How does work work on a marijuana farm (21 photos)

Next you will find the story of a young girl who happened to work on a marijuana farm in California. She talked about how this business works, what you have to do and how much you can earn from it.

Further words from the author:

This story is written down from the words of M., whom we met by chance in one of the old pubs on Haight-Ashbury. All names have been changed, and who knows if M herself came up with them. She smoked like a locomotive, periodically stretching and cracking her knuckles. Her long, sun-bleached hair showed tangles and homemade dreadlocks. Hands up to the elbows were decorated with beaded baubles and rock band fan bracelets. M. fit incredibly organically into the contingent of the area where the hippie movement originated. It was hard to believe that she actually came to the United States on a tourist visa from the Russian hinterland. When she finished telling her story, we asked her permission to publish her story. She agreed and even shared some photos. But she categorically refused to leave anything about herself. “The world has become complete crap after the advent of all these Facebook and other social networks. People stopped appreciating live communication and appreciating each other. But we met by chance, opened our souls to each other and know that we are unlikely to ever see each other again. Isn't this wonderful? - after these words, M. threw a crumpled twenty on the table, put a worn backpack on her shoulders and disappeared somewhere among the foggy hills of San Francisco. After her, only this story remained. Everything described in the article is a detailed retelling of other people’s words, for which we do not bear any responsibility. You can follow the heroine’s adventures in the Anna & Mariia Times public page and Facebook group.

“As I shake the remnants of the odorous hemp into the tray, I suddenly realize that I’ve already cut my fifth pound of goods, and tomorrow my friend will come to the farm. I will teach him a profession that I myself mastered just four days ago.”

Text: Anna & Maria Times

I first heard about this work in Bali. We went surfing with a large international group. One of my new friends, Lithuanian Andreas, somehow casually told me about his lifestyle. For the past three years, he's been cutting grass in California for a few months of the year, and the rest of the time he's been traveling around Southeast Asia and surfing. There was more than enough money.

I got excited about the idea and, having found a cheap flight from Europe, rushed in search of my hemp Eldorado. Medical marijuana has been legalized in California; it can be easily obtained at a green pharmacy if you have special documents in hand. If you suffer from nervous disorders, depression, insomnia, or even regular PMS, this may warrant a prescription. Such a certificate can be found for $40 on the main beach of Los Angeles - Santa Monica. There are millions of people interested, so new specialized stores, startups for home delivery of marijuana, and even vending machines are appearing like mushrooms after the rain, in which instead of a cup of espresso you can get a bag of weed.

There is nothing surprising here. On the first day of public marijuana sales in Colorado, over one million dollars were received. This is a new market with billions of dollars in turnover and rapid growth. In 2016 alone, 20% more cannabis was sold than in 2015.

According to the law, a person with a doctor’s certificate can not only buy grass in dispensaries, but also grow it themselves. In California, this is six mature or 12 immature plants. Plant it in your own backyard, no one will mind. If you suddenly grow an excess of herbs, you can sell some of it to the same dispensaries (without forgetting to pay a tax of 27.9%). By growing 25 plants, cutting them into buds, or squeezing hemp oil, you can earn $150,000—and that’s in just a year. Someone goes to increase the permissible limit N times in order to earn serious money. That is why there are so many legal plantations with illegal plants, but the amount of work has not been canceled.

I planned to head north from San Francisco to the Emerald Triangle. This is what people call three areas: Mendocino, Humboldt and Trinity. It is here that more hemp is grown than anywhere else in the world. Urban legends say that every resident of the Triangle runs an underground marijuana business, so it's easy to find work right on the street. But I wasn't very lucky. I didn’t really want to go to the street full of methheads (homeless people or just lazy people high on methamphetamine). I asked all my American friends about work, went to raves and clubs where there were a lot of stoners, but it was all in vain. It seemed that this secret was protected more closely than all the conspiracies in Dan Brown's novels. Time dragged on endlessly, I became more and more desperate, continuing to wander from registration to registration in the most expensive city in the world.

But at one of the parties, a neighbor of a friend with whom I was living at that moment heard that I was looking for such a job, and immediately wrote to a friend. In this area, you can’t give out numbers left and right, so the boss usually calls you himself or you meet in person. So, after almost three months of active searches, we met Red.

