One of the worst things about giving up smoking weed is dealing with the never-ending festival of bad driving that is Joburg traffic.
It is not the stress of the day at work that is so bad, it is the struggle to survive on roads filled with drivers who seem intent on committing suicide and sending you to casualty at the same time.
Being able to light up a large spliff upon reaching the safety of home would wipe away the bubbling rage in my system and improve relations with the family.
This is a bit like taking medicine after you are sick and, in the bad old days, I often resorted to preventative medicine.
Many will be horrified that I dared to drive under the influence of the mighty herb but I never felt it affected my driving ability, unlike the times when I irresponsibly drove after imbibing too much alcohol.
My uninterrupted years of being awarded the annual no-claim bonus by the miserly insurance company attests to my defensive driving skills.
My lungs are definitely grateful for my new life as a smoke-free zone but my blood pressure longs for the days when it was much easier to cope with the everyday hazards of Joburg’s roads.
The arrogant asshole who cruises past the long queue of cars by driving in the Rea Vaya bus lane, and then expects to be allowed to push in front of everybody at the traffic light, would escape the customary stream of curses and rude hand signals.
The selfish idiots who think it is fine to double park and block the 5 o’clock traffic because they need to stop right outside the Domino’s to fetch their pizza would not get a vicious blast from the hooter.
Depending on the strength of the self-medication, even those who double parked next to an empty parking space might escape my wrath.
Taxi driver stops in the right-hand lane so he can get change for a R50 note from his pal who is already blocking the left-hand lane? Just a smile and a wave.
And I believe that if a large chunk of those causing such carnage on our roads took some judicious puffs of weed before climbing into their cars, driving would be a much better experience for all of us.
This has led me to fantasise about inventing a new version of those pungent air fresheners that people hang from their rear-view mirrors.
Imagine one that emits gentle puffs of ganja smoke to waft around the car and calm down those crazy drivers. Bus drivers, delivery-bike riders and taxi passengers would definitely benefit from some deep inhalations of the smoke from such a device, and it could be compulsory in all of those large double-cab bakkies.
This idea doesn’t seem that outlandish these days, with weed shops opening on suburban streets and even the most conservative old geezers discovering the health benefits of some dagga drops.
Very different from the days when marijuana was definitely illegal and the law was enthusiastically enforced by the drug squad.
“Quick, put the zol in your underpants,” would be the cry as a police roadblock loomed out of the darkness. This was uncomfortable and unhygienic but even the cops were reluctant to go near these areas in a roadside body search.
The dangers of going out to score and finding a suitable place to smoke were part of the adventure and could lead the daggaroker into some interesting situations.
You might find yourself in a small room in Eldorado Park making a skyf rolled out of a bit of old newspaper while the other people in the room indulged in the ritual of smoking buttons.
Or you might have the pleasure of sitting outside a crumbling cottage, among the coastal bush in the hills above Port Edward, puffing on a pipe made from the hollow stem of the leaf from a pawpaw tree.
Or you might find yourself taking a pull on a bottleneck packed with inferior Cape Town zol in a back alley in Woodstock — before its partial gentrification and invasion by eager suburban foodies.
Or you could be seeing in the new year next to a blazing fire on a deserted Wild Coast beach with the help of some prime Transkei weed supplied by a helpful man who took down a pungent bag from the ceiling of his hut in the nearby hills.
A good deal more unsettling would be finding yourself desperately puffing on a joint while crouching in a grove of blue gum trees at the edge of an army base ominously located behind the Pretoria Central Prison.
Equally scary would be sitting in a car, with a large holiday stash of weed in an open bag on the back seat, while zooming along the dead-straight road through the Mars-like landscape of Namibia and watching the stick-like figures visible in the heat haze up ahead transform into soldiers wielding large guns.
But, then again, what could be better than puffing on a joint of prime weed bought from an old hippie dude in Bertrams while cruising along a back road through the purple-tinted Karoo landscape with the hypnotic sounds of Fela Kuti blasting from the car’s sound system?
The master of Nigerian high-life was never shy to light up a large spliff during his stage performances. Just one on the lengthy list of artists who have enjoyed the link between cannabis and creativity.
From funk to punk and hippies to hip-hop, the sweet smell of marijuana has been the one constant in the ever-changing world of music.
Blunt smoking rappers never miss an opportunity to take their “chronic” medication. And who can argue that the world seen through “Snoop Dogg eyes” isn’t a better place?
Rollin’ down the street smokin’ indo
Sippin’ on gin and juice
Laid back …
Willie Nelson makes a suitably maudlin country music contribution with his song Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die. But the fondest memories from my years of cannabis consumption are accompanied by a reggae soundtrack. So, the final word must go to the mighty Peter Tosh: “Legalise it. Don’t criticise it.”
