DOPE Magazine - Eastern Washington - The Travel Issue - July 2018

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THE STRANGERS IN YOUR CITY

INTO THE NOT-SO-WILD

LYNSEY ADDARIO

BUILDING CONNECTIONS THROUGH RIDESHARE APPS

MAPPING AMERICA’S MOST REMOTE SPOTS

WARTIME PHOTOJOURNALISM THROUGH A WOMAN’S LENS

DEFENDING OUR PLANT EVERYWHERE

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EDITOR’S LETTER

TOP VIDEOS

DOPE LIFE

SOCIAL MEDIA INFLUENCERS

T

he Golden Age of Aviation, wedged between the two World Wars, was a pivotal time for military and civilian flight. In the late 1950s, airlines began offering new tiers of efficiency, comfort and speed, much to the detriment of the traveling experience. Flying became more commonplace, and the flames of excitement surrounding flying were snuffed with the advent of jet aircrafts. Leap forward a few decades, and most stopped considering flying an occasion to dress to the nines. Well, it’s our travel issue, and you can be damn sure we’re giving you a reason to pull out all the stops.

There is no denying the role planes have had on carving out the landscape of our minds and imaginations; this issue attempts to do the same. We dodge la policía in Madrid. We get to the bottom of astral projection, the idea that you can transport your consciousness to another plane of existence—quite literally, you can be in two places at once. We travel to Himachal Pradesh, India, on a hunt for the most unique of landrace strains, led by the Indian Landrace Exchange—the true OGs of hunting and cataloguing cannabis genomes.

DOPE LIFE

INTERVIEW WITH WHITNEY BELL

And we don’t stop there. We hop in a few Ubers and realize that the people behind the wheel are chock-full of stories worthy of making The New York Times Best-Sellers list. We talk alien abduction, astrology and map out America’s most remote spots. We share the story of wartime journalist Lynsey Addario, who has traveled the world and risked her life to capture images of conflict and humanitarian crises in some of the most dangerous places on the globe.

In the words of Jason Silva, “Travel is a mind-expanding drug.”

THE DOPE CHRONICLES

Stay DOPE!

WITH DAVID TRAN

The DOPE Editorial Team

To view these and more DOPE videos, visit DOPEMAGAZINE.COM/VIDEOS

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DOPEMAGAZINE.COM

RECENTLY CORRECTED ARTICLES

We would like to note an error in our May 2018 Sustainability Issue. In the Oregon edition, YUP bars, were incorrectly listed as being produced by Oregon’s Finest. They are produced

by Gesundheit Foods. We regret the error.

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DOPE MAGAZINE JULY 2018 | THE TRAVEL ISSUE The traditional heartland of cannabis, India, has a story to tell.

It is home to a stunning diversity of landrace strains, providing the global cannabis community with the parent stock for some of the most prized varieties available today. In this issue, Seshata travels to Himachal Pradesh, India, on a hunt for the most unique of landrace strains, led by the Indian Landrace Exchange—the true OGs of hunting and cataloguing cannabis genomes.

COVER PHOTO: ASHISH SHASHIDHARAN

THE STRANGERS IN YOUR CITY

INTO THE NOT-SO-WILD

LYNSEY ADDARIO

BUILDING CONNECTIONS THROUGH RIDESHARE APPS

MAPPING AMERICA’S MOST REMOTE SPOTS

WARTIME PHOTOJOURNALISM THROUGH A WOMAN’S LENS

HOW TO REACH US

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D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

EFENDING UR LANT VERYWHERE As a lifestyle publication, DOPE Magazine is dedicated to creating purposeful, relevant conversations. We’ve built a steadfast framework of inclusivity when speaking about gender, race, class, politics, family and culture—with the ethos DEFEND. At DOPE, we don’t just defend our plant, but our people, patients and planet.

Our highly curated content continues to focus on those who maintain a relationship with— and advocate on behalf of—cannabis. While cannabis remains the central theme of our brand, it is our belief that creating conversations about real people and relatable experiences is the best way to normalize the role that cannabis plays in society. Our aim is to continue to illuminate issues that deserve our attention and must be addressed if we wish to both promote and create change.

We are grateful for your time, we welcome your feedback and are ever appreciative of your participation and dedication in creating positive, lasting change in the cannabis community.

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T H E T R AV E L I S S U E

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ULY

FEATURES 028 TRAVEL

INTO THE NOT-SO-WILD

MAPPING AMERICA’S MOST REMOTE SPOTS 034 PROFILE

RENEW THE SPIRIT, REFRESH THE MIND ASTROLOGER AND MEDIUM JESSICA LANYADOO’S TRAVEL ADVICE 036 FEATURE

LYNSEY ADDARIO

WARTIME PHOTOJOURNALISM THROUGH A WOMAN’S LENS 044 FEATURE

SCOTTY, BEAM ME UP PLEASE! THE PHENOMENON OF ALIEN ABDUCTION 048 CULTURE

THE STRANGERS IN YOUR CITY

BUILDING CONNECTIONS THROUGH RIDESHARE APPS 054 #SCOUTEDBYDOPE

#SCOUTEDBYDOPE 058 CULTURE

THE ART OF ASTRAL PROJECTION TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITH THESE EASY-ISH STEPS 064 EDITOR’S CHOICE

SUN WIZARD CREATIONS 066 CULTURE

DOPE ON THE ROAD MADRID

072 DOPE SHOTS

DOPE PHOTO CONTEST

CONGRATULATIONS, CHRIS NOWAKOWSKI

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020 COVER FEATURE

STRAIN HUNTING IN INDIA’S CANNABIS HEARTLAND

PHOTOGRAPHY ASHISH SHASHIDHARAN

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WRITTEN BY SESHATA PHOTOS BY ASHISH SHASHIDHARAN

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Clockwise from bottom: Irrazin (ILE key member), Shree (ILE key member), Chachaji (village elder), Baba-ji (village elder), Mama-ji (village elder)

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

DANK IN DELHI We begin in Delhi, where we are taken to a small, clandestine indoor grow op—one of a small but rising number. The crew, led by Shree and his partner, Deepak, are testing cultivars they hope will make it in the extreme heat of India, using a harsh—but effective—method.

To “weed out” the weak plants with insufficient heat resistance, the crew discontinues the ventilation and AC for three straight days during the vegetative period, exposing the young plants to the full force of the Delhi summertime heat. By the end of this period, most of the plants in the room will be dead—but the few survivors will be grown out and used as the basis for breeding more heat-resistant varieties.

This brutal effort is a necessary means of futureproofing Shree’s crops, and maybe cannabis worldwide. Many expect Delhi’s already extreme temperatures to increase as climate change continues to exert its already tangible effects.

The majority of breeders in the world focus on cannabinoid and terpene content; only a small, farsighted minority, including Shree, recognize the need for heat and drought-resistant varieties that can be grown without vast energy expenditure.

Climate change is a present-day reality, not a future fear, one that that makes itself known many times during our expedition. Later that day, our departure for Himachal Pradesh is delayed by the mother of all thunderstorms—“just a little premonsoon rain,” Irrazin says with irony. The early arrival of monsoon weather is yet another sign of the changing climate, and is already affecting crop cycles throughout the region.

WHAT IS THE INDIAN LANDRACE EXCHANGE? Irrazin first conceptualized the Indian Landrace Exchange in 2015, when he began to frequent Internet message boards dedicated to cannabis breeding. He formed relationships with breeders from across the world, although mostly concentrated in the USA, who impressed on him the importance of Indian cannabis stock.

“I knew that these Indian landrace seeds were important,” Irrazin shares. “I knew that they were the backbone of some of the world’s most famous cultivars—but at the time, I didn’t quite grasp the full potential . . . How far we could go, how much we could give back to the villagers.” He refers to the denizens of Malana, who cultivate these important plants in extreme isolation from the rest of the world.

Irrazin devised an idea to build up an inventory of landrace seeds collected from local farmers, exchange them with breeders throughout the world, and distribute the profits back to those farmers. He then created a Facebook page for the new concept: the Indian Landrace Exchange.

“The idea was to create an unbroken chain of resources for both parties,” describes Irrazin. “The breeders get seeds that they wouldn’t otherwise have access to, and the villagers get goods that they don’t have access to.”

The Indian Landrace Exchange began to develop a reputation in the industry, mobilizing contacts in Manipur, Rajasthan, South India and Kashmir for the purpose of seed collection and inventory building. By December 2017, the team designed an official logo and started distributing packaged, labeled seeds in an organized manner.