That same evening, I stuffed a couple of old T-shirts and trousers, which I didn’t mind, into a small backpack, and filled my iPad with music, audiobooks and movies. Red warned that there was no Internet on the plantation, not even mobile communications. This is also why we corresponded for quite a long time, trying to agree on the exact time and place of the meeting. I was very worried that he would change his mind at the last moment or that we would miss each other and not find each other without communication.

At the appointed place, I nervously smoked and paced the dusty dirt road from tree to tree. Red was late. It seemed to me that I was looking for treasure. It also seemed to me that I was ******* [deceived] on a big scale. Those bitches from the party decided to play a trick on me. They scammed me. When I decided to give up on everything and move back to the bus stop, a white pickup truck appeared in the clouds of road dust. Thus began my adventure into the world of illegal cannabis farming.

We climbed up for a long time along a dirt road that resembled a corrugated washboard. The ship's spruces on both sides of the road became higher and denser, and mountains loomed ahead. Along the way, we occasionally encountered abandoned rusty cars, some of them fallen from the upper roads, and threatening signs “Private property. No trespassing.” The sun quickly disappeared behind the horizon, a lilac fog began to creep from the mountains, and I felt completely uneasy. The property I found myself in was separated by gates with combination locks. We have to open, drive through, close them, and so on four times, all together it takes about an hour. And now I finally see the house in which I will spend more than one week.

A two-story wooden frame stands in the middle of a large clearing. Another pickup truck is parked next to it (passenger cars are obviously not made for this road). Several plants in pots under lamps, a bunch of scattered parts from generators, axes, car parts, but everything is quite civilized. Inside the house is surprisingly warm and cozy. Especially considering that many trimmers cut grass in tents in the middle of the field both in the heat and in sub-zero temperatures. They live in a tent, where they cut hair, cook food and hang mosquito repellent tapes. And here you have a kitchen with plenty of food, a hot shower, and separate rooms with beds. Almost like a hotel for hucksters.

Red introduces me to my colleagues: this is a loving couple, Liz and Fred. Liz looks Spanish, with a beautiful face and black hair. Honestly, I would never have thought that they were together, she is too good for Fred, who looks like a junkie. Fred's father is a jazzman, taught his son to play the saxophone and dance everything from tango to boogie-woogie. I will spend the next few months side by side with them. Together we sit down in the kitchen at a table filled with different varieties of marijuana. In its center stands a pot of steaming sausages and a frying pan of noodles. Food of the gods. We pounce on her like hungry wolves, and then almost immediately crawl into our rooms for the night. Our work begins early tomorrow morning.

Day 1. 530 grams

Full of enthusiasm, I jump up before everyone else. I run to the shower, wash my hair thoroughly, then dry it under the heater. For some reason, I immediately put on my only decent shirt and chew oatmeal with appetite, which I couldn’t stand before. It feels like my first day of work will be spent not on an illegal farm, but in Buckingham Palace. A slightly rumpled Liz and Fred crawl out of the room (it seems the night was a great success), the last to appear is a sleepy Redhead. A couple gets stuck watching an old American TV series, and I’m even a little angry, because I was really looking forward to this work, and if every morning it goes at this pace, then I won’t earn much. As soon as I start to think about it, Liz notices my expression and apologizes, as before they worked on another plantation and were very tired. The process itself starts at 11:30 am, and everything is very simple.

The system is as follows: the plant is pre-cut, dried and the large leaves and trunk are trimmed. All that remains are sticky flowers with leaves, sorted and packaged in plastic bags of approximately 700–800 grams. Our job is to trim dry leaves that do not have crystals to make cones - a product that will go straight to sale. Each of us takes a bag and pours it into containers on the floor. A small portion is selected from the container for processing in a special trimming box, which is placed on the knees. The box has a tray into which the crystal part from the leaves is poured during processing, something similar to hashish. All work is done with gloves, since if you accidentally crush the crystal, an oil will be released, which will be absorbed into the skin and can make me high. Scissors need to be changed every 20-30 minutes and put their noses in alcohol, as they stick together due to this oil. Guys sometimes peel the sticky mixture off the scissors and smoke it like hashish.

