Pubdate: Sun, 9 May 2010
Source: Observer, The (UK)
Copyright: 2010 Guardian News and Media Limited
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Details: 
Author: Ed Vulliamy, The Observer
Photo: Jim Hill in his greenhouse where he and his wife Trelanie grow 
medical marijuana. [Sarah Baldik for the Observer] 

Bookmark:  (Cannabis - California)

COULD MARIJUANA SAVE CALIFORNIA?

In the 60s hippies fled to the backwoods of northern California to 
grow pot. There they have been joined by growers of 'medical 
marijuana' - available with a doctor's recommendation - as well as by 
Mexican drug cartels. With cannabis now its largest cash crop, the 
state will soon vote on whether to legalise it fully - and even 
Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger is thinking the enormous tax revenues 
might just solve his budget deficit...

'When I see that, it's like looking at a shed full of cows. I see a 
whole lot of work," says Jim Hill, opening the little gate into his 
humid greenhouse in which a forest of marijuana grows, and from which 
a pungent, heady scent exudes at gale force.

Not work as in hard labour, emphasises Hill - though there is a bit 
of that - but expertise growing some of the most potent weed on the planet.

Nearby there are vineyards and horses graze the sun-stroked farmland, 
but this verdant hillside near the town of Potter Valley in northern 
California lies in an area called the Emerald Triangle: three 
counties bordered by mountains to the east and the Pacific to the 
west that connect the lyrical terrain north of San Francisco with the 
wilderness of the Oregon state line. This breathtakingly beautiful 
corner of earth is the marijuana capital of the western hemisphere 
thanks to three conspiring factors: its perfect climate; the 
pervading culture; and topography - this is a maze of mountain dirt 
roads, locked access gates, isolated villages, secluded slopes and 
wooded glades, far from prying eyes.

Jim Hill, however, is a respectable figure - neither old stoner nor 
criminal - and he is not afraid to show off his working practices. 
"You're just going to have to smell of weed for the rest of the 
week," he jokes as we clamber through his greenhouse. "Squeeze this," 
he enthuses, "take a sniff, feel the nice, rich oily texture..."

Ninety-eight per cent of growers would not think this sight possible 
in late April, he says, indicating the succulent, ripe buds oozing 
heavy on the branch. "You're looking at icebergs in July." Hill has 
worked out what to plant when: he talks about daylight hours at this 
latitude, "plant efficiency" and above all cross-pollination. And no 
wonder: his other business and passion is as a breeder of greyhounds. 
He shows me a video of one of his dogs streaking from penultimate 
place in a big race in Phoenix to win.

"Now, we develop and cross-breed different strands of marijuana," he 
beams. He talks about indica and sativa plants, about kush and his 
own speciality, scarecrow. "Just look at those purple leaves," he 
says. "You should see the messages of gratitude I get from my 
patients for this."

Not every law enforcement officer here in Mendocino County would 
agree - for the law here is labyrinthine - but Hill is operating 
legally. In 1996, following the comfortable success of a referendum 
on what was called Proposition 215, California passed its 
Compassionate Use Act, which allows patients with a doctor's 
"recommendation" (it is not a prescription) to cultivate and possess 
marijuana for personal use.

The act was subsequently expanded to help create a network of 
collectivised dispensaries. At first a handful appeared, now there 
are thousands, some small and dingy, others deluxe. In the city of 
Oakland, there is an entire neighbourhood called "Oaksterdam", which 
boasts a college for the study of cannabis growing as well as a range 
of dispensaries (one, called Blue Sky, offers arguably the world's 
biggest selection of different strains).

Jim Hill started growing marijuana because of its medicinal 
properties - his wife, Trelanie, suffered from a serotonin imbalance 
and he believed it could help her. Now his crop is destined for 
dispensaries in San Diego and Los Angeles. "It was the attitude of 
the government, hassling me, that turned me into an advocate."

Even here, cannabis cannot be grown for profit or sold, so what keeps 
Hill's greenhouse legal is that the marijuana itself is owned "not by 
me but the collective" - the First Choice Collective, it is called. 
Its 1,200 members will have been "recommended" marijuana by a doctor. 
To be legal, subsequent transactions take place within a closed loop. 
"All I sell," says Hill, "are my services." According to the law, the 
collective and its members "remunerate" Hill - he is not paid 
commercially. But he makes a tidy living.

If only the same could be said of the Californian economy.

