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He said he used only organic fertilizers, such as chicken manure, and absolutely no chemical fertilizers, herbicides or pesticides.

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We were in a rental car because Doktah and Soldier, like most Jamaican ganja growers, don’t have easy access to reliable fossil fuel transportation.Global warming, urbanization and deforestation have decreased rainfall in Jamaica, making life harder for rural growers.Soldier breeds male and females away from the main crop, with newspaper around them to prevent pollen contamination and drift.I found it ironic that a Jamaican guy with seven-foot dreadlocks, without equipment or electricity, without anything artificial, on a remote mountainside, was growing plants that were absolutely disease-free and pest-free.Doktah and the rest of us searched the nearly-ripe buds of dozens of plants, looking for pests and diseases.They had carried tons of rich soil, manure, cisterns, water, and other supplies up the cliffs ? They cleared rocks, and where rocks used to be, they hollowed the earth and made soil beds bounded by rocks arranged in miniature walls to keep soil and water from running downhill. Almost all the seeds were from plants grown within a five-mile radius of the garden.

Doktah struggled to name the varieties he was growing. ” But he had no idea what strains they really were, and there was no objective way to determine if he was growing anything that could be directly related to “authentic” Jamaican Sativa genetics from the 1960’s and 70’s, varieties generally referred to as “Lambsbread,” or “Collieweed.” Doktah’s plants were no more than four feet tall; most were much shorter.

The road to the jungle rose up from the azure Caribbean, through shanty towns and bustling way stations, past vast sugarcane fields green with life or black from post-harvest burning.

Our ganja garden guides sat in our rental car smoking torpedo-shaped Jamaican spliffs as the road twisted and turned, their mahogany-toned fingers stained by cannabis resins.

Every time we went over a bump or pothole, which was every few seconds, a wrenching sound made us fear an axle would break or a wheel would fall off. Three of us started the journey while Soldier drove away.

Accompanying Doktah and I was Bubbleman, the Canadian entrepreneur whose “bubblebags” help people make hashish. Vines, lime trees, and humid mountain air made for hard going. Embedded in its sharp bone-white rocks were fossils and other remnants of an ancient seabed.

I counted three distinct varieties in the garden, including pink-haired beauties that were only two feet high but were solid flower from the ground up.