Daily Dabble: Getting High in Jamaica Without Going to Jail or Crying in Public
By Bud D. Lite – High-functioning, low-key panicker
📝 Editor’s Note: In this weeks Dabble, names have been changed for privacy reasons. Especially the name “Mary Jane,” which is definitely not suspicious at all and totally just a normal lady name and not slang for weed. Nope. Definitely just her birth certificate name. Move along.
✈️ 1. The Flight Over: When Your Brain Becomes TSA
So here’s the deal: I didn’t bring weed to Jamaica.
I know. You’re judging me. But listen — I’m a closet stoner, not a cartel mule. I had visions of me getting pulled into some windowless room at customs, sweat pouring down my back, trying to explain why I taped a rosin pen inside a stick of deodorant labeled “Old Spice – Pineapple Panic.”
No thank you.
Instead, I boarded that JetBlue flight stone-cold sober and over-caffeinated, holding onto Mary Jane’s hand like a man headed into battle. I told myself:
“It’s Jamaica, bro. You’ll find weed. You’ll trip over weed. It’ll come to you like a Bob Marley-themed Pokémon.”
Bold words for someone who once got nervous buying edibles from his own cousin.
🌅 2. Arrival: The First Sweaty Hour of Anxiety
The moment we landed, I could smell it in the air — not weed, just opportunity (and probably someone's armpits). The airport was a mix of chaos and reggae, and my stoner brain was already scanning every local with dreads like I was in a Guy Ritchie movie trying to spot the “connect.”
We made it through customs, no problem. My heart was beating like I’d actually smuggled something, even though I was cleaner than a Mormon at a vape convention.
Mary Jane turned to me and said,
“Babe, you’re acting weird. You didn’t even say thank you to the cab driver.”
I had. Twice. But I was already mentally preparing for the mission ahead:
Operation: Ganja Recon.
🏝️ 3. The Hotel: Bougie But Potentially Weed-Adjacent
We stayed at a mid-tier all-inclusive — not one of those ultra-lux resorts with flaming cocktails and zero soul, but nice enough that you question whether the "rum punch" is just juice.
As we were checking in, I did what any paranoid stoner would do: I scanned the staff for potential allies. The bellhop? Maybe. The bartender? Definitely high already. The concierge? Too clean. Probably reports directly to the DEA.
I kept cool. Played it smooth. Asked for a room with a good “ocean breeze.”
Mary Jane narrowed her eyes at me. She knows that’s my code for:
“I plan to get high and stare at water for six hours.”
🍗 4. The First Attempt: Bob Marley Is Not the Password
That night, we hit the beach bar. I was sipping a watered-down rum drink, half-listening to a steel drum version of "No Woman No Cry," when I got the courage to ask the bartender:
“Hey, man. You know where I can find a little... something local?”
He smiled, nodded slowly, leaned in close, and whispered:
“You want jerk chicken or pork?”
Not exactly the plug I was hoping for.
Ten minutes later, I was double-fisting chicken skewers and sweating through my linen shirt. Still no weed. But delicious, spicy distraction is a hell of a drug.
🧢 5. The Second Attempt: “My Cousin Got You, Mon”
I was walking along the beach when a local guy — let’s call him “Rico” — nodded at me and said,
“Yo, you looking for something?”
Now, every closet stoner has to decide in that moment:
Is this guy legit? A cop? A hallucination from the heat?
But his sandals were worn, his vibe was chill, and he had that unbothered “I’ve definitely watched dolphins high before” energy.
I nodded back, “Yeah. A little local flavor.”
Rico smiled. “My cousin got you.”
“Cool. What’s your cousin’s name?”
“Cousin.”
Oh. That kind of cousin.
🤝 6. The Transaction: Somewhere Between Sketchy and Spiritual
Later that afternoon, I met “Cousin” behind a souvenir shack painted with a mural of Snoop Dogg riding a lion. Which felt oddly reassuring.
He handed me a bag the size of a small pillowcase. For twenty bucks.
It smelled like pure earth, sunshine, and possibly motor oil. I didn’t ask questions. Just gave a nod that said “Thank you for not stabbing me,” and returned to the hotel like a squirrel with a stolen Pop-Tart.
I stuffed it into an empty sunscreen bottle and celebrated like I just won a weed-based episode of Survivor.