It may be the eighth largest in the world, but the state government 
has issued IOUs and unemployment is at its highest for 70 years.

In his final budget in January, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger 
proposed what he called "draconian" spending cuts aimed at fixing a 
$19.9bn (UKP13bn) budget deficit.

He has said previously he would welcome a public debate on proposals 
to legalise and tax marijuana to help plug that hole.

Tax revenues from medical marijuana (amounting to roughly $200m) 
barely scratch the surface of what might be raised, given that 
marijuana is now by far the largest cash crop in what used to be 
known as the Orange State. It is this that has made an unlikely 
bedfellow of the actor who played the Terminator and those who might 
feel themselves closer in spirit to Dennis Hopper's character in Easy Rider.

In November - now that a referendum "initiative" has attracted 
sufficient signatures - there will be a state ballot on whether 
California should fully legalise marijuana.

This will bring an industry worth an estimated $10bn in Mendocino 
County alone into the mainstream economy. "The state of California is 
in a very, very precipitous economic plight," Democratic state 
assemblyman Tom Ammiano, who introduced the legislation, said 
recently. "It's in the toilet... With any revenue ideas, people say 
you have to think outside the box, you have to be creative."

It is in this context that someone who embodies the spirit of 
Californian entrepreneurship can hope to prosper.

Jim Hill is rightly proud of his expertise - "No one else is growing 
this stuff to the level we are here. I'm tellin' ya, we're good at 
this" - and growers in Mendocino County talk about the eventual 
"appellation" of marijuana (a system akin to that used in France and 
elsewhere to identify the best wines). Benign he might be, but Hill 
can see the potential. "What California does, the world tries to 
follow 20 years later," he says. "That's just the way it is. The 
seeds of alternative culture and digital technology were here and now 
it's marijuana."

But Hill represents only one side of this story.

In the counties of Mendocino, Humboldt and Trinity, different forces 
are involved, some that represent another strain of California's 
founding optimism, and others much darker.

There is no mystery as to how northern California has become the Napa 
Valley of marijuana while other products "made in the USA" wither on 
the vines of deindustrialisation and recession.

During the 60s, San Francisco was famously the capital of an 
experimental drug culture, when cannabis and LSD were ingredients in 
an earnest imaginative adventure. At the time of the Summer of Love 
in 1967, marijuana arrived largely from Asia, with some produced 
locally by motorcycle gangs, including the Hells Angels, in what is 
now the Emerald Triangle.

In the years that followed, as the dream turned sour around 
Haight-Ashbury, an exodus began of hippies and disillusioned Vietnam 
vets. They moved north to settle what became known as "the Lost 
Coast". From the mid-70s onwards, these communities became 
established - I remember touring them - with their vintage Volkswagen 
buses, coloured banners and totem poles on the land. And of course, 
in this climatically benign and secluded wilderness, they planted 
what they needed and liked to smoke.

But for a second time, they were pursued.

Seekers of the new dawn were soon joined by farmers with an eye for 
business, by motorbike gangs affiliated to criminal distribution 
channels in the big cities and, latterly, by Mexican narco-cartels. 
Now they face new arrivals: agribusiness, big pharmaceutical 
companies and possibly tobacco giants. (The RJ Reynolds Tobacco 
Company, which makes Camel cigarettes, dismisses as "rumours and 
speculation" reports that it is about to buy up tranches of land.)

People of the counterculture - there are still many here, growing a 
little marijuana legally and perhaps practising herbal medicine 
professionally - as well as savvy growers like Jim Hill, now find 
themselves cultivating their crops alongside farmers who would never 
touch the stuff themselves. Criminal syndicates that grow their crops 
in buried freight containers, for example, and others who hire armed 
guards to oversee their "trimming" operations.

Tensions take root: between legal and illegal growers; between those 
who grow their cannabis naturally and outdoors and those who 
mass-cultivate under lights; between those who grow organically, with 
an emphasis on quality, and those who use fertilisers or cause diesel 
spillage from their hydroponic hothouses, with an emphasis on 
quantity. Plus, of course, between big interests at opposite ends of 
the spectrum: vicious cartels and syndicates making best use of an 
illegal market while it lasts, and the big tobacco and pharma 
companies salivating at the thought of legalisation.

Local and state authorities are sorely tempted to see some of the 
marijuana money through regulation and taxation.

