Visit a Giant Marijuana Plantation

 

Ever wanted to visit a giant marijuana plantation? Since seeing my first coffee table book filled with photos of giant pot farms on Mexican hillsides, I did. And when I visited my friend El Brujo in Sinaloa I got my chance. In this week’s fun excerpt from Money, Guns, and Lawyers, you can visit a giant marijuana plantation, too!

But first, check out this photo. Is that pretty or what?

 

 

As I climbed into the back seat of his Range Rover, El Brujo handed me a shotgun. In the States, riding shotgun meant sitting in the front passenger seat, but in Mexico it meant riding with a shotgun.

I asked, “Are we expecting trouble?”

Getting the wrong idea, El Brujo elbowed his son. “See how he is, Rico? Always eager for action.”

With everyone properly armed, our little convoy of Range Rovers headed out the main gates, across the little bridge and down the road into an area cultivated with fields of corn. Mile after mile of it. We could’ve been in Kansas. We’d cruised a few miles when I saw a police car parked sideways across the road. Two cops were standing in front of it. They had automatic weapons in their hands and their eyes intent on us. Rico slowed down, stopped about ten feet in front of them. I didn’t know what to think. Was I supposed to help El Brujo disappear the cops?

When El Brujo and Rico got out of the car, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“Tranquilo, Senor Bueno,” said Rico. “They work for us.”

Having some fun with my character, I faked disappointment. “You mean I have to let them live?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But they’re on the Other Team.”

Rico held up his palms. “Sorry.”

As it turned out, they weren’t on the Other Team.

After introductions, Sergeant Chumpo, said, “So, this is the infamous Senor Bueno?”

He was looking me over, seem kinda disappointed. Like I’d let him down. I’d seen that skeptical look many times. If it could talk, it’d say, “You don’t scare me.”

To Sergeant Chumpo, the size of a refrigerator, not many people did. But even I had to admit, I looked more like a cheerful surfer than an insane madman. What can I say? I was cursed with an easy smile and a friendly attitude.

“Don’t let his looks fool you,” said El Brujo. “The man is a fiend.”

Deputy Joachim shook my hand, “Con mucho gusto. I don’t care how you look; it’s the heinous things you do that count.”

I’ve had better compliments, but always polite, I said, “It’s kind of you to say so.”

“Todo tranquilo, Chumpo?” asked El Brujo

“Todo madre,” said the sergeant. All cool.

Brujo handed his lookouts a bottle of tequila—the price, I suppose, for moving their car—then we continued our drive through the corn. I had to admit, I liked El Brujo’s style. Why fight the police when you could co-opt them? I’d helped Bighead do the same last September with Colonel Marquez, the man in charge of Northern Baja’s Aerial Surveillance Program. For a mere fifty g’s, the colonel had agreed to do nothing at all.

I told him, “That’s a lot of money for doing nothing, Colonel. How do I get in on that racket?”

The colonel shrugged. “Look at it this way, Senor Bueno, it would cost El Cabezon millions if I do something.”

The colonel made a good point and I didn’t argue. And when Bighead harvested his crops unmolested by the colonel’s ground crews, he agreed the fifty grand was money well-spent. Also, rewarded me with a share of the crop. The reason I had a million-five stashed with Doc in San Diego and was no longer near-broke after my previous project went up in radioactive smoke. So, a silver lining to what had otherwise been a tragic season. At least for me. I can’t say the same for my vaporized partner Charley. For him there’d been no silver lining, more like a millisecond of bright light. It still hurt to think about the disaster. If only the media would stop reminding me. Actually, with me on vacation in Mexico and not watching TV, they had.

Rico parked the Jeep, pulling me out of my thoughts. Still in a sea of corn, I wondered why we’d stopped. Until I looked out the left side window and saw a large field—the first in miles bereft of corn. Instead, waist-high foliage covered the lot. Not expecting to see it grown in plain sight, it took me a few seconds before I realized it was marijuana. After all, it was in full view, right there next to the road. Also, going back for hundreds of yards. A little voice said: We aren’t in Kansas anymore. Who grew pot in the open? Apparently, El Brujo did.

“Jesus Christ, Alberto, how much mota is out there?”

“This pedaso covers four hectares.”

I did the math, came up with ten acres.

“Unbelievable.”

“We have plenty more in the mountains.”

“Out in the open like this?”

“No, that would be a mistake.”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. And yet. . .” Words failing me, I pointed at his plot.

“Vamos,” said El Brujo, and we got out of the Range Rover.

As we did, moteros popped up like gophers. Evidently, they’d been prone in sniper position, because each of them had an automatic rifle in his arms. Seeing their patron, they relaxed and waved us forward. Las Palmas, the largest plot I’d seen in Baja, had over 20,000 plants. At least till the avaricious General Havoc and Comandante Marcos showed up with thirty machete-wielding troops. But El Brujo’s roadside plot held far more. Sure, it was stunt season and the plants were small compared to summer crops, but I was still awestruck.

“What do you think?” asked El Brujo.

I wiped my eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“There, there,” he said, patting me on the back. “I knew you’d like it.”

Like it? I loved it! The only way I could love it more was if it was mine. El Sorillo, the Skunk, El Brujo’s younger brother and the foreman of the plot, came over. El Sorillo lacked horrid body odor, but he did have a streak of white hair running down the middle of his head. I preferred it that way.

“So you’re the new expert?” he said.

“I guess so.”

Instead of seeming jealous, he seemed relieved. Shaking my hand, he said, “Good, because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Don Alberto had recruited El Sorillo, who specialized in smuggling loads across the Sea of Cortez in his fishing boat, to oversee the plot after the former expert’s all-too-soon demise. The Skunk said he felt like a fish out of water. Expert or not, the plants, about a month into flowering and already aromatic as a perfume counter, were doing great and I told him so.

“You’re gonna have some nice buds.”

“I’m counting on it,” said El Brujo.

“I wanna grow the next batch.”

“I’m counting on that, too.”

 

I hope you enjoyed the excerpt. If so, you’ll love the whole book! If you haven’t already grabbed my entire series for free with Kindle Unlimited (or just want to check them all out) just click this link:

The Senor Bueno Travel Adventure Series