“We began to build up a clientele and make some money,” Irrazin explains. “Of course, we keep some for our travel expenses, to make sure everybody’s taken care of. Then, we give back a certain amount to the farmers that supply the seed, either cash or goods that they can’t otherwise get hold of.”

"

I

ndia, traditional heartland of cannabis, has a story to tell. For thousands of years, it’s been home to a stunning diversity of landrace strains, providing the global cannabis community with the parent stock for some of the most prized varieties available today.

We’ve come to India to meet with Irrazin and Shree from the Indian Landrace Exchange. The two will lead us from the metropolis of Delhi to the remote mountain village of Malana to explore local cannabis customs and learn about the abundant diversity of landraces in the area, as well as to discuss their long-term plans and ambitions for cannabis in India.

Our group comprises myself and my fiancé, Jaco; Irrazin, key member of the Indian Landrace Exchange and holder of deep, abundant cannabis wisdom; Shree, a bright, dynamic young grower, charras enthusiast and all-round hustler; Ashish, photographer, grindcore vocalist and expert imitator of accents; and Krishna, AKA Edwin Dimitri, an accountant with a sparkling wit and a love of all things science.

. . .THE SHEER DIVERSITY AND VARIATION FOUND IN MALANA'S CANNABIS POPULATION MAY BE UNRIVALLED ANYWHERE ELSE ON THE PLANET. 21

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Irrazin in his nat u ra l hab it at , Mama-ji’s fields.

THE CANNABIS PLANTS OF MALANA

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Af ter a rough journey into the Himachal Pradesh region, including a bus, a taxi and a two-hour hike, we reach Malana. Here, lush fields carpet the slopes; a diverse abundance of plants occupy all available s p a c e . I t ’s obvious that cannabis is a real part of the ecosystem— unlike Morocco, where, outside of cultivated fields, cannabis does not grow, save for a few escapees. Cannabis lines the sides of every path and road, vying for space with a profusion of wild mint and oregano, clovers, docks, plantains, thistles and nettles—vegetation that, were it not for the cannabis, would resemble any upland or northern part of Europe.

The mountain’s paths shimmer as if sprinkled with silver— schist rocks rich in quartz, mica and graphite, eroded into tiny, glittering particles, one of many ingredients in the soil’s mineral-rich sediment. This sparkling soil is highly prized for making chillums, the ubiquitous, ancient Indian pipe still employed by most charras smokers in India today. For centuries, villagers have augmented the already rich soil with abundant organic matter. Pesticides and chemical fertilizers are not welcome in and around Malana.

In this rich, loamy clay soil, cannabis grows unhindered with minimal human intervention, free to reproduce and express whatever traits work best in its environment.

Due to this ecosystem, the sheer diversity and variation found in Malana’s cannabis population may be unrivaled anywhere else on the planet.

Most of these crops are selfmaintaining—one patch was planted twenty years ago and has been left to its own devices ever since. It is full of lush, deep-green plants already three to four feet in height, with large, medium-wide leaves, gargantuan, hollow stems, long internodes, and already-obvious terpene production.

Although clearly leaning more to the sativa side of the cannabis spectrum, these plants also have some indica traits, as evidenced by the width of their leaves.

It’s likely that outside genetics have been introduced over the years, so these plants may in fact be hybridized to some extent; however, this region of the planet is part of a continuum of different cannabis biotypes, stretching all the way from Kazakhstan to Thailand. It’s important to make an effort to preserve and catalog these landraces—they are the backbone of many of the world’s best-known and loved cultivars. There are potentially infinite variations to be found here, many of which may contain cannabinoid profiles useful in treating a range of diseases and ailments.

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

WHAT THE ILE CAN DO FOR MALANA “As far as the future is concerned, the first priority is to conduct open-pollination programs on certain good specimens we’ve found, increase the stock, and get the stock to places like the USA, where the gene pool is really just a poly-hybrid circus,” details Irrazin, explaining what the Indian Landrace Exchange has to offer growers worldwide. “Everyone’s getting tired of the same old flavors. They want something new, and I think that’s where we come in. Not just for the funk and the flavor, but also for the potential of cannabinoid combinations that could be useful for some kind of ailment.” “ The next leap is to set up a physical location, at the epicenter of charras, which of course must be Malana. So we’re working directly with the villagers to build a guesthouse in Waychen Valley. The elder Mama-ji will handle the money from the guests, the food and so on; we’ll bring guests every so often, and just maintain a small office space there.”

Additionally, the team hopes to help set up a kiosk selling a selection of local landrace seeds as souvenirs. These seeds will come directly from the village, and the money will go straight to the village elders, who will distribute it in the form of social projects.

The Indian Landrace Exchange plans to enter Spannabis next year with a sample of top-quality local charras, hoping to put India on the modern global cannabis community map. The sample will no doubt be made by the expert hands of the elder Mama-ji, whose product is revered throughout the Malana area.

Mama-ji is one of Malana’s best charras makers, a handsome man in his thirties with tightly-curled hair and an irrepressible smile. He produces cannabis cream of such high quality that it resembles bubble hash, with a clear appearance and smooth, fresh taste.

Natural biodiversity found in Malana.

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The heart of Malana village, looking out towards the peaks of Chandrakhani and Deo Tibba.

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

CHACHA−JI, MAKER OF MEDICINAL OILS Later, we are honored to meet another elder of great esteem, Chacha-ji (a name of respect, meaning “ father ’s brother ”; his true name remains a mystery), owner of his own house and fields, and maker of medicinal cannabis oils according to ancient techniques. Chacha-ji subjects fresh cannabis to heat and pressure until the oil separates from the plant matter. It is then further heated and filtered to remove the plant matter, leaving behind a rich, red oil that has little remaining trace of terpenes, but a powerful kick of cannabinoids when tasted.

Chacha-ji supplies these oils to medical patients sent to him by Ayurvedic doctors in Delhi. Cannabis is a powerful tool in the Ayurvedic tradition of medicine, although it cannot be officially dispensed. Doctors instead send patients to Chachaji in Malana, where they receive some of the cleanest, most potent cannabis preparations found in the country.

These patients include sufferers of cancer, epilepsy and migraines, among other ailments. Records are impossible to maintain, but Chacha-ji has received multiple positive reports from patients and the doctors who sent them. Patients pay for his services, as they would for any other medicine, but if they cannot, he donates to those in need.

Chacha-ji continues his legacy by passing on his wisdom to a select handful of initiates from the village who will expand the number of patients he can treat and, in time, hopefully form a thriving network of medicinal oil makers. To facilitate his work, the Indian Landrace Exchange plans to supply him with a rosin press.

Malana is still ruled by strict traditional beliefs. Outsiders may not rub the plants that grow there to make charras.

Chacha-ji will not pass his learning on to anyone other than his fellow natives of Malana.

A TRIP TO WAYCHEN VALLEY Later we are guided up a steep mountain path by the elder Baba, a gentle, quiet man who exudes an air of wisdom and serenity. As a sadhu, he dresses austerely in a turban and long kirtle, which does not impede his agile, mountainadapted gait.

Baba is leading us to a small summer settlement in the Waychen Valley. In summer, a handful of families inhabit the valley, along with their cows, chickens and goats, and decamp back to Malana in winter. In springtime, as soon as the snows melt, the villagers climb these hillsides and plant millions of cannabis seeds along the terraced slopes. In June, these plants are little over twelve inches tall and carpet the hills; between them grow clovers and mosses, which the cows happily eat while studiously avoiding every cannabis plant.

I ask Irrazin if cows ever eat cannabis, to which he replies: “No, but the goats and sheep love it—they need to be kept away, or they can eat their way through an entire field in a few minutes!”

Little stands in the Waychen Valley settlement, save for a handful of traditional wooden houses and a cluster of tents, one of which is to be our home for the night. As the light fades, we build a fire and wait for dinner, a delicious kidney bean dal with rice and eggs.

We pass multiple chillums around the circle in an almost unbroken chain. The heady effect gradually builds up to a sense of otherworldly lightness, a euphoric feeling heightened by the dramatic outlines of the mountains that surround us and the feelings of awe they inspire.

That evening, the sounds of psychedelic trance music echoes through the valley, emanating from a dozen different sound systems. This, too, is a relatively recent phenomenon; a reminder that even in the most remote reaches of the Himalayas, the modern world is never far.