I carefully study how Liz trims a couple of bumps and try it myself. I show her my results, so far everything is approving. It turned out that farmers prefer to hire girls because their cones are neater and more beautiful, and they get more done than boys. But every boss has his own requirements. I heard a story about two illegal immigrants from Mexico who worked in this field for some old man. He took more quantity than quality. The Latinos made him three to four pounds a day, which is 2-2.5 times more than Liz makes, having a lot of experience. So these same Mexicans were recently found poisoned by gas in one of the greenhouses. The police concluded that it was suicide, but, you know, competition...

I forgot to say that Red pays 150 bucks per pound (460 grams) of processed grass. This is not the upper limit for the workshop, but quite worthy. If you cut your hair without straining too much, with breaks for lunch and a smoke break, then you’ll make just a pound in a day. If you tear your ass, then all two. In total, on the first day, with my honors diploma of higher education, I saved $200. The average salary in the city where I come from is $100–120 per month. Feel the difference, as they say.

Day 2. 600 grams

There is a stained glass window in the living room where I sleep; waking up with such a view is doubly pleasant. I have beautiful dreams and get enough sleep, even though my sofa is very old and sagging. I make myself granola with nuts and almond milk. I couldn't afford this before.

The hardest part of our schedule is going to the toilet. You have to get up very smoothly so as not to hit anything, turn it over or spill it. Take off the basket, shake a bunch of leaves from your pants, so as not to leave a trail of green happiness. Then you need to carefully pull off the gloves. Then pull them back on and sit down to work, when all the worker’s fuse went into the toilet along with the urine. Trimming is a monotonous, boring job that makes your back terribly numb and your shoulders hurt. But everyone can smoke. We test different mixtures and flavors that Red gives us, and those that we cut ourselves. Sometimes this helps, but to a greater extent it interferes with work, although it is more pleasant and fun. Fred constantly makes jokes - when he smokes, he is always in a great mood. Liz and I decided that we needed to film it, and in general it would be nice to organize a sitcom about the life of trimmers. I just happened to have a GoPro lying around in my backpack.

Let's have as much fun as we can. On the first day, at Liz’s request, we listened to all of Michael Jackson’s albums. Fred was in charge, there were six hours of jazz. Six hours is more than I've heard in my entire life. Today is finally my turn. I want to introduce the guys to Russian music. I put everything mixed together: Tsoi, Tchaikovsky, “I’ll go out into the field with a horse at night,” Mujuice, “Leningrad.” By the end of the second hour, Fred puts on a face and says that all our music is somehow too sad.

Day 3. 711 grams

Tom Sawyer came to us today. That's really his name. He is Red's bosom buddy. In addition, they are also colleagues, since they work for the same boss, or rather, they grow on his land. Liz and Fred know and love him, they say he is very cheerful, even though he is already over 40. Tom is also from Louisiana, lives in a mansion with white columns, believes in voodoo and performs some rituals in the swamps. She and Red are drinking coffee in the kitchen and discussing the details of participating in the cannabis festival, which will take place in a couple of weeks. Their group will be able to present several types of their grass there, and if they manage to take prizes, then fame, success and honor await them, as well as an increase in the price of the product.

I think Sawyer likes me. He stares at my hair for a long time.

“You’re great,” Tom Sawyer finally says.

Because she looks like Huck Finn?

No, because you have blue eyes and blonde hair. And your parents are great.

So I find out that Tom Sawyer is also an ultra-rightist. This is very funny. Then he sighs and tells me about their family drama. All of them are hereditary southerners, all supported the Confederates. Tom's 80-year-old grandfather was a Ku Klux Klansman. Even now he would gladly put on a white cap, but the years are not the same. And recently Tom's sister ran away from home with a black guy. And then she brought the family to meet the mulatto grandchildren who were the result of their union. My grandfather almost had a heart attack. A completely Shakespearean plot.