One of the worst things about giving up smoking weed is dealing with the neverending festival of bad driving that is Joburg traffic. It is not the stress of the day at work that is so bad, it is the struggle to survive on roads filled with drivers who seem intent on committing suicide and sending you to casualty at the same time.
Being able to light up a large spliff on reaching the safety of home would definitely wipe away the bubbling rage in my system and improve relations with the family.
This is a bit like taking medicine after you are sick and in the bad old days I often resorted to preventative medicine. Many will be horrified that I dared to drive under the influence of the mighty herb, but I never felt like it affected my driving ability, unlike the times when I irresponsibly drove after imbibing too much alcohol.
My uninterrupted years of being awarded the annual no-claim bonus by the miserly insurance company can attest to my defensive driving skills.
My lungs are definitely grateful for my new life as a smoke-free zone but my blood pressure longs for the days when it was much easier to cope with the everyday hazards of Joburg’s roads.
The arrogant asshole who cruises past the long queue of cars by driving in the Rea Vaya bus lane and then expects to be allowed to push in front of everybody at the traffic light would escape the customary stream of curses and rude hand signals. The selfish idiots who think it is fine to double park and block the five o’clock traffic because they need to stop right outside the Dominos to fetch their pizza will not get a vicious blast from the hooter.
Depending on the strength of the self-medication even those who double park next to an empty parking space might escape my wrath. Taxi driver stops in the right hand lane so he can get change for a R50 note from his pal who is already blocking the left hand lane? Just a smile and a wave.
And I believe that if a large chunk of those causing such carnage on our roads took some judicious puffs of weed before climbing into their cars, driving would be a much better experience for all of us. This has led me to fantasise about inventing a new version of those pungent air fresheners that people hang from their rearview mirrors.
Imagine one that emits gentle puffs of ganja smoke to waft around the car and calm those crazy drivers down. Bus drivers, delivery bike riders and taxi passengers would definitely benefit from some deep inhalations of the smoke from this device, and it would be compulsory in all of those large double cab bakkies.
This idea doesn’t seem that outlandish these days with weed shops opening on suburban streets and even the most conservative old geezers discovering the health benefits of some dagga drops. Very different from the days when marijuana was definitely illegal and the law was enthusiastically enforced by the drug squad.
“Quick, put the zol in your underpants,” would be the cry as a police roadblock loomed out of the darkness. This was uncomfortable and unhygienic but even the cops were reluctant to go near these areas in a roadside body search.
The dangers of going out to score and finding a suitable place to smoke were part of the adventure and could lead the dagga roker into some interesting situations.
You might find yourself in a small room in Eldorado Park making a skyf rolled out of a bit of old newspaper while the other people in the room indulged in the ritual of smoking buttons. Or you might have the pleasure of sitting outside a crumbling cottage among the coastal bush in the hills above Port Edward puffing on a pipe made from the hollow stem of the leaf from a paw-paw tree.
Or you might find yourself taking a pull of a bottleneck packed with inferior Cape Town zol in a back alley in Woodstock — before its partial gentrification and invasion by eager suburban foodies.
Or you could be seeing in the new year next to a blazing fire on a deserted Wild Coast beach with the help of some prime Transkei weed supplied by a helpful man who took down a pungent bag from the ceiling of his hut in the nearby hills.
A good deal more unsettling would be finding yourself desperately puffing on a joint while crouching in a grove of bluegum trees at the edge of an army base ominously located behind the Pretoria Central Prison.
Equally scary would be sitting in a car with a large holiday stash of weed in an open bag on the back seat while zooming along the dead straight road through the Mars-like landscape of Namibia and watching the stick-like figures visible in the heat haze up ahead transform into soldiers wielding large guns.
But, then again, what could be better than puffing on a joint of some prime weed bought from an old hippie dude in Bertrams while cruising along a back road through the stunning purple-tinted Karoo landscape with the hypnotic sounds of Fela Kuti blasting from the car’s sound system?
The master of Nigerian high-life was never shy to light up a large spliff during his stage performances. Just one on the lengthy list of artists who have enjoyed the link between cannabis and creativity.
From funk to punk and hippies to hip-hop, the sweet smell of marijuana has been the one constant in the ever-changing world of music.
Blunt smoking rappers never miss an opportunity to take their “chronic” medication. And who can argue that the world seen through Snoop Dogg eyes isn’t a better place?
Rollin’ down the street smokin’ indo
Sippin’ on gin and juice
Laid back
Willie Nelson has a suitably maudlin country music contribution with his song Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die. But the fondest memories from my years of cannabis consumption are accompanied by a reggae soundtrack. So the final word must go to the mighty Peter Tosh: “Legalise it. Don’t criticise It”
A judicious puff of weed by those who cause carnage on our highways and byways would make driving a pleasant experience, writes Christian Stephen