For an extended version of this article go to dopemagazine.com/strain-hunters/

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ave you ever wanted to get as far away from it all as possible? But how would you do it? And what would “far away from it all” even mean? For the past nine years, Ryan and Rebecca Means have been trying to determine exactly that for every state in the nation.

But of course, the couple, both ecologists, weren’t content to simply map America’s most inaccessible places—they wanted to experience them for themselves.

“We thought, if we can calculate this location, then we must stand on it and know what it feels like,” explains Ryan, “and we must bring our baby along with us.” With their daughter Skyla in tow, now 10 years old, the Means have successfully calculated and trekked to the remotest spots in 33 states for nearly a decade. They call this midlife crisis-inspired family mission Project Remote, and document their efforts at RemoteFootprints.org.

Visitors to the site can click through the family’s bios, plus blog entries about their efforts in mapping each state, photos from their 773 miles of total travel by foot and sometimes boat, peaceful videos taken at the remote spots, rankings of their distance from civilization—from 21.6 miles in Wyoming to 1.1 in Connecticut—and other multimedia tidbits to help you live out your own escapist fantasies.

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

VERED O C S I D Y . . . THE QUICKLYVERY G IN BEGINNIN STATE ME THEIR HO DA-THAT I OF FLOR ESS IN REMOTEN RICA IS ME A N R E D O M BY. E M O C O HARD T

“

To keep their efforts scientifically grounded, they defined “remoteness” as the distance from a road. A “road,” they defined in turn, is any public, private, paved and unpaved motorway, train track, powerline right of way, or other manmade route that leaves a scar on the landscape. Working within these parameters, they discovered very quickly—beginning in their home state of Florida—that remoteness in modern America is hard to come by.

“At the Florida [mainland] remote spot, we heard motors and saw trash on the ground,” Ryan recalls. “It just wasn’t as climactic as you’d want it to be.” So they kept going, moving on to other Southeastern states.

But even as they moved west, mapping states famed for their rugged wilderness, the problem persisted. “The real idea of Project Remote was born in looking at those other states and realizing roads were so much closer than we ever dreamed was possible,” Rebecca picks up the anecdote. “There was a bigger story to tell than just our family trying to get away from people and have an adventure.”

Among their findings, they’ve learned it’s no longer possible to get more than five miles from a road in the vast majority of the contiguous United States, and that the number of roads we have is continually increasing—even in national conservation areas where most “remote” spots are located. “Almost every state has a different type of environmental issue, driven by a different industry,” Rebecca notes.

Big Agriculture engulfs vast tracts of the Great Plains.

Mining dominates the landscape in Kentucky. Oil and gas roads infiltrate forests in Pennsylvania and deserts in West Texas, while in North Dakota, fracking drills are visible from the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation, also known as the Three Affiliated Tribes. The industry is even encroaching on a mainland remote spot in Alaska’s arctic North Slope. “It says a lot about our unchecked development and lack of massive planning,” muses Ryan.

“

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With so many private industrial roads being developed, determining their locations has proven the most time-consuming part of Project Remote. Rebecca obtains the GIS (Geographic Information Systems) files from different state departments of transportation, but keeps adding to them based on undocumented roads found via satellite imagery, resulting in recalculations of remote spots up to 40 to 50 times per state.

The Means family ’s mission gradually evolved into a crusade, and their travel blog into a document of Mother Nature on the run in the 21st century. They now advocate a stop to roadbuilding across the country, but especially within public lands, and that if a new road is built, another of equal mileage be restored to nature.

It’s a bold proposal, to be sure, but not without reason, as roads have many negative impacts on their surrounding environment.

They contribute to runoff pollution, interrupt migrations, drown out mating calls, fragment habitats, reduce genetic diversity, and are responsible for the deaths of an estimated one million vertebrates in the U.S. each year.

Not to mention, having fewer wilderness areas bodes badly for humans, too. Spending time in nature is an essential buffer for our mental well-being, and is associated with reduced levels of stress and anxiety, as well as an increased capacity for learning and social engagement. Speaking of social engagement, citizens can work to protect their at-risk public wildlands by voting for conservationist policies, participating in parks’ public comment periods, or simply getting out and making use of them.

“All national forests have sign-in books,” explains Rebecca, “and they actually use those numbers for visitor statistics, which can drive funding and feelings for how important these areas are.” Take the time to appreciate America’s natural areas now, both for your own good and so future generations will still have somewhere to get away.

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REMOTEFOOTPRINTS.ORG

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

THE NUM B ER S B EHIND PR OJEC T R EM OTE As ecologists, precise research is important to the Means family.

They’ve collected vast amounts of data for Project Remote, as listed on their website, remotefootprints.org.

THIRTY THREE Number of states the Means family has traveled to for Project Remote

773 Miles traveled by foot for Project Remote

6.6 Average distance (in miles) each remote spot lies from a “road,” as defined by the Means family

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Percentage of remote spots reachable by the Means family in one travel day

SIXTY Percentage of remote spots where cell phones still had service

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D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

A

strologers and Psychic mediums give people an alternate understanding of the world around them, and often even a sense of closure. They help cultivate greater insight for those who seek their talents. Jessica Lanyadoo is one such individual. Her gifts of mediumship and talents as an astrologer have gained her clients all over the world. We reached out to get her insights into travel in the physical sense, travel as a mental state and even the fated travel into the afterlife.

Talking to Jessica was almost like reaching out to an old friend—I imagine that’s part of what makes her so good at her job. But for the skeptics out there, how does her gift even work? Jessica put it this way: “To say that I move between worlds sounds very fancy. It’s really not that fancy. I have the ability to perceive it.

It’s like if you’re hanging out with somebody who has really good hearing, and they can hear everything the neighbor is saying, but you have really shitty hearing, so you don’t hear it. It’s just that I have excellent hearing.”

Jessica explained how energy shifts from one place to another. When she visited Florence, Italy, for instance, she insists, “it was like a living nightmare.” Because of the history of the land, her visit was accompanied by splitting headaches and sickness; the energy there was strong. In contrast, her travels to Fiji were “pure magic.”

I also got the chance to dig a bit deeper and ask a question many of us want to know: What has she learned from those who have traveled to the afterlife?

“One thing that I have learned is that if you want to take your bullshit with you, you can take your bullshit with you,” she laughs. “It’s not very romantic or idealistic, but if you die a dick and don’t work on healing, then you’ll be a dead dick.” She continued on, matter-offactly: “People often suffer. Their bodies break down and die. It’s part of the human condition. Part of what I find really comforting is the knowledge that we do not take the pain of the body with us.” *Jessica’s insights are both hysterical and inspiring. If you want to read more about her travel insights, head to dopemagazine. com/jessica-lanyadoo for an extended version of this article.

LOVELANYADOO.COM @JESSICA_LANYADOO

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JESSICA LANYADOO’S TRAVEL TIPS

THE DESERT

If you’re planning a trip this summer and hope to renew the spirit and refresh the mind, here are Jessica’s top five location suggestions for a magical experience:

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NEWFOUNDLAND MONTREAL

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Wartime Photojournalism Through a Woman's Lens WRITTEN BY LUNA REYNA Photos Courtesy of Lynsey Addario

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Addario working in the Gaza strip in 2011 while eight months pregnant.

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"H

e ran his hands over my hair and spoke to me in a low, steady voice, repeating the same phrase over and over. I kept my face down, ignoring his touch, his words. I didn't understand what he was saying. 'What is he saying, Anthony?' Anthony took his time answering. 'He's telling you that you will die tonight.'"

- It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War by Lynsey Addario September 11 rocked the nation. Nearly 3,000 people lost their lives in a plan to incite fear and bring our nation to its knees. Headlines screamed, “Act of War,” “Today, Our Nation Saw Evil,” and “War on The World,” which set the tone for the War on Terror. The War on Terror seemed to bring just that, with 17,500 bombs launched on Afghanistan by the end of December of 2001.

Millions of lives were affected, and the military has never attempted to record an overall tally of civilian deaths. Still, the word “terrorist” has become synonymous with “Muslim.” Since before the attacks on the World Trade Center Twin Towers to the recent move of the American Embassy, the U.S. has played a critical role in the perception of millions of people in the Middle East—a loose term that encompasses twenty nine countries across multiple continents.

It is the “terrorist” narrative, however, that opened the door for the POTUS’ recent attempt to block Muslim immigration with a travel ban against people from predominantly Muslim countries, countries with residents who predominantly follow a religion called Islam. “Muslim” is not a race. “You can’t make that general statement about Christians, for example,” Lynsey Addario told us. “When we see these big mass shootings, they are often white people who are not Muslim, who open fire and kill many, many Americans, and no one ever uses the word ‘terrorist.’ To me, I feel like there needs to be a lot more dialogue about this, and there needs to be an even playing field when we talk about terrorism overall in our country.”

