Happy Pizza, Happy Time

Most young people that travel through Cambodia have a story about their experience eating a “happy pizza.” For those not in the know, this is a regular pizza but for an extra American dollar, you get a topping. It looks like oregano and its sprinkled on every inch of cheese space: it’s Cambodian home grown weed and it’s a fucking trip.

So yes, I’m not different. I got my own story to tell about munching on this goodness. In Phnom Penh I met a Belgian traveler who went temple hopping with me during the daytime. Eventually we tired of baking in the dry heat and opted for a couple beers at a bar that advertised happy delights ("Happy Herb Pizza"). She wasn’t into pot, so after I was already tipsy I ordered a pizza to go and we sat by the Mekong river while I indulged in half of the large cheesiness.

Anyone who’s had pot brownies, cookies, butter or whatever, knows the high takes a decent amount of time to kick in. About 30 - 45 minutes. After over an hour I thought maybe the weed was weak and so I resolved to eat more of the pizza. Bad, bad, great idea.

I noticed I couldn’t stop smiling and realized the food-drug fusion was about to enrapture me totally. I told my friend I had to walk back to the hostel as I knew the feelings would progress beyond my physical and social capacities. On route to the hostel, we walked along busy streets littered with motorbikes, vendors and tourists. My senses felt like they were exploding onto the canvas of life. Wat Phnom reflected new shapes in intricate corners, people’s features were made symmetrical by my recognition of their beauty and the cacophony of noises tempted my legs into dance. My new friend knew I was dropping into an irreversible trip when I stopped talking for what seemed like hours.

When we reached the hostel I managed to use my new found elation to ease into conversations with self-conscious travelers. Often fresh-outta-college kids look a bit nervous when dealing with the realities of the “paradise” they paid to see. I gave them pointers, encouraged their bravery and shared laughs. But I knew my God-like social skills were temporary when I swayed into the bathroom.

Hallways shifted diagonally and the bathroom walls were breathing louder than my own hyperventilation. It was hard to come to terms with this developing high because the intensity never plateaued. Not letting up in waves but a tidal wave of psychedelia slapping me in the face and body.

Somehow I crawled up the steps to my room and onto my top bunk. Conquering the jungle gym set up, I congratulated myself by celebrating with another slice or two of pizza until it was all gone. Truthfully, it was the munchies kicking in from my first bites so I kept eating more to quell my deep dive in blood sugar levels.

Surrounding myself with snacks I prepared in advance (chips and chocolate) and an empty pizza box, I turned off the lights, amped up the A/C and spun into Funkadelic’s long riffs. But even that was too much. The ten minute long guitar solos put me on the rainbow bridge in Mario Kart, steering the chaos of my life through bar chords. My brain was imploding from pleasure and the complexity of the music was too much for my analytical impressions. I could understand the spaces between the sound and visualize the music in shapes and colours with my eyes closed. It was too much and I was worried my heavy sighs in the quiet room were suspicious to other travelers scrolling through their Facebook pages.

Did they know I was high? I tried to sleep off the anxiety and paranoia that crept on me but all I could think of was my bladder and the challenge of climbing off my bed into the bathroom. A half hour later after thinking through the last five years of my life in regrettable detail, I was able to sit up in my bed so I took that as I sign to complete my pissing mission.

Once I’d accomplished the trivial task, I felt unconquerable. I recognized that throughout my range of emotion and sensory overload I was undeniably content. The weed, almost like a mix of ‘sess’ and sativa strains with some indica, gave me a whole lifetime of trauma to deal with but it wasn’t too much because every cell it my body felt like it was stretching, expanding and relaxing on couch sofas. In this realization that I was safe and happy, I was able to fall asleep.

The next morning I was scheduled for an early bus out of Phnom Penh heading north, but I was still high. 18 hours later and I felt fuzzy, dehydrated and like I was coming down off acid. Everyone seemed pure if heart and the trees glowed a luminous green. A bonus free morning high is a good high.

As my time in Cambodia untangled in a series of weed related events, a general haziness hung over my days like a low cloud. I bought bags of weed in Sihanoukville and toked up on ferris wheels during jungle raves. In Kratie I smoked a j by the Mekong and happened to witness a migration of dolphins. In Kampot I would buy small happy pizzas and eat them in my dorm bed while drawing for hours late at night. Sometimes I would eat too much, and onlookers would gawk at me whispering “she looks real fucking high,” and I’d nod with a wide smile and red eyes. It didn’t matter to me what was happening because I was in high spirits.

Leaving the country I also left my relationship with pot. Technically, it is illegal in Cambodia. But still in every tourist part of the country you can find a traveler or local willing to chop you some herb. The quality is poor but the laws are much more relaxed than those in Thailand. Foreigners are rarely prosecuted for small amounts though do expect to bribe authorities if they catch you.

And as always, know your rights and practise caution. Prepare for a 12+ hour long trip as weed digested through the liver rather than the lungs is a slower process. Avoid smoking in public spaces and make sure you trust whoever you ask about getting some ganja. Or just stick with some pizza; keeps you full and gets you proper stoned.