The White Goddess--Baalbek 1965

Can *nois *seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

Heads Up: A recent visit to Grass Roots @1077 Post Street, San Francisco, turned up a quality strain called Mother's Finest. This crisp, deceptively light sativa has a long fuse that implodes and flowers, like a nebula around a new star. And star it is, with a long distance arc that takes light years to cross. Definitely some exceptional herb.

The White Goddess

i awoke at 7am the next morning but according to local standards i was a layabout. Outside i could see mule caravans trudging past the hotel, veiled women wielding sticks astride the beasts, robed men in sandals walking with long country strides, children shepherding small flocks of sheep... After breakfast i walked around the tiny souk, then hiked across the grassy pitch to the ruins. For at least three hours i explored the magnificently evocative site. Just the six remaining pillars of the Temple of Jupiter were staggering. each was 68 feet high and stood on a wall of gigantic cut stones, overlooking the valley. The Temple of Bacchus was in much better shape, probably due to devout Marc Anthony's renovations. It had most of its columns, with the inner walls and overhead sections intact. Carvings and mosaics on the stones definitely bore a Greco-Roman influence. The granite platform, also known as the 'Grand Terrace' was a smooth as a ballroom floor. To think that these stones had to be pulled from the earth, measured and cut precisely, each weighing more than 450 tons, then hauled up the same mountain that had my bus wheezing, staggered my imagination. Added to that was the fact that they probably had to fight their way up. Now the Temple of Bacchus, and smaller Temple of Venus, were familiar in terms of architecture, but the Temple Of The Sun, reputed to be built by Solomon-- and the last structure still above water after the Great Flood--was lower and more massive, with a deceptively simple two-column entranceway to its many chambers, that hinted at a deeper, more mysterious aesthetic.

Finally i walked slowly back to my hotel for lunch, still pondering the experience. An entry from my diary:"The ruins ...have gassed me. The ancient Romans matched the magnificence of the country in one grand cast of marble dice. The table is poised where a nobleman's table should be, and on it ten generations of slaves worked 250 years to erect a fine ruin...the finest tribute to man's attempt to be something else..."

That afternoon, i got around to making a connection. Of course the first one to ask is a cab driver. However they all hung out in a cluster, and i knew that discretion would be severely compromised. Spotting a lone cab cruising back to the square i flagged it down. The driver was a dude called Tom, and responded immediately to my request. "Sit back, don't worry," he said, and drove further out of town. Along the way he stopped in front of a small house off the road. A woman came out, white veil covering her face. Tom said something, then drove off. After a mile or so he turned around. As we approached the house the woman came out holding a small paper bag. She placed the bag on top of a wooden post and went back inside. Tom leaned across the front seat and took the bag which he gave to me. Inside was a block of white/grey hash about the size of a Marlboro pack. "Put it away," Tom said nervously. I put the hash inside my boot. Sure enough a minute later two soldiers came into view. Tom slowed and they waved us on. "I need more than this," i told him, "at least two kilos." "Tomorrow," he assured me, still nervous, "I meet you in market." When i returned to my room i shaved some hash from the block and rolled a tobacco J. To this day i have not had better, and this includes Indian Fingers, Tangier Black, and Nepalese Temple Balls. It generated a transcendant state of consciousness. Nicely overwhelmed i decided to go out for a walk. The air in the Bekka Valley was fresh and clean, and the muted natural colors, and calm pace of life were soothing. i veered off the path and just walked, taking deep breaths and digging the lush hills, veiled by blue mists. Looking down, i saw a double line of large black ants, going intensely about their business. Fascinated, i paused to study them closer, looking for insights. After a while i started on my way when two gruff, unshaven dudes, wearing traditional red-checkered headscarves, lumbered into view. Both were holding shotguns.

One of them asked me what i was doing there. Instinctively i knew that trying to explain i was high, and stopped to dig the ants would only confuse the issue. Instead i told them i was staying at the good hotel, which seemed to carry some weight. However i went back to said hotel with new insights concerning the situation in the area. The next day i awoke early and took a circle around the souk looking for Tom, but he wasn't around. i walked to the ruins and spent a couple of hours revisiting the site, then walked back to town. Still no sign of Tom. Three tours of the ruins later, it was becoming clear that Tom wasn't going to show. The following morning was the same. Realizing i was already too well known among the ruins, i sat on the Grand Terrace, working on plan B, and feeling vaguely isolated up there, like Marc Anthony trying to figure out how to get back to Rome. Later that morning i noticed the grassy pitch was filling up with the local inhabitants. Obviously it was some sort of holiday. The green field seemed to be one big Lebanese picnic. There were also more than a few soldiers about, already a common sight. i noticed the picnic games had a militaristic bent. There were some handbills tacked to the trees. They depicted a soldier charging into battle, bayonet at ready. Along the way i had tried to pick up basic language skills, especially numbers, which came in handy in a bargaining culture. So i was able to make out that the simple caption on the war image read; "1967".

i needed to be on my way. So the next day i made my move.