Few people understand these conflicts like Addario, a photojournalist who has covered every major conflict and humanitarian crisis of her generation, including crises within the borders of Afghanistan, Iraq, Darfur, Libya, Syria, Lebanon, South Sudan, Somalia and DR Congo. She has dedicated her life to her job in hopes of educating people: “I was now a photojournalist willing to die for stories that had the potential to educate people,” Lynsey affirms in her breathtaking book, It’s What I Do: A Photographer’s Life of Love and War. “I wanted to make people think, to open their minds, to give them the full picture of what was happening in Iraq so that they could decide whether they supported our presence there.”

Addario came to this pivotal realization after Life magazine told her they would not publish her essay of injured American soldiers, because it was too “real” for the American public. In

her opinion, “The human costs of the war had been carefully concealed,” and the American people deserved to know where many of their own children were fighting. There’s also the glaring fact that Addario risked her own life in the process of this assignment—and Life wanted to censor it.

But this was not the first—and definitely not the last—time Addario put her life on the line for a story. “Three weeks into the Libyan uprising-—a revolution that quickly became a war—I was kidnapped,” Addario recounts in her book. “We had been completely at the Libyans’ mercy. But we had lived. I felt lucky. I had interviewed suffering people all over the world, and they never felt like victims. They felt like survivors. I had learned from them.” She was also kidnapped by Sunni insurgents in Iraq, ambushed by the Taliban in Afghanistan and severely injured in a car accident that killed her driver while on assignment in Pakistan.

Through it all, Addario credits her belief in free press as the driving force behind her continued pursuit of these wartime stories. “I believe in free press! I believe in journalism. I believe in the role of journalists to show the world what’s happening. I think that policy makers and governments rely, in part, on journalists to get information about what’s happening on the ground, because many times they can’t go to the places we go to,” Addario fiercely asserts. “I am not at all fearless. I get scared like everyone else.” With her passion for honest journalism came the experience and grit to continue her work: “What comes with experience in covering war is, basically, you learn how to deal with that fear. We learn how to tuck it away and manage it, so I can continue doing my work simultaneously . . . It’s not being fearless. It’s just survival. A lot of this ends up being survival.”

And survival has become more difficult as the years—and conflicts—continue unabated.

“Things have gotten progressively worse for journalists. Journalists are killed routinely.

They are targeted by governments,” Addario reveals. “I have been doing this work for a long time, and a lot of this work is sort of like Russian roulette. The more chances you take, the more often I think my number might come up.” On April 30 of this year, nine journalists were killed in Afghanistan, making Addario’s sentiments glaringly clear. “When I hear about what happened in Afghanistan,” she comments, “it devastates me. These are journalists who

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I BELIEVE IN FREE PRESS! I BELIEVE IN JOURNALISM. I BELIEVE IN THE ROLE OF JOURNALISTS TO SHOW THE WORLD WHAT'S HAPPENING.

"

It takes a toll in more ways than one. “I tried to keep up, to love what he loved, to be the complete woman,” Addario solemnly recounts in her book, explaining the effort she put into a relationship with Uxval, a man she loved. In the end, her job came first, and he couldn’t understand. But it wasn’t just the men in her personal relationships that were problematic. “ There is a huge amount of sexism in the industry. Many women face sexism; it is a very real thing,” Addario bluntly replied when I asked about the difficulties of working in a maledominated industry. “I think that editors need to be assigning more women, more people of color. Most of our profession is populated by white males.”

Addario later married Paul de Bendern, a journalist with Reuters who understood her dedication to her work. Returning home after being kidnapped, she decided to give her husband what he had wanted for so long: a baby. Reading about her fears of potentially ruining her career or losing work because of her pregnancy was like a page from my own journal.

Addario continued to receive assignments after her pregnancy began to show, and she went back to work three months after giving birth.

“I started to show in Somalia and Kenya,” she recalls, “and after that I started telling my editors. I was sent to Gaza after I had already spoken to an editor”—a move she received a lot of criticism for. “I do know there are judgements made on women like myself who are now mothers working in war zones. I think people are very quick to judge and say, ‘How could you do that with a child?’ When they don’t make those same judgements on men and my male colleagues. That’s just a very archaic way of looking at women.”

A quick look at the comments on a story published in The New York Times Magazine titled, “What Can a Pregnant Photojournalist Cover? Everything,” and the criticisms are clear.

One woman wrote, “I found Lynsey Addario’s behavior absolutely reprehensible! How a mother could put her own ambitions and ego above that of her child is beyond belief. After reading her article, I found myself in the state of disbelief accompanied by an unusual amount of anger.” Not everyone is as simple-minded,

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gave their lives trying to tell a story about Afghanistan. It could have been any one of us.”

Addario is referring to the two suicide bombers who killed 25 people in Kabul, Afghanistan, including nine journalists. The journalists are thought to have been targeted; the second attacker pretended to be a member of the press and stood within a crowd of reporters covering the scene. This is reported to be the most devastating attack on the media since 2001, during the fall of the Taliban. “Where media are in danger, all other human rights are under greater threat,” the U.S. Embassy in Kabul declared. Afghan President Ashraf Ghani said it was an example of “war crimes,” and Addario concurs. “They were trying to show what’s going on and document the war, and we rely on news from those journalists to know what’s going on in that country. It’s not okay to kill journalists. It should be a war crime.”

These sentiments have echoed throughout the journalistic community, and although organizations like Human Rights Watch claim that, “Under the laws of war, deliberate attacks on civilians are war crimes. Posing as a journalist to carry out an attack is also perfidious, a war crime in which the attacker assumes civilian status,” there are still some gray areas, especially for war correspondents who accompany armed forces. Many are calling for a special provision for these atrocities.

Journalists who cover wartime news see and hear much of the same things our soldiers do; it’s no surprise many of them suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. The risks of Addario’s job don’t end when she’s no longer on assignment. “Definitely. For sure I have PTSD,” Addario told us plainly after we asked about the effects of covering wartime tragedies.

After coming home from the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan, for instance, there was a time when she couldn’t stop crying, and loud noises became unbearable. After her colleagues Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros died, she broke down. “I couldn’t stop crying for a week. That has to do with trauma. Residual trauma, trauma from not only the big things that have happened to me over the years, but also just witnessing people dying—people in these very vulnerable moments. It takes a toll.”

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Lebanese people walk through the destruction in Beirut’s southern suburbs on the first day of the ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon, August 14, 2006.

Italian sailors with the Uranium Navy Ship rescue 109 African migrants from Gambia, Mali, Senegal, Ivory Coast, Guinea, and Nigeria, from a rubber boat in the sea between Italy and Libya, October 4, 2014.

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Iraqi Yazidi families camp out near Bahjad Kandal camp close to the Iraqi border with Syria, in Northern Iraq, August 16, 2014.

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Thousands of Syrians cross from Syria into Northern Iraq near the Sahela border point in Dahuk, Northern Iraq, August 21, 2013.

The mostly ethnically Kurdish refugees are fleeing increasing insecurity, economic strife, and a shortage of electricity, water, and food in their areas.

however. Another commenter wrote: “This country sends men off to the absolute absurdity called war every day—leaving their pregnant wives alone—and no one makes a peep. They are heroes. A woman goes off to photograph the atrocities created by this government in hopes to educate and she is ridiculed to no end.” None of it seems to bother Addario herself, however: “To me, frankly, people can criticize me all they want. I think there is a lot of ignorance involved in criticizing people, because they are unaware that there are many, many pregnant women in these war zones.”

Addario’s work is most often focused on the experience of women—“Looking at women in full picture of where they are,” as she told VICE. It’s no surprise that criticism doesn’t sway her one bit. As a woman, she has been able to obtain access to subjects in a way journalists in the past could not, and highlights the struggles of women from around the world. Women in Darfur, Uganda and South Sudan; violence against women in Afghanistan; women survivors of sexual assault in war; maternal mortality in Sierra Leone; women in police training in Afghanistan; female fighters in Rojava in Northern Syria; and honoring our female veterans and U.S. Marines with her coverage of Female Engagement Teams in southern Afghanistan.