But for the same reason, opponents of cannabis are extremely wary, 
and California's marijuana laws are endlessly being jostled over and 
amended at county level, and can even be contradicted outright at 
federal level, so that the spirit and letter of law combine into a 
kaleidoscope of plant limits and rules on transportation and remuneration.

Jim Hill is forever getting caught between the layers of the law. 
Mendocino County passed a "Measure G" allowing growers to cultivate 
up to 25 plants per parcel of land, but that was cut back by a 
"Measure B". Hill grows substantially more than 25, insisting that 
"county law can't pre-empt state law - which sets no limit". 
Meanwhile, agents from the federal Drug Enforcement Administration 
(DEA) arrived at Hill's farm one morning last October to enforce 
national law. "They were very nice guys. They said 'we've come to cut 
down all your plants,'" recalls Hill. The federal charges were 
dismissed - making fewer headlines in the local press than when they 
were levelled.

Hill is no hippy - he wears a smart yellow golf shirt - but he is a 
supporter of legalisation who takes a surprising line on the role of 
the cartels and criminal gangs up in mountains.

To his mind, cannabis is a battleground on which you cannot always 
choose your allies. "It's like paedophile priests in the Catholic 
church," he says. "I don't accept it when the church says, 'oh, 
they're not good Christians', because the church knows it's going to 
have to count their votes against the atheists one day. And that's 
how it is for us with the Mexican cartels. The cartels are breaking 
the system, and it's a system that's got to be broken."

Marvin Levin of the Mendocino Farmers Collective, which grows 
high-quality organic marijuana, takes a different position, wanting 
"nothing to do with people whose interests and ties are in selling 
this stuff for profit, and not growing it right, whether they're the 
men with guns in the woods, or pharmaceutical companies or big 
tobacco. We're nothing to do with people growing for Goldman Sachs 
with 100 grow lights, or the mafia."

The politics and economy of the Emerald Triangle come inevitably to 
be dominated by its most famous, ubiquitous and potentially lucrative 
product. When you wake up in the county seat of Ukiah ("haiku" spelt 
backwards, as locals point out), the scent of marijuana hangs heavy 
on the dewy mist that rolls off the mountains.

Among the morning newspapers is the latest edition of West Coast 
Leaf, "the cannabis newspaper of record", with pictures of men in 
suits poring over plants and pages of adverts for 
marijuana-specialist lawyers, "medical cannabis valuations", "the 
pre-rolled MediCone cannabis delivery system", and Organicann, "the 
best medibles [marijuana edibles] on the planet. Whether it's savoury 
pot pies, robust infused tea or delectable cookies."

Mendocino is the county for which Dan Hamburg is campaigning to be 
supervisor - a role akin to county council chairman - with a fair 
chance of success.

His wife, Carrie, joins our discussion. It was her experience of 
cancer, which pot "made just about bearable", that persuaded Hamburg 
to position himself behind the cause of medical marijuana.

Hamburg lives on a hillside, past solar panels that power his wooden 
house, with a thumbed encyclopedia on a lectern in the hallway.

He was, from 1992 to 1994, congressman for northern California on 
Capitol Hill. In the past, his political enemies have endeavoured to 
use his Californian good looks and intelligent, easy manner against 
him - as well as his history of campaigning for the decriminalisation 
of marijuana - but it rarely worked.

"People ask me, 'Are you the growers' candidate?'" he says. "I reply, 
'It depends which growers.' I'd like to think I was a candidate for 
small, legal, medical growers, but not a big indoor growers' 
candidate. I think marijuana should be grown organically and in the 
sun, not under grow-lights." An environmental consultant by 
profession, he says, "I'm against the noise and diesel spills that 
indoor growing involves. I'm extremely wary of big tobacco taking 
over the growing of marijuana because the quality would go down. 
We've heard of tobacco companies preparing to buy land near here, and 
I sure am not their candidate."

Among Hamburg's opponents, he says, are interests not involved in 
marijuana growing. "Their problem? That the marijuana crop is so 
successful, it's driving up wages. People can't pay their labourers 
the minimum pay, when the pot trimmers are earning upwards of $20 an hour."

Hamburg intends to drive a wedge "between legalisation and 
decriminalisation. I favour the latter. No, I don't think 
schoolchildren should smoke it. What we are aiming for is people to 
be able to grow marijuana, take it to a place where it can be tested 
for quality, and for the consumer and the grower to benefit."

This is a position that finds sympathy with another important member 
of the local community.

