Experiencing Weed in China
A day after I arrived in China I was taken to my new fully furnished apartment. A shirtless American at least ten years older than me opened the door and gave me a tour. Not half an hour after settling in, my new flatmate wanted me to meet some of my other colleagues. He mentions something about getting donkey burgers but I play it down as some slang I don’t understand. In less than five minutes we are greeted by another American, this one only wearing underpants.
The apartment is slightly bigger than ours but much dirtier. A case of empty beer cans stands proudly on top of the dining room table. Shirts, socks and other clothing articles lay scattered on every surface. We start by recapping their escapades from the night before and slowly it turns into an interrogation session. Me being interrogated of course. Finally, my flatmate drops the bomb and enquires whether the weed is good in South Africa. A sigh of relief unintentionally leaves my body as we finally hit a subject that I’m confident in.
We share stoner stories until a tall pale figure comes waddling into the lounge. The last bandit. A brit. Courteously wearing pants and a t-shirt. The hangovers are visible and the heat in China doesn’t help much. I get excited at the prospect of partying with these guys. They seem cool. But how cool? “Where’s the fuckin’ bong, Chris?” the brit irritatingly asks after greeting me politely. “It’s in my room I had one this morning.”
Wait! What? A bong? In China? My mind starts racing. Am I hearing things? First it was donkey burgers now it’s bongs. Could it be their accents? Joe the Brit waltzes back into the living room holding a homemade bong and a bank bag full of weed. My heart races and paranoia kicks in before I’ve even smoked one. How can there be weed in China, and these guys aren’t even hiding it. They seem fearless. Are they stupid? I struggle to maintain a straight face amidst all that’s happening. I’m excited and scared. I don’t know if I should smoke. I mean I am in China after all.
Chris racks the bongs and hands it to everyone. I’m last in line as the stinky coke bottle is gently passed to me, making sure none of the product drops out of the bong head. I sigh and fiddle with the cheap lighter when my flatmate says: “Yo man, you don’t need to be scared. The locals have no idea we’re smoking and they won’t find out either. Can’t think many of them know how it smells.” His words meant the world to me. And not for the obvious reason that it gave me the green light to smoke, but also because I now knew I wasn’t weird for being paranoid. I had to question these people. But the statement made it clear that they too begged the question whether it is safe to smoke, and how those around us might be impacted.
As it turned out. We smoked many bongs in that apartment, and a few others. We also smoked a few joints on a few rooftops. Jon once built a gravity bong in the sink of his kitchen. The other roommates didn’t seem to have too much of a problem with not being able to do the dishes. It was a surreal experience to have smoked weed in China, but to think it happened within the first 24 hours of me arriving in the country is beyond me. I guess some of us attract positivity and some of us attract stoners. I prefer to be the latter. Stay high!