“Part of being a good journalist and photographer is to really listen, and to care, and to tr y and understand where people are coming from,” Addario asserts. “I try to go into it to really understand the cultural differences, and the fact that people have different values than myself. I didn’t try to impose my values on others. I try to give people respect and listen to what they have to say.” According to Addario, the women she’s met through her work have become her role models—incredible women across the globe who have survived the most horrible circumstances.

What Addario did not expect was for women to see her as a role model. Although she says she does not see herself as such, Addario has paved the way for a more inclusive future in the male-dominated world of photojournalism. She has worked hard to achieve what women have always been told was unachievable, a family and a thriving career, and doesn’t plan on slowing down anytime soon.

Nazer Begam and her pregnant daughter Noor Nisa, 20, wait for transport to a hospital, after their car broke down, November 14, 2009.

“I choose to live in peace and witness war—to experience the worst in people but to remember the beauty,” Addario surmises at the end of her book.

“Journalist. It is who I am. It’s what I do.”

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D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

The alien abduc tion exper ience is a compl ex, under studie d and dubiou s pheno meno n. Outsid e of fuzzy photo shoot s, extra terre strial s’ purpo se in visitin g Earth remai ns unkno wn. Reall y, the only peopl e who claim to have insigh t are those who’v e had conta ct throu gh abduc tion. We can only start to inves tigat e alien activi ties on Earth if we accept abduc tion as a real occurr ence— but that’ s total ly bonke rs…ri ght?

TALL SHADOWS

THROWN FROM THE TOWER

Human interest in extraterrestrials rises and subsides. Right now, it’s peaking: Earlier this year, a video showed F-18 jets failing to intercept an Unidentified Flying Object near San Diego. Scientists received odd readings from KIC 8462852, aka Tabby ’s Star, consistent with theoretical specs of an alien megastructure, the Dyson sphere.

The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence Institute (SETI) detected artificially-created radio signals from deep space. A lost satellite?

An alien civilization? It’s still all speculation; ridiculous, unbelievable speculation. As Nicholas Eftimiades, former senior officer of the Defense Intelligence Agency, told me, “ There’s no credible evidence to indicate alien life has ever visited the Earth. Given the enormity of the universe, the likelihood is that there is some form of life, somewhere.”

The government never gives believers the affirmation they so crave. Not a crumb.

Presently, academics have done just the same. A growing force of researchers suggest that alien abductions, a major component of our cultural narrative, are just fantasies.

As Richard McNally of Harvard University states, “ To accept the hypothesis that extraterrestrial kidnappings explain reports of alien abduction” is to “reject a tremendous amount of science.” Why would any academic stand behind fantasy over science?

John Mack was a professor at Harvard School of Divinity, a Pulitzer Prize-winning psychologist, and easily the most esteemed academic champion of “experiencers,” self-proclaimed alien abductees. Prior to his publication of “Abduction: Human Encounters with Aliens” (1994), Harvard launched a full review into his methods, putting his life under private—and public—scrutiny. The all-seeing eye judged him unworthy. Charged with academic treason by his own kind, Mack persisted, and he went on to carve a place in academia for the study of the paranormal.

le evidence ib d e cr o n ’s e r e Th n life has to indicate alie e Earth. ever visited th rmity of the o n e e h t n e iv G likelihood is universe, the ome form of that there is s e. life, somewher

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r officer s, former senio de ia m ti Ef as ol – Nich ency Intelligence Ag of the Defense

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HEIR APPARENT “You may now step through the screen,” a Japanese woman dressed in all white intoned in broken English. “I can what?”

“Please, step through the screen,” she motioned, this time less politely. I pressed my hand on the screen, and was surprised when it fell right through. It wasn’t a screen; it was a passageway. James Turrell’s mind-altering art—such as the installation I visited at the Chichu Art Museum—inspires alien pop-culture. His work with light bends perception in such a way that the mind recalls an unremembered truth: that reality and its rules are fragile.

Turrell’s art inspired the ship design in “Arrival” (2016) and is featured prominently on the homepage of the Anomalistic Psychology Research Unit (APRU), researchers out of Goldsmiths College (UK). The APRU and Dr. Richard McNally lead the research on alien abduction in the wake of Dr. Mack’s passing. They who now carry the torch, however, are leading his legacy in the opposite direction.

ARE YOU LIKELY TO BE ABDUCTED?

According to Rich ard and the APRU, thes McNally e shared among “exp are the traits er those who have be iencers”— en abducted by aliens.

DISASSOCIATION

La ck integ rat ion be twee n co ns cio us aware ne ss an d me nta l ac tiv ity.

ABSORPTION

Op en to se lf- alteri ng ex pe rie nces .

FANTASY-PRON

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Overa cti ve im ag ina tio n.

NEW AGE BELIEF S

Be lie f in astro log y, psyc hic powe rs, ali en s, etc .

KNOWLEDGE

Fa mi lia r wi th the cu ltu ral na rra tive of ali en ab du cti on .

SLEEP DISORDER S

Have ex pe rie nced sle ep pa ral ys is.

SUPERLA TIVES: MOST LIKELY TO BE ABDUCTE D

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McNally and the APRU claim alien abductio ns are a misinter pretatio n of sleep paralysi s. Basicall y, people awaken during REM sleep, and the mix of dreamin g and conscio usness confuse s experien cers; the mind then creates a convenie nt explana tion from the alien abducti on narrative.

Their research is thoroug h. Both McNally and the APRU develop ed psychol ogical profiles to explain who—a nd thus, why—ab duction is a psychol ogy problem . Though they nicely tarp conclus ions over data, a flaw remains : Does the psychol ogical profile create the experien ce, or does the experie nce create the profile? If someon e theoret ically experie nces an alien abducti on, then they will probabl y develop every trait in these psycho logical profiles , with the notable exceptio n of sleep paralys is. Conside r the stereoty pe of a pot smoker, the one used for decade s in fear-mo ngering campai gns against the legaliza tion of pot. How is this psychol ogical profile any differen t? Which came first? We may never know.

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h ey a re t h e re j u s t a b o u t anywhere, anytime. Whatever the reason, many of us spend a good amount of time traveling with strangers that live in our city using rideshare apps—people with dreams, families and goals of their own. Here’s a glimpse into just how incredible the people we travel with can be, culled from my own rideshare experiences in Seattle, Washington.

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1 YEAR

Morning commutes are long and full of traffic, but the weather is nice and Oscar is playing some downtempo Colombian beats. We start talking about music and his driving job. “I like it on the weekends and very early in the morning,” he reveals. “This is my part-time. I do house remodeling.” He tells me I’m his last passenger of the morning, “because people get kinda grumpy in rush hour.” He moved to Seattle 20 years ago from Colombia with his exwife, a teacher, but not before traveling the world and working as a chef on a cruise ship. “That was when I was in my twenties. I went to cooking classes and somebody hired me for five years. I used to travel a lot. I traveled for five years all around the United States. I think traveling is the best gift you can give to yourself. I’ve visited 27 countries.”

Reminiscing about his travels, Oscar notes that he still visits home often: “I go to Columbia every year for two months, and I travel from there. All my family is there. Since I got divorced, pretty much I have nobody here.” His tone changes a bit, but not for long. When I ask why, he lights up again: “I like it a lot.”

Before I know it, we’re at my stop. I ask if I can tell his story, to which he happily agrees. He seems intrigued by my job title, and excitedly shares his love for poetry, explaining how thick his book of poetry would be if he were to write it. Who knows, maybe Oscar will be your new favorite poet someday. I left with a smile, inspired and hoping to have encouraged this sweet stranger to share something he’s always wanted to do with the world.

I USED TO TRAVEL A LOT. I TRAVELED FOR FIVE YEARS ALL AROUND THE UNITED STATES. I THINK TRAVELING IS THE BEST GIFT YOU CAN GIVE TO YOURSELF. I’VE VISITED 27 COUNTRIES. – OSCAR, PART-TIME UBER DRIVER

”

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¨SAMIR¨

4.91

1.5 YEARS

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Music holds a special place in my heart, so breaking the ice with that topic is always easy. The driver—we’ll call him Samir—seemed uninterested in my inquiry (which happened to be the soundtrack for the TV show Big Little Lies), but I’m happy I continued to chat with him during my trip. I asked him if he liked driving Uber. “I had to drive Uber,” he told me flatly. “There is a difference between doing it for the sake of love or [having] to do it.”