Bert Mosier arrived to become president of the Greater Ukiah Chamber 
of Commerce from Kansas, where he had been an economic development 
officer at county level.

We meet in America's first organic brewpub. "This is a county where 
the economy was built on lumber, which went into decline, to be 
replaced by fishing, which has also declined," he explains. "In that 
situation, marijuana is the big dead fish in the middle of the room - 
everyone talks about it, but people are afraid to get out of the 
comfort zone. It's impossible to calculate how much it's worth, or 
the exact impact of an underground economy. But I've heard estimates 
of $10.6bn." He emphasises the importance of the marijuana economy to 
the local economy as a whole. "Businesses have told me that the 
marijuana crop is the difference between staying open and going 
bankrupt - no, not just the smoke shops and tie-dye: these are 
restaurants and stores.

"All I'm saying is that I want this county to succeed and I'll join 
the conversation, and remain in the middle," he continues. "Though of 
course, those opposed to pot say that to join the conversation in the 
middle is not neutral at all, but an endorsement."

Marijuana country, and marijuana culture, are not lands of milk and 
honey. For some they may be paradise, but there is a price to pay for 
paradise. One day, that price may be the arrival of executives from 
Philip Morris, RJ Reynolds and British American Tobacco; from Pfizer, 
Johnson & Johnson and Roche. But for now, the price is paid in crime 
- big crime, and the petty crime it causes.

Each morning around 7am, a group of itinerants with matted hair, in 
ragged clothes, clutching their belongings, gathers outside Walmart 
in Ukiah. One particular group has come from St Louis, Missouri, to 
wait for trucks that arrive and take them up to work as trimmers on 
the bigger marijuana farms. In the evening, they hang around encamped 
by the river, littering the banks and smoking their payment in kind.

They don't like to talk much about where they are going and have 
been: a boy called Skip does say that they sometimes work on farms 
"in the forest" under armed guard.

These are "a ways up, in the mountains," he says, along winding dirt 
roads in thick woodland and deep valleys over which Drug Enforcement 
Administration helicopters fly, and into which patrols sometimes 
venture to make arrests.

These are marijuana farms that do not entertain reporters, the kinds 
of growers who keep their distance from Dan Hamburg and Bert Mosier, 
and vice versa.

According to California's Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement, organised 
crime has moved into the marijuana business in the north of the state 
in different guises.

The most recent arrivals are gangs affiliated to the Mexican Sinaloa 
and Arellano-Felix cartels, who send illegal migrant workers into 
remote and unguarded slopes and canyons on public parkland to 
cultivate marijuana.

On almost "every raid" into such places, "we find weapons", says the 
bureau's spokeswoman, Michelle Gregory. Since California's economic 
crisis has forced cuts in the park service, covert planting has 
become easier off hiking trials through the state's 31 million acres 
of public wilderness. Much of the cartels' activity, says a law 
enforcement source, involves hijacking other people's marijuana, or 
armed invasion of the homes of growers who are then reluctant to call 
in the police.

Other criminal syndicates are hangovers from the original 
dope-growers in the region, the Hells Angels, who - having serviced 
the Bay Area in the 60s - never went away. But they did change, and 
adapt; they streamlined, says a DEA source, developing their 
cultivation methods "to grow dope that's strong but growable in bulk" 
and establishing criminal distribution networks throughout urban gangland.

Tom Allman is sheriff of Mendocino County, and has served 28 years in 
law enforcement. We meet at his office at 7am, between appointments, 
and he tells a funny story about a British military guest he hosted 
at an event held by the National Rifle Association ("If it wasn't for 
the British, we'd never have needed a Second Amendment!"). Allman 
also draws a line between who is growing what in Mendocino County. 
"The problem," he says, "is not old hippies. Marijuana has always 
been part of life around here, and they're harmless. But we've also 
got the Mexicans, the Russians and Bulgarians - with guns. They're 
organised, plus people from Italy, England, Germany get in on this. 
They come, stay a year, and move to a different county. Where there 
are drugs, there is crime. That's the problem."

He recalls how "one time we busted a guy - you know those freight 
containers that trucks pull around? Well, this guy had eight of 'em 
buried underground and arranged like this around an underground water 
supply." Allman draws a pattern like the petals of flower. "He had 
8,000 plants. This kind of thing is happening all over - big 
hydroponic operations in a county of only 90,000 people... In 2009, 
we destroyed 541,000 plants, which means there are about 5 million 
illegal plants we do not get, using 4 to 5 million gallons of water a 
day," he adds. "Try telling that to the environmentalists."

