head first over the low wall and down the coral cliff. He ended up looking a lot like he did after his motorcycle accident, except instead of road rash, he had coral cuts all over his body. He survived, which is more than anyone else would have done in a similar circumstance.

At some point, somebody a few years ago told me that Steve had died. I don’t remember who told me or how I learned it, but I am pretty sure that Steve is dead, that’s what I said, Steve is dead. The amazing thing is that he lived as long as he did. He was definitely one of a kind.

The funny thing is, I noticed Steve before I met him in Negril. On a trip to Miami a couple of my buddies and I went to a club near the University of Miami. We danced with some girls and got drunk and had fun, but we did not pick up any girls to bring back to the hotel with us. I could not help noticing this wild guy with a wiry blond hair and gold rimmed glasses who was dancing with some of the best looking girls in the club and obviously having a ball. He looked kind of goofy, wearing a little straw hat, but there was no doubt that he was the center of attention and that the girls at that club knew him and were crazy about him. I never talked to him that night, but when we did meet in Negril and compared notes, we discovered that we had both been in that club that night and we had both noticed each other in the large crowd that was there partying.

 

[Sforza]

View Image

I spent a little time in Prague. I loved the Pilsner beer. Nice old city that seems to have been pretty well preserved.

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That coffee looks yummy. For years I did not like the taste of coffee. I would have hot tea instead, since my forebears were from Great Britain via Canada and we had tea with milk and sugar.

One morning in Santa Marta, the hotel had café con leche with fresh rolls. That coffee, about half Colombian coffee and half hot milk, was delicious and went perfectly with the warm bread. I was hooked.

Then I had Blue Mountain coffee with sweetened condensed milk from a can in Jamaica and it was also wonderful. Now I am a big fan of coffee and have a cup every morning to get going.

We stayed at Casa Edith Stein when we were in Prague. They had a very nice breakfast as part of the room rate.

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