He moved here six years ago from Libya. I asked him what brought him here, which won me a chuckle and a smile. “Another long story,” he began. “I worked for the U.S. State Department. I worked for the American Embassy in Libya as a bodyguard for almost 11 years. The locals [did not like] the fact of us working with ‘the enemy’”—he used air quotes as he spoke—“so before I moved here in 2005, I got kidnapped by a militia there. The situation there is not stable. I got kidnapped because of my former position. I ended up with two bullets in both legs, a broken jaw and a severe concussion. I lost my memory for almost two days and spent six days in a coma. That was another decision that I had to do, not out of sake of…” He trailed off, then continued. “That is why I ended up moving here. It was not safe for me to stay there.”

I asked him if he liked it here in Seattle. “It took me awhile to adapt,” he admits.

“It’s kind of a big jump. Especially if you’re not prepared for it. I just had to get my things together and leave in like three months. It’s hard. I’m still having culture shock. Trying to adapt.” The ride was too short. I wish I would have had a chance to tell him what an incredibly brave person I think he is, but I wished him the best and thanked him for the ride. On my way out of the car, he smiled and wished me well.

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4.95

KEVIN

2 YEARS

If you live on the West Coast, chances are you’re in the cannabis industry or know someone who is, and sure enough, my driver was both. “I do Uber and Lyft and am part of a licensed marijuana grow and processing company,” Kevin told me. He had a friend who used to work with him in the bar industry who wanted to make his personal grow a legal one, and asked Kevin if he wanted to be a partner. “It’s worked out really well, and we’re expanding right now,” he detailed. “We’re adding 7,200 more square feet, so we’re doubling. We’re looking at about 120 pounds [of flower] a month.” At the end of my trip, Kevin gave me a short wave and told me he’d be reaching out to DOPE Magazine for a feature at some point in the future.

Whether you’re traveling to Berlin, India, Japan or just to work, one of the joys of travel is the people you meet along the way. Their experiences are their own, their stories lessons to be taught, their insight unique.

Next time you’re using a rideshare app, try looking up from your phone and at the people around you. You may be pleasantly surprised at who you’ll meet.

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Online databases are available to check product registration. Make sure the product is registered as an enzyme, not as a fertilizer.

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DOES IT PASS THE TISSUE TEST?

The tissue test is the easiest way to check if the enzyme formula contains enzymes. Pour some product into a jar and add a sheet of tissue paper.

If the tissue disintegrates after 24 hours, then it contains at least one enzyme (cellulase) that benefits your root zone.

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C U LT U R E

THE ART OF

ASTRAL PROJECTION TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITH THESE EASY (WELL, EASY−ISH) STEPS

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But what is astral projection? The phenomenon is in no way rooted in science, so open your third eyes, dear readers, if you’d like to learn how to transport your consciousness to another plane. Astral projection shouldn’t be confused with out-of-body experiences, although they’re somewhat related— that feeling of floating outside yourself and seeing your body below you, which some p e o p l e re p o r t a f t e r n e a r death experiences. Astral projection is learning to place your consciousness in two places at once: your physical body and your astral body. “[You] must be prepared for this duality of sensation experienced in two different vehicles of consciousness. The astral double possesses its own organs of sensation,” warns Dr. Douglas M. Baker in The Techniques of Astral Projection. Above all, astral projection is an intentional willing of one’s consciousness to another plane; it is a mind exercise one takes on with great design and purpose.

So what is the astral plane? Edain McCoy, in Astral Projection for Beginners, describes it as “ . . . a world in which time and space have no meaning and no influence . . . an ethereal realm that is often perceived as being parallel to and interpenetrating our own physical world, but which remains unseen by the eyes of our normal consciousness.”

Astral projection, then, is a learned technique to send your consciousness to another realm, and retain all experiences and knowledge gained while in this other world.

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friend of mine once told me her grandmother never asked her how her dreams were the night before; instead, she would ask, “Where did you go last night?”

In some cultures, and indeed throughout time, the concept of astral projection has weaved its way through folklore.

As American esotericist Sylvan Muldoon notes in his seminal 1951 work, The Phenomena of Astral Projection, “I found that, in ancient Egypt, in China, Tibet, India and throughout the orient generally, this idea was almost universally accepted, and had been for centuries past.”

KATIE CONLEY

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

There are five forms of astral projection, according to Dr. Baker. In The Techniques of Astral Projection, he breaks them down thusly.

FORM ONE Our normal sleep state.

FORM TWO Projection of the astral self a few feet from the body.

FORM THREE Projection of the astral self to locations miles away, but which are familiar to the projector.

FORM FOUR Depending on how strong your will is, the possibilities are endless. You can journey into the universe with ease.

FORM FIVE Similar to form four, but a Master guides your journey.

The most mentally-taxing of all forms.

“ASTRAL PROJECTION IS OFTEN SUGGESTED BY WAY OF THE PSYCHIC CENTER LOCATED NEAR THE SOLAR PLEXUS, A MAJOR NERVE CENTER IN THE HUMAN BODY, BUT FOR MANY THIS CAN BE AN UNNERVING AND UNSETTLING EXPERIENCE. OTHER SOURCES SUGGEST VISUALIZING YOUR SOUL (OR SPIRIT) RISING OUT OF YOUR BODY LIKE A MIST OR APPEARING AS A SECONDARY BODY ‘OF LIGHT’ NEXT TO YOUR PHYSICAL BODY.” Mark Stavish, Between the Gates: Lucid Dreaming, Astral Projection, and the Body of Light in Western Esotericism

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For our purposes, we’ll be focusing on how to astrally project in the second and third forms, as it’s a bit easier to achieve than forms four and five, which could have you zooming around past Jupiter; once you master the art of astral projection, you can travel greater distances and eventually find an astral yogi to guide your travels. Baby steps, people. Astral projection is a wild, rich subject, and we’d need an entire magazine just to scratch the surface of its history, proponents and techniques. But for now, see if you can travel outside yourself without ever leaving the house, even just for a moment—“staycations” are all the rage these days, after all.

P REPA RIN G F OR AST RA L P R OJEC TI ON Before even entertaining the idea of astral travel, there’s some prep work to undertake. You can’t jump into the astral plane all willy-nilly—that would be absurd. C’mon.

Turn a notebook into an Astral Journal.

You’ll need to note what works and does not.

Locate a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed. If you can’t eliminate sound, try earplugs or soothing instrumental music.

Purchase candles, incense and essential oils for your astral area. Bay oil, rose, jasmine and gardenia are said to promote intensive meditative states.

Have blankets on standby; a cold body can’t retain a meditative state for long.

Choose a meditative pose, one where your spine is as straight as possible.

You’ll have to hold it for an extended period of time, so make sure it’s something comfortable.

Practice daydreaming. If you’re not a creative person and don’t often remember your dreams, you most likely won’t be able to astral project. Get outside your head.

“

ABOVE ALL, ASTRAL PROJECTION IS AN INTENTIONAL WILLING OF ONE'S CONSCIOUSNESS TO ANOTHER PLANE; IT IS A MIND EXERCISE ONE TAKES ON WITH GREAT DESIGN AND PURPOSE.

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Practice meditating. You need to be able to clear your mind and hold a single, focused thought for at least ten minutes before embarking on an astral quest.

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

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H OW TO ASTRA L P R OJECT Ready to begin? Good. Note that astral projection is most successful in the morning, particularly after you’ve just woken up.

Never attempt to project while under mental duress; the only thing stopping you from astral projection is your own mind.

1. Enter a meditative state. Focus on individual areas of your body and imagine the stress melting away from each point.

2. Breathe. Breathe with your diaphragm, not your chest.

Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.

3. Don’t be afraid. Some report uneasy feelings surrounding the separation of your consciousness into two beings. Welcome this separation.

4. Imagine your consciousness as a ball of light, floating up and away from your physical form. Follow this form.

Project your will onto this form.

5. When you reach the astral plane, your thoughts should be effortless. If you feel yourself getting sucked back down to your physical body, don’t fight it. Try again later. You’ll know you’re successful when you’re viewing yourself from above.

6. Start small. Practice going to the other room, then outside your home, to the next street, etc.

Gradually increase your radius.

7. Make note of physical markers on the astral plane. If you feel yourself getting “lost,” they’ll be your guide home. If you can see your silver cord, a luminous rope that ties your physical body to your astral body (not everyone reports this), follow the cord home.

8. Practice. Once you astrally project for the first time, your body will want to return to this state. It becomes easier to project with each new experience.