🌊 7. The First Toke: Mosquitoes and Existential Thoughts
That night, while Mary Jane took a bubble bath, I snuck out onto the balcony with a makeshift pipe made from a Red Stripe can and the confidence of a man who watched a YouTube tutorial once in 2016.
The first hit? Smooth. Earthy. A little diesel-y. Possibly cursed.
Second hit? I was hearing ocean waves and also the blood in my own ears.
Third hit? I thought the palm tree next to our balcony whispered
“Respect yourself, mon.”
I sat there for an hour, watching the moon reflect off the water like it was trying to tell me secrets. My flip-flops blew away in the breeze and I just waved goodbye like they were sentient beings going on a journey.
🍽️ 8. The Munchies: Buffet Shame and Fried Plantain Redemption
I came back inside with what I can only describe as biblical hunger.
I walked into the 24-hour buffet like a raccoon discovering a wedding cake. I piled my plate high with rice, plantains, meat I couldn’t identify but spiritually trusted. A woman next to me said,
“You must be really hungry!”
And I almost cried.
Mary Jane joined me mid-bite.
“You’re high, aren’t you?”
“No,” I mumbled through a mouthful of oxtail.
“Just... emotionally aware.”
She rolled her eyes and stole a plantain.
🌅 9. The Wake and Bake: Beach Edition
The next morning, I woke up with sand in my hair and clarity in my soul. I packed a little bowl, walked down to the beach, and lit up just as the sun came up. It was like the Earth said,
“I see you, Bud. Let’s vibe.”
There were no tourists. Just birds, wind, and the occasional crab doing crab things. I laid on a towel and let the weed settle into my bloodstream like warm syrup.
For once, I didn’t feel guilty for relaxing.
I wasn’t worrying about Slack notifications, deadlines, or if my dog thought I was mad at her for not cuddling last night.
Just...peace.
And also a little panic when I saw a resort worker and forgot how to make eye contact.
🧠 10. Deep Thoughts You Only Have in Paradise While Super High
While lying on that beach, I had some revelations. Some profound. Some...less so:
- What if lobsters are just sea scorpions who gave up on violence?
- I think I am the kind of person who could own a hammock.
- Everything tastes better when you can see the ocean and forget your middle name temporarily.
- The real reason Bob Marley smiled so much is because this place is just...vibey AF.
I also decided that when I die, I want to be turned into a reef and have stoner turtles visit me.
Mary Jane disagreed. She wants me cremated and turned into a lava lamp.
🛫 11. The Almost-Panic at the Airport
On the way back home, I flushed the last bit of weed because I didn’t want to end up on a 60 Minutes special about “American Men Who Got Too Comfortable With International Laws.”
As we entered security, a TSA agent asked if I had anything to declare.
I said: “Just gratitude.”
He did not laugh.
Mary Jane looked at me and whispered,
“You definitely got high again this morning, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“For the spiritual connection.”
🪴 12. Final Thoughts: You Don’t Need to Pack It, Just Don’t Panic
Jamaica taught me a valuable lesson:
You don’t need to smuggle weed in your deodorant. You don’t need to panic that the cab driver is an undercover narc. You don’t even need to stress about how to find it — it’ll find you. Respectfully. Organically. Possibly through someone’s cousin.
Just be cool. Be patient. Be a decent human.
Don’t ask the concierge. Don’t try to smoke in your room unless you want to owe the resort $500 and your dignity. And most importantly — if a palm tree tells you to respect yourself?
Listen.
✅ Bud’s Stoner Travel Checklist: Jamaica Edition
- ⬜ Don’t bring weed. You’ll be fine.
- ⬜ Bring sunscreen, rolling papers, and plausible deniability.
- ⬜ Red Stripe makes a decent emergency pipe.
- ⬜ Always test the weed before diving into a buffet.
- ⬜ Balcony hotboxes work better when you face the ocean, not your neighbor’s window.
- ⬜ Don’t make eye contact with parrots while high. They judge.
- ⬜ Tip your Cousin™. He’s a legend.
- ⬜ One joint + one hammock = a therapy session with God.
If this post made you laugh, nod, or book a trip to Montego Bay with a pack of rolling papers in your sock, do me a favor and share it.
Or don’t. I’m probably gonna forget I wrote this and go stare at clouds for an hour anyway.
Peace, love, and fried plantains,
– Bud D. Lite