Allman is also concerned about the "tourism" that might follow 
legalisation in November. "If that thing passes, it'll be like 
America got tilted to one side and every degenerate in the country 
not bolted down is going to drift here." He makes the point that 
marijuana in Mendocino County can sell for as little as $1,500 a 
pound. "In Georgia, it's $4,200 a pound. Think about it."

The previous morning, at my motel, a wild couple were loading up 
their car which had Tennessee plates, the scent hanging heavy over 
the parking lot. The man's ranting was for all to hear. "Yeah, there 
was blood all over the floor, but I got some shit from out of my 
head!" These presumably are the sort of tourists of whom Allman is wary.

For someone like Allman, the situation as it stands at the moment, 
with the law constantly subject to revision, can be frustrating. "I 
have officers who are leaving the police, saying they just can't be 
cops any more, having to walk out of houses leaving all those 
plants," he says. "Even I get a little tired of being sued and having 
people come in here with court orders and I have to give them back 
their marijuana. I've never yet had to give back to anyone in a 
wheelchair, but I've often had to give plants back to some kid of college age."

He goes to his computer and pulls up the website potdoc.com, noting 
its ethos with disdain. "You go to a doctor who asks if you have $200 
in your pocket and from then on, you're self-medicating, for whatever 
ailment you say you got."

Later on the same day, Sheriff Allman joins 200 others from the 
county, most of them marijuana growers, who pack themselves into the 
venue of Ukiah's Saturday Afternoon Club from lunchtime until way 
past dark. These growers have set aside their shovels - even on the 
first sunny Saturday in months, badly needed to prepare for the 
growing season - to drive for hours from places with names like 
Spyrock and Whale Gulch. Cannabis workers, medical marijuana patients 
and "cannabusiness" owners mingle, too, with government officials, 
political candidates and representatives of business.

This novel event is organised by the Mendocino Medical Marijuana 
Advisory Board and the Cannabis Law Institute, and has been convened 
to discuss what happens if California votes to legalise marijuana. 
And here they are in one place: these Vietnam-era pioneers of pot 
returned from the war, who headed for the hills to create the finest 
cannabis strains in the world and who today face a new enemy in the 
crosshairs of agribusiness, big pharma, big tobacco and the 
possibility of marijuana monoculture following legalisation.

At one table, beefy guys with buzz-cuts and folded arms exude the 
wariness of life under the radar: in hushed tones, 
ex-loggers-turned-ganja-farmers talk about shakedowns and sawn-off 
padlocks. One asks those at his table to respond to a question from a 
workshop survey: "What assets do we bring to this industry?" 
"Seizable ones," responds another man, his voice rife with sarcasm. 
There is laughter, but no one smiles. "This county is third in the 
nation for seized assets," says a third man.

"I have relatives who buy cannabis in LA," says another, "but the 
strains are depleted. It looks and smells like the real thing, but 
it's so bad the dispensaries are issuing refunds!"

"If I shared my seeds with you," someone challenges, "how do I know 
you're not gonna sell out to Monsanto?"

Two people in the audience have especially interesting things to say. 
The first is Dan Rush, special operations director for UFCW5, the 
north California branch of America's third largest trade union, 
United Food and Commercial Workers. "Schools are closing. Police 
officers are being laid off. If government opposes legalisation, 
they've lost their minds," says Rush. He claims that his union 
represents 1,200 cannabis workers in the Bay area.

Sheriff Allman chats informally to people he knows.

He then appears, speaking to camera, in a film shown to the meeting, 
in which he insists: "I'm not saying that marijuana is this innocent 
little herb that doesn't affect people, but it doesn't have the 
serious impact on society that other serious problems do. I'm 
spending 30 per cent of my time on marijuana. There's other things I 
need to be doing." The audience, which has found itself watching 
Allman watching himself on screen, breaks into unabashed applause. 
"We'll hold him to his views," whispers one man, adding that he 
already respects the sheriff for once extracting a woman from a 
burning car with his bare hands.

Eight long hours later, Dan Rush from the union helps fold away the 
chairs and a man with a mop of silver-grey hair loads a last item 
into his truck - a painting of the earth with the slogan: "Respect 
the land for future generations. Organic outdoor." Then he climbs 
aboard and drives back up Highway 101 - to a place he runs called Area 101.