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e rose early the next morning, tossing our gear loosely into suitcases and duffle bags before loading the rental car up for the 600-kilometer road trip from Barcelona to Madrid. We were headed to see longtime friend and Oil Hunter Founder Feisal Budderman. At a time when most Spanish kids were still mixing tobacco with their weed, these guys were making diamonds and sauce.

I split a Swisher down the middle with my thumbs, letting the tobacco fly out the window as we pulled onto the freeway. Brian frowned. “Are you sure we should be smoking in the car?” he asked nervously, his head on a swivel. “Relaxe, amigo!” I responded. “We are turistas Americanos—what’s the worst that could happen?” As intended, my response did more to distress than to reassure, and I chuckled while puffing the finger-thick blunt to life before passing it to Jessica in the back seat.

Despite my assurances, we were headed into enemy territory. While Barcelona’s views towards cannabis are very liberal, the tale of t h e t wo c i t i e s has always been one of stark

juxtaposition. The five-and-a-half-hour drive through the Spanish countryside passed without incident, however. Rolling umber brown hillsides dotted in green dominated the scenery. Three times I saw the bullet train fly by us at nearly 300 kilometers per hour, lapping us again and again in its relentless trek back and forth between the two cities.

Pulling off the highway, our progress was stopped by a small automated toll booth. €32 later, we were in Madrid. I punched in the address we’d been given as a meeting spot and followed the directions through the twisting maze of narrow one-way roads. Navigating in Spain is never as simple as it appears; many areas require special permits available only to residents. Simply driving down the wrong street could result in a hefty fine.

We finally arrived at a nondescript building, identifiable only by the street numbers. This was a common tactic in Spain, as the clubs operated in a murky space at best. A smiling Feisal greeted us at the door. “Welcome!

Welcome!” he declared in English he’d been polishing just for us.

Feisal had been quietly stacking up awards, and his oil was beginning to demand a premium in Spain—as much as €200 for a single gram of his cup winners in the Barcelona clubs.

Everywhere we went, people treated him like a rock star. He was the real deal in Spain, and we recognized the ambition in each other right away, becoming fast friends in the years since our meeting.

Brushing past the check-in area, we followed him up the stairs to the second-story VIP lounge.

A few dozen Spanish kids were spread around the club playing Fortnite, shooting pool or rolling up at the mini lounges which dotted the floorplan.

I watched heads snap

around as Feisal lit up a dab torch, cranking the flame to full blast. Unlike Barcelona, where anyone who knew the location of a club like Terp Army could pay and become a member, here in Madrid you had to be vetted in by another member. No social media, no signage.

Even the owner, for the purposes of this article, wished to have no name.

We spent the next several hours sampling the local hash and exchanging war stories in bad Spanish and broken English. “Come!” gestured Feisal. “Best seafood in Madrid!” he exclaimed, emphasizing the “i” in Madrid in a way locals often do when speaking with excitement. If there was one thing I’d learned about Feisal over the years, it was that the man knew how to eat. We jumped into the cab behind him, eager for another trip down the rabbit hole.

The taxi stopped at Umiko, a Japanese fusion restaurant located in the heart of Madrid. “The best seafood in Spain comes from a Japanese restaurant?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.

Feisal smiled. “Trust me, bro,” he said with a wink. “We smoke a little bit, then we eat. Trust me, you will see,” he promised, beckoning us a few yards down to a gigantic set of double wooden doors.

Feisal produced a rolling paper, and I grimaced as he began to spread tobacco across it. “Better in public this way,” he explained, making a waving motion in front of his nose to indicate the smell may be a problem.

I could see Brian squirming a bit. Searches in Spain required nothing more than suspicion, and coming out of a known cannabis club was often suspicious enough. Provisions in the law, however, required a warrant issued by a judge before a search of the undergarments, and many locals had taken to hiding their stash in their underwear.

Feisal produced a container of full-melt hash from his pocket and began sprinkling it lavishly over the tobacco until only a few strands were

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to the Dr. Feis Grow Shop for a quick sesh before loading up in Feisal’s Audi RS 3. The rebuilt engine was putting out 450 horsepower on the dyno. I saw what the local police were driving, and they weren’t catching this. Akin to the rum runner cars of old, she was built to go fast. A €3,000 radar system ensured there would be no run-ins with police.

At speeds that rivaled the bullet train, we turned the hour-long trip to the castle city of Toledo into a brisk 30-minute drive. Encircled by massive stone walls, Toledo was declared a World Heritage site in 1986, and it was easy to see why. Known as Spain’s “Imperial City,” it now serves as a living time capsule, home to some 83,000 Spaniards who reside inside the ancient buildings, some of which date back to as early as 50 BCE. The city was famous for their production of edged weapons, and we spent the day smoking hash-covered spliffs, sampling the local sangria and shopping for bladed souvenirs in the town’s many steel shops.

As day turned into dusk we returned to Madrid, bidding farewell to Feisal before ditching the rental car at the airport and heading for the local train station. I’d spent some time living in Chicago and was no stranger to the train, but this was something more akin to an airport than a train station. Securing our tickets for the evening bullet to Barcelona, we headed off for the demarcation point.

Rounding the corner, my heart dropped; we were caught in the flow of traffic shuffling directly towards a small security team manning an X-ray machine. My eyes quickly scanned for a trash can, but found none. Partially unzipping my suitcase, I fished for our stash with one hand. We were a few feet from security now and beginning to lose the cover of the

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poking through. I took a deep pull from his creation; the harsh taste of tobacco, obscured by the smoothness of the hash, provided an instant head change.

Feisal was rolling a second spliff and passed it around when I felt a tug. “Police!” Jessica exclaimed in a hushed tone. My head jerked around to catch three Spanish police officers in full uniform, 30 yards out, strolling boldly towards us down the middle of the one-way lane. My heart jumped in my throat as I turned to Feisal, who had not heard Jessica’s warning and was still puffing away in idle conversation with Brian. “Polícia!” I all but shouted. We were trapped. A phalanx of abutted buildings ran the length of the narrow lane on both sides, offering no escape but to turn and run further down the corridor. Our smoke had been trapped in a similar fashion and was settled in the still air in front of us.

Feisal stiffened at my warning, dropping the spliff behind him and taking a step back to cover it with his foot, his complexion turning pale as we waited for the cops to be upon us.

I pulled out my phone. “Selfie!” I exclaimed loudly in my clearest English, doing my best to imitate the excited energy of a 13-year-old girl.

Following my lead, the group struck a pose and I extended my arm out, snapping a barrage of pictures as the three cops passed. “Danger, bro,” a smiling Feisal whispered as they moved out of range. As promised, the food at Umiko was unsurpassed; we soon found ourselves in the middle of a 13-course masterpiece prepared and plated by chef Pablo from his tableside station. Our mixed crews ate and drank late into the night.

Rising with the sun the next morning, we collected our rental car and shot across town

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

crowd ahead of us. Finally, my fingers closed on the small bag and I shoved it quickly into my jacket pocket as our turn came up. The woman operating the machine looked around from her chair, examining me as I hefted the heavy bags one by one.

“Jackets, too!” she said sternly, pointing to me. I groaned inside. “Yes, ma’am.” I took the jacket off, laying it over my arm as I loaded the last of the bags. Something on the screen caught her eye and she turned away from me, motioning for the guards. This was my moment. Sidestepping the machine, I placed my jacket on the exit conveyor, collecting it with the first of our bags. “Sir!” My heart jumped for the third time in as many minutes. Turning, I faced the largest of the guards, who was now standing behind the woman at the X-ray machine, beckoning for me to return. This was it, I thought. What a story it would make, written from my Spanish jail cell.

The guard seemed puzzled: “You seem to have a large knife in your luggage, sir?” In my hurry to secure our meds, I’d neglected the oversized espada from the steel shop in Toledo, its 12-inch blade now emblazoned clearly on the security monitor.

A quick check of our receipts and I was cleared to go. Jessica shook her head as I fell in behind her and Brian. “Cutting it a little close?” she asked. “Viva la Spain!” I replied, raising the bottle of vodka we’d picked up for the train ride.

“Viva la Spain,” she echoed, her tone sarcastic but relieved.

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ELIGIBILITY Dope Shots (“Photo Contest”) is open to all professional and amateur photographers who have reached 21 years of age at the time of entry. By submitting an entry to the Photo Contest, entrants certify that their submission in the Photo Contest gives DOPE Magazine the right to publish this photo. DOPE will provide artist credits. By entering, you agree to release and hold harmless DOPE and affiliates from and against any claim or cause of action arising out of participation in the Photo Contest.