Coming Soon: The Damascus Connection

Recommended Viewing: Treme on HBO

Recommended Reading: Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes

Recommended Listening; David Gilmour w/ Crosby & Nash

The Sleek Tigress

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.

Heads Up: You may have noticed that both Medithrive and Hope Net have stepped up their marketing. Medithrive has a strong website and recently has been placing prominent ( page 4 ) full-color ads in The SF Chronicle. Hope Net is posting large ads on the backs of MUNI buses and has also set up a nifty website. A big step in normalization.

Always an enjoyable stop on my weekly rounds, is Re-Leaf at 1284 Mission Street @ 9th--the main reason being their stock of superior herb at moderate prices, as well as their relaxed, down-home atmosphere. Often they come up with singular strains. and they are currently holding one of their most singular. It definitely qualifies for strain of the season. Bearing the unlikely name Kettenpom Kush, this dense Sativa expands the brain's APPs, infusing the synapses with escalating energy. Its long, dynamic arc could be called Stairway to Heaven because it keeps soaring into the great beyond. $60 an eighth might seem pricey, but a little goes a long way up.

The Sleek Tigress--Beirut '65

Before the wars came, they called Beirut 'The Paris of the Middle East'. Banks, insurance companies, boulevards jammed with stalled Mercedes, a seaside esplanade lined with luxury hotels including the St. George, which had a yacht basin. After a brief farewell with Betsy at the dock i cabbed it to the bus station which was on the other side of town. Over there it was the same low rent fourth-world confusion common to public transport in the Middle East. Of course the color and noise seemed exotic to me. I found the right bus by repeating my destination, and watched dubiously as the driver heaved my bag atop the vehicle, along with caged chickens, boxes, crates and suitcases bound with rope. It was crowded but i found a window seat, unwrapped my Moroccan majoun and settled back for a bumpy ride to Baalbek.
Once the bus was outside the city it began to climb the mountain, a corkscrew road that wound straight up. From time to time the bus would stop at roadside cafes, to pick up and let off passengers, the driver clambering atop to toss luggage to the ground. i would sip mint tea, which seemed to enhance the billowy enlightenment seeded by the majoun. From radios everywhere came the tinny strings of dramatic Arabian music. And the bus kept climbing, a good 40 mi up the big hill, overlooking steep, verdant valleys often viewed at a precarious angle. i was cool but watchful, having noted that about thirty percent of the cars i had seen in Beirut were being pushed. Maintenance did not appear to be a priority.


Three hours later we came to Baalbek at the edge of the lush hash fields of the Bekaa Valley. i was finally there, one of the holy sites of cannabis--and one of the wonders of archeology.

Baalbek itself was a tiny village consisting of a few cafes and rug merchants. It stood on one side of a very large grassy pitch perhaps the size of two football fields. Rising majestically on the other side were the famous Roman ruins of the temples of Bacchus, Jupiter and Venus. However the sites historic significance went back even further. It is said to have its origins under King Solomon ( who named it Heliopolis ) and was ruled by the Phoenicians who worshipped the god Baal (Assyrian Hadad). It was also ruled by the Ptolemaic Pharaohs of Egypt. Later, under Anthony and Cleopatra, the temples were restored, renovated and dedicated to Roman deities. It was--and still is-- located on an important trade route between Damascus and the Mediterranean Sea. Some notes from my diary:

"From Italy, to Greece, to Egypt, to Lebanon--as you go east you sense the change, then the change becomes apparent. First, the things that live: here everything is in full life--ants, children, lizards all doing their thing you understand with a fullness of expression...the bus goes up, up past the point where you can't see the sleek port town any longer, then around. always spiraling up, up, around...then bang a flash of the temple of Bacchus on a hillside and you're there. All this time Arab music, stops for sundry reasons, tattooed ladies, and wrestling (yes wrestling). The hotel right out of Capote via Huston..."
After checking in i took a walk. The town took about seven minutes to cover, but the ruins beckoned. i crossed the field and climbed onto the great stone platform that overlooks the valley. The platform itself is a wonder, flat granite blocks, forming an area the size of a football field. I checked out the temples but it was too much to take in right away. I was fascinated and exhilarated to be standing there. More entries from my diary.

"...you go along opening your lungs a bit and finding the rarefied Lebanese air rare indeed....and then you look up after a bit of that and understand it's sunset and lights have blinked on and the Arab music everywhere has been replaced in loudspeakers and echoes of the prayer calls. And the earth responds with colors from gold to purple to endless combinations... colors mixed in gaseous valences...giving them depth...the trunkless ruins..."

Now all i needed to do was find a legitimate hash connection.

Next: White Goddess

Recommended Viewing: Paths of Glory directed by Stanley Kubrick
written by Calder Willingham starring Kirk Douglas