Day 4

As always, after waking up early, I mixed myself granola with yogurt and fruit. Everything is organic. Red is a supporter only of such products that cost a couple of times more than usual, but I don’t care, I’m not the one paying. In general, he works according to this scheme: he pays a little less for the goods than everyone else, but covers the food in full. We write down everything we want on a list on the table, and every two or three days he goes into town to replenish supplies.

While I was having breakfast, I heard screams and arguments coming from Liz's room. The guys wanted to leave for Thanksgiving and asked for their earnings for these couple of days. They live in San Francisco, and the rent there is the highest in the world, even surpassing Manhattan this year. Red did not count on such a quick payment, since he takes money from wholesale sales of products. A pound costs him 1100–1200 dollars, but in a hurry he can only get 500. They had no agreement on how to receive their salary, which is why such a drama arose. Usually money is given either every time before leaving for the city, or every week, or every day, or even at the end. Everything needs to be clarified.

I intervened in the quarrel, trying to calm everyone down. But the guys still decided to leave tomorrow, and until that moment Red had to find money. Cursing loudly, he went to borrow them from Tom.

Day 5. 400 grams

The first thing I see when I wake up is a fairytale forest. The bottom of the trees is densely shrouded in fog, and from above, oblique sun rays pass through the crowns. I open the window wide and can’t breathe enough of the pine coolness. The house is still sleeping in silence, and outside the window the birds are already singing with might and main. I make myself a big mug of mint tea and get to work while Liz and Fred pack their clothes. They have a lot of things; on the previous farm they had to sleep in a tent, so they still have a lot of warm clothes. More than 15 people worked at that place. Liz said that I was very lucky with the conditions for the first time - there were only three of us.

Red took the couple to the city; someone they knew was on their way to San Francisco, so they were picked up. And he instructed me to look for someone to take their place, since he had no options in mind. I called a friend in Los Angeles. He was incredibly happy and promised to be as sharp as a bayonet tomorrow.

I felt very sad alone, I was so tired of the music, I wanted to talk to someone close to my heart. It's interesting to see how thoughts change at work. First, you try to think about where the dry leaves are hidden in the pine cone, then there is an association about your favorite plasticine modeling in childhood, then some unnecessary memories, then past affairs, bright moments from life. Yes, everything. It's like meditation.

Day 6. 850 grams

I wake up from bright rays on my face, it’s already 11. The unusual surroundings made me fall asleep. Red went to pick up my friend from the gas station and deliver samples to the weed festival. Now there will be two Russian speakers here. I am very happy about this and cut grass non-stop. I even want to start filming diaries about our life in the forest, I take out my GoPro when Lyokha appears on the doorstep, sparkling like a Hollywood star on the red carpet. This is the moment of his greatest triumph. He dreamed of cutting grass since he was 14 years old after his first “can.”

Day 7. 350 grams

Let the goat into the garden. Lyokha got high with happiness. Work stopped. We are already watching the second Harry Potter film.

Day 8. Thanksgiving Day

Redhead, together with Lyokha, pinned down a huge turkey back on the 24th. We baked it for six hours in the oven. There were also boiled potatoes, green beans, some very tasty turkey gravy and apple pie. We overate ourselves, the guys, of course, smoked heavily before this. And everyone collapsed on the sofa together to watch movies. Over these days, we've all become a little crazy here, but we still feel like one family.

By the way, about smoking: I have ceased to understand who, when and how much smokes, it has already become a habitual activity: both going to the toilet and banging, hammering a joint, blowing and all that. Basically we crush the bud in a grinder - and into paper, like a joint, or into a bong. I don’t smoke a lot, I came here to work after all.

Day 9. 300 grams

I teach Lyokha life and how to cut pine cones correctly. I'm mad. I want to hit his fingers with a ruler. So far it has produced only losses. I suddenly remembered our class teacher, Tamara Ivanovna. How did she drag us along for ten years? Holy woman. I would send her the biggest cone as a gift, but I’m afraid she won’t understand.

Day 10. Day off

We went on a tour of the farms in Red’s pickup truck; he showed us his plantations, how they were planted in groups of 12–15 on a piece of land. Each “tree”—it’s hard to even call it a plant—has its own watering, which is controlled automatically; water is taken from barrels at the highest point of the mountain. I never thought that marijuana bushes looked like this, they are so huge. They grow in a special solution, which looks like a pot on the ground, and, accordingly, the roots do not enter the ground itself. The trunk is wrapped in foil, as rats sometimes sneak even here. The view of the mountains is better than the one from my window. Now it’s clear why California grass inserts best.