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THE PEOPLE Prior to 2012, small business accountant Carol Ehrhart and veterinary technician Alissa Taylor had never even considered working with cannabis, let alone owning their own pot shop. As a lesbian couple, they were heavily involved in advocating for referendum 74, which would legalize same-sex marriage in Washington state, the same year Initiative 502 was on the ballot. “After the election,” Ehrhart recalls, “Alyssa and I were joking, ‘Okay, we can get married—now let’s open a pot shop.’” The joke evolved into something more as Ehrhart started crunching numbers, and in December 2013 they applied for the lottery to become one of Washington state’s first recreational pot shops. Discouraged by the rental properties available to them, Ehrhart and Taylor built a shop called 4:20 Friendly on their own property instead, where they act as cannabis ambassadors for new arrivals from the nearby Spokane Airport.

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THERE’S NOTHING THAT MAKES US FEEL BETTER THAN TALKING WITH A CUSTOMER OR PATIENT THAT HAS SEEN LIFE IMPROVEMENT BECAUSE OF THEIR INTRODUCTION TO CANNABIS. – CAROL EHRHART, 4:20 FRIENDLY CO-OWNER

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THE PLACE Due to size constraints, they had to fully maximize every square inch of the building.

Their flowering rooms, for example, utilize custom rolling tables that run the entire length of the building, allowing them to eliminate aisles between rows. They also had to switch up the typical model for cloning and pheno-hunting. Rather than having a dedicated area where “mothers” grow into enormous bushes, they’ve devised a system where cuttings are taken and the host plant is actually allowed to flower out with the rest of the crop. All this means they’re constantly moving; they move a new crop in and take down a harvest every week.

THE PRODUCT But for Sunny and the crew, it’s about quality first and foremost. They keep their product pesticide-free with the use of biocontrols such as “beneficial bugs,” and techniques like heavy defoliation (cutting away all but the largest, uppermost buds) to prevent contamination and mold. “We cycle through about fifteen strains at a time,” explains Sunny, pointing out some of their current Khush Kush original genetics: Blueberry Scone, White Grape Stomper and Brandywine, a strain that took the 2017 DOPE Cup for Best Indica-Dominant.

When asked what he looks for when developing a strain, Sunny answers, “The fruitier the better—we go for terpenes, smells . . . When you touch every single plant, you don’t miss anything. The quality of your product all depends on your moral compass. You have a question? How about you come by, we’ll feed you lunch and show you what we do and why.” He motions to his crew and says, “These guys can look at a bud and tell you exactly what it is and how it was grown. Real recognizes real.”

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Khush is a Hindi/Punjabi word meaning happiness. And kush, as many know, is slang for cannabis. But the word kush actually references India’s Kush Mountains and the indicas that have been grown there for millennia.

D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

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THE QUALITY OF YOUR PRODUCT ALL DEPENDS ON YOUR MORAL COMPASS. YOU HAVE A QUESTION? HOW ABOUT YOU COME BY, WE’LL FEED YOU LUNCH AND SHOW YOU WHAT WE DO AND WHY. – SUNNY SAINI, KHUSH KUSH CO-OWNER

”

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When it comes to cannabis, safety is essential. Driving under the influence is illegal—and it’s also dangerous. Cannabis can impair judgment, alertness, and reaction time. And driving while under the influence could lead to harmful—possibly deadly—collisions. Which could mean significant legal penalties for you. By choosing a safer ride, you can keep yourself— and others on the road—out of harm’s way.

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D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

O

ur guide through the rainforest leads barefoot. She snaps bamboo shoots from the trailside and whittles them to make toys as we switchback up the mountainside. At the summit, she even fashions a selfie-stick from hairbands and a branch to take group photos. The backdrop is just one arm of Cheow Lan Lake in Thailand’s Khao Sok National Park, which looked impressive enough at water level. From up here, however, I can see still, blue-green waters swerving along muddied orange coastlines and tiers upon tiers of lush vegetation obscuring all but the most vertical, orangestreaked cliffsides.

Our last stop in civilization. Roadside stands sell wholeroasted peanuts in the sweltering heat, somewhere between Cheow Lan and the kitschy national park village. The harsh penalties imposed on drug possession in Thailand do little to stop the growth of international weed culture here, particularly in tourist areas, where reggae bars and pot leaf iconography abound. Out of caution, I don’t seek the stuff out, but as we’re boarding a taxi in Phuket, I can’t help but catch a whiff from our driver’s hand-rolled “cigarette.”

At the word “marijuana,” he grins and reaches for a thick folder from the glovebox, stuffed with a kilo of stringy, brown, tobacco-esque bud. I deny his offer to buy some, but gladly accept an improvised joint, which proves a tad too spliffy for my taste.

For now, I skip the souvenirs and load back into the tour van to meet my fellow travelers. Our last stop before the lake is to pick up our guide, a short and stout Thai woman named Pah. Our longtail boat leaves the dock and cuts through the emerald water. The limestone cliffs looming all around give the impression of being in the mouth of some gargantuan creature, its jagged teeth shrouded in dense, green plaque and deep-rooted cavities.

Despite being within Southern Thailand’s largest area of virgin rainforest, this natural wonder is at least partially manmade. In 1982, Pah tells us, the Thai government began construction on Rajjaprabha Dam for electricity and irrigation purposes, and in 1987 they paid to resettle almost 400 families before flooding 185 square kilometers of the Khlong Saeng river basin. Today, barren treetops still poke up through the lake’s shallow waters as evidence of the submerged rainforests below.

The boat docks at a floating ranger’s station in one cove of the labyrinthine lake. We tromp across rickety planks to the bamboo bungalows where we’ll be sleeping—each just large enough to fit two twin-sizeded mattresses and a shelf to set belongings on. We settle in a bit before diving off the unmanned lifeguard tower. The next few hours are ours to float near the dock or kayak around to neighboring islands, where the forests grow too thick to penetrate.

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“

TAYS AT S P U O R G E TOUR H T N I ANGING H E C N X O E Y .

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D O P E M AGA Z I N E .CO M

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After our hike we motor back from the trailhead at dusk, the scenery growing richer with waning light. Pah sits at the bow, weaving rattan rings and calling back to the sinewy longtail captain for consult in her search for wildlife. It doesn’t take long. High above the tree line, a lone black gibbon clings to a coconut palm with long, clawed, sloth-like arms, then leaps to disappear in the canopies.

At a beach around the corner, a troop of longtailed macaques fight for dominance, then scurry for the trees at our approach. Through the leaves I can see one bouncing on a branch to claim its territory, and another peeling fruit to feed its pink-faced infant. Still barefoot, Pah hops ashore and, doing her best macaque impression, grabs some of the same fruit for us to try. “Who’s the king of the jungle here?” asks one of our group, an overtalkative Dutchman who must have watched The Lion King one too many times. “Me,” replies Pah, by this point my new personal hero.

Back at the bungalows, our dinner includes sliced dragon fruit, onion tempura, Massaman curry and whole fried fish. Everyone in the tour group stays at the table for hours afterward, exchanging travel stories, sipping Singha beer and laughing at a Bollywood soap on TV, received via a satellite made from old plastic bottles. The local Thais do much the same at the next table over, albeit with SangSom rum rather than beer.

The next morning, as others complain of sleeplessness and spiders in their bungalow, I stretch out from my best sleep in weeks, only to be interrupted by the wake of an arriving longtail boat. Outside the sliding bamboo door, pond skaters zip across the lake’s glassy surface. It’s so still I can see the ripple from my toes spread further and further from the dock.

We’re due to leave at lunchtime.

Shortly before that, however, I step through a gaping hole in the floorboards, plummeting to one knee with a shoe in the water before I can even register what’s happened. It takes some maneuvering to free myself, so that when I do, it’s already time to go. Saying goodbye before the last longtail ride is hard, but I bring back one of Pah’s bamboo whirly-copters with me, a palm-leaf pinky ring, a bee sting on one leg, and a few good scrapes on the other— my souvenirs.

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rtist Nathan Belmont created the “Robo Recycler” in late January 2018. He came up with the idea while walking through the toy section of a store, thinking how fun it would be to make a piece evoking that same feeling of excitement as a kid with a new toy.

He wanted to make a piece that was playful and showed movement, and added some ultraviolet sections, which glow under black lights.

This piece is Belmont’s first sculptural recycler, marking a milestone in his career as a glass artist. It’s a piece that will always be special to him. “Robo Recycler” isn’t currently available—a lucky collector swooped it up already.

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