The road north from Ukiah cuts through a breathtaking landscape of 
mountain meadows coloured luminous green by heavy rain this year. In 
the town of Willits ("Gateway to the Redwoods"), Roxie's Rock Shop 
advertises a tool called a Mendo Mulcher, which grinds marijuana buds 
into a fluffy, smokeable form - reportedly designed by a Nasa 
engineer. Stands of oak trees give way to conifers and wilder 
country, where the local newspaper is the Anderson Valley Advertiser, 
which, with its blocks of close print, looks as it might have done in 
1900. The slogan on the masthead promises it's been "Fanning the 
flames of discontent", and articles about President Obama's foreign 
policy sit besides tales of local cannabis growers' brushes with the law.

Just past the farm where Wavy Gravy - compere of the Woodstock 
Festival in 1969 - holds an annual Earth Dance event, outbuildings 
with alien spaceships, a moonrise and Buddhist deities painted in 
fluorescent colours announce you've reached Area 101. The name is a 
play on the number of the route we've driven and on Area 51, the 
counterculture name for an airforce base in Nevada where aliens are 
supposedly developing aviation technology. Area 101, conversely, is a 
place "dedicated to personal growth and spiritual enlightenment", as 
the business card says. This venue for music and happenings is run by 
Tim Blake, the man with the silver-grey hair, who also co-owns a 
nearby farm that grows what is agreed on the grapevine in Mendocino 
to be "the best cannabis in the world". The intention is to turn the 
farm into a licensed dispensary for marijuana, too.

Blake has a Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on his upper arm and the 
same figure cut with stained glass in the window, "which means the 
Mexicans leave me alone," he claims.

Blake's enthusiasm for what he does has been boundless since he first 
came to northern California from the coast at Santa Cruz in the 60s, 
and it is informative to hear his account of history since then. "The 
trailer we were pulling forward in the 60s got disconnected in the 
70s. Big dealers moved in and derailed the psychedelic movement. Weed 
was grown under lights, cocaine was $10 an ounce. People were losing 
their minds, crack on the streets, speed everywhere, and the 80s and 
90s were a mess. But then the energy started coming back. We've gone 
back to fetch the trailer. God put us right here, just north of the 
fault line system, just south of the volcano chain, where the 
pasture's good and the air stays clean. Where the marijuana is our 
saviour and nourishment. We believe it can change things, change the 
system, as well as being a safe place to change your headspace."

"I'm talking about the good stuff," he adds. "It's got to be the good stuff."

A woman called Pam arrives.

Her face is beautiful, but weary and lined with tribulation. With her 
is her niece, Lisa, aged 18. Pam's son has committed suicide and so 
has her nephew, Lisa's brother. "I used to pass this place every day, 
driving between here and Reno, Nevada," says Pam, "but I never came 
in, never needed to. Now I've found it." Tim Blake chants a mantra, 
by way of demonstration, not meditation. Then out comes a bong, which 
Pam puffs before weeping and starting to feel better.

Marvin Levin of the Mendocino Farmers Collective is from Los Angeles 
and "too young to remember what it was like first time around." But 
he manages the farm here now, and he has a point to make. "We're not 
just using cannabis for smoking, we're using it in a dozen different 
medical ways and as a dietary supplement. For this, we need to grow 
it right. If you want to grow as much as you can as fast as you can, 
you'll grow something entirely different, pumped full of fertilisers."

For those at Area 101, who represent a set of Californian values that 
find expression in the language of hippiedom, the prospect of 
marijuana being legalised in November's state ballot seems welcome. 
None the less, to meet the denizens of Area 101 is to worry that 
their aspirations and message will be lost if pharmaceutical and 
tobacco companies arrive - that they will get squeezed out of the 
picture by Governor Schwarzenegger's embrace of what once was the 
counterculture.

It is with a note of optimism you hope isn't misplaced that Marvin 
Levin says: "We work in a non-profit closed loop, so we can ask 
people for feedback, and cultivate accordingly. We're not like the 
bikers or men with guns up in the woods. We're trying to do this for 
a better world, yes - but also for the neighbourhood."

As we say our goodbyes, I see a lovely old sign from the days before 
Area 101 on the wall, reading "Country Store and Deli".

"We've left it there," says Levin, "because that's what we're going 
to be. Why take down something you're going to need again some day? 
That's what we are: the Lost Coast Country Store and Deli!"