Then we went to a neighboring town. There was just a fair of farm products taking place there. We excitedly bought fresh vegetables, meat and herbs, otherwise we were already tired of endless noodles and canned food. Lyokha and I went to a thrift store. I suddenly saw a colorful shirt there, almost the same as the one Johnny Depp was wearing in the movie “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” I took this as a sign from God. In the next pile of junk, a Panama hat was also found. After that we went to every damn store in town trying to find the right yellow glasses to complete the look. There were no such glasses anywhere. In desperation, we went into some dark shack to drink beer before returning to the farm. So what would you think? In the corner, a bunch of stoned teenagers were playing pool, and one of them had those glasses! I tried to beg them from him, offered money, but the boys had courage. They suggested playing a game for points. They put up the points, and we had to put up the stolnik. Monstrously expensive for Chinese consumer goods, but what can you do? I put Lyokha in her place. And then he atoned for all past sins and won me these points. Now I cut the grass exclusively in character. It seems to me that somewhere in the sky Hunter Thompson is laughing out loud.

Day 11. 750 grams

Red decided to please me, since every time I whine that I sleep and dream of cottage cheese, like my grandmother’s in the village. Of course, he didn’t find real cottage cheese, but he brought American, salty, liquid, but still cottage cheese. He pressed it through 20 layers of gauze and forced me to eat it instead of the usual oatmeal.

In such a wave, I have already decided to cook dumplings; cooking really clears my head from the constant picture of lumps before my eyes. Since only local organic products are at hand, I had to replace normal fatty milk with almond, wheat flour with brown, sunflower oil with coconut, ordinary salt, sugar for maple syrup ... In short, I came out of such blacks among dumplings, nor there not here. It's good that the guys smoked and liked everything.

Day 12. 340 grams

Today is a difficult day. My eyes started hurting at lunchtime, and after I reached for scissors, a nerve in my back was pinched, I lay there for two hours, sobbing with laughter. The guys were running around me, they couldn’t understand what happened and how to help. Work has stopped for today, as it hurts me to even walk. And, by the way, in the morning, when I was making another oatmeal, I heard the sounds of a helicopter and woke up Lyokha in fear. Red told us that two years ago such helicopters flew in and cut off the still unripe cannabis plants. And there was one time when they packed a whole group of trimmers.

Day 13. 1300 grams

The Mex have arrived, one of those who cut quickly but poorly. They ran out of grass on another farm, and they contacted Red through their acquaintances so that he would give them work. Lyokha and I tensed up as they began to cut our grass. More precisely, our boss. But all this meant that if we finished it together faster, then the work would also end. And then I began to catch myself thinking about how money had sucked me in and how I was going crazy, angry at people who needed to earn money no less than me. I was so nervous that I set my record, earned more than 450 bucks in one day - and saw the light, what should I do with so much money?

The last date in my diary, which reeks of grass, will be February 5th. On this day, Lyokha and I will pack our simple belongings, say goodbye to Tom and Red, and finally set a course for the south. We feel like millionaires. The money earned is enough to rent a red Ford Mustang convertible. I’ll buy myself a Polaroid and a mountain of film, Lekha – a sixth iPhone and a bunch of fashionable junk. We are not at all like the smoky hippies who spent two months in one house in the middle of the forest. In a wheelbarrow we will route you to Los Angeles along the 101 highway. This is the most beautiful road in America, if not the whole world. The raging ocean, the steep cliffs of Big Sur, green hills and lighthouses, wheat fields, pine trees, cypress trees. Somewhere here Kerouac roamed, now here we are rushing in his footsteps, and the wind flutters my hair like a victory flag.

Remembering how I cut the grass for five, eight, ten hours straight, I often felt despair. I asked myself the question: what am I spending my life, my youth on? I missed my family and friends. And yet now I have in my pocket the coveted ticket from Los Angeles to Hawaii. A surfboard and a completely different life awaits me there.