Cool Alternative Smoke Shop photos

Some cool alternative smoke shop images:

The Waterstones on New Street in Birmingham
alternative smoke shop
Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80’s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.

11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.

I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.

12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.

I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That’s all for England!

Irene at the Grocer in Chinatown
alternative smoke shop
Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80’s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.

11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.

I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.

12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.

I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That’s all for England!

Top Shop protest, Oxford Street, London – 26 March 2011
alternative smoke shop
Image by chrisjohnbeckett

Cool Hi Times Smoke Shop photos

A few nice hi times smoke shop images I found:


hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
(Sunday cont.)

When the sheriffs let me out of county, it was my brother who came to pick me up. Doug. 18 years, fresh out of high school, skinny, short, spoke with a speech impediment and under-bit jaw. Soft spoken, sensitive, shy and loyal. Douglas. My brother. Braces and retainers throughout the most exciting years of his life. Instead of smoking pot and shop lifting, he spent his time by himself in record shops finding heavy metal records. Doug Funny everyone called him. When I was a senior then, he was only a freshmen.

"Did you tell mom and dad?" I said.
"No."
"Thanks. I’ll tell them myself."
"What happened?" he said.
"They said I was drunk driving."
"Were you?"
"I don’t know."
"Where’s the car?"
"At the tow yard. It’s totaled."
"You should be glad you’re fucking alive and that you didn’t kill anyone."
"I know."
"Fuck you John."
"I know. Sorry."

He wasn’t about his car. He was mad about me. As his brother, I was always causing shit for everyone. So rarely mad. Never cursed at me like that before. Ever. My baby brother. My only brother. I knew he wanted to say: Why do you keep doing this to yourself John?

Me: a young twenty one at the time, coming from a party at four in the morning. Hit a guard rail and did a 360 in the middle of the freeway a few miles past the Golden Gate Bridge. Car was smashed in from the front. Axle twisted enough so that wheel was parallel to the ground. I guessed this is what kept the car from flipping over too. A few miles earlier and I would not be here. I would be in San Francisco Bay with the car. Or could have been worse. Could have hit a tree. Funny. There are a lot of trees on that part of the highway 101. But none for me.

Doug. My brother. My sweet brother. Was pissed but didn’t say anything else. I was grateful that he came to get me. They put me in the cell for 18 hours. Took my tie and shoe laces. The floor of the detox is not concrete but a funny plastic texture. Cold, and like a rubber mallet. "Where’s my phone call?" I said to the deputy.
"If you have coins."
Fuck, I thought. They were laughing at me. The sheriffs. People only get phone calls on TV cop shows.
I called Doug collect and left a message. It was 5:30 in the morning.

He drove two hours, all the way to Marin County Jail in San Rafael to pick me up. Didn’t say anything when we drove up to the tow-yard. We actually bought McDonald’s on the way there. Didn’t say anything when he saw the car he had spent the last year and a half trying to pay off. A red Nissan Fairlady Z with twin turbos, aftermarket intake, exhaust and racing rims. Now sat like a broken red nail. Doug, my brother who did not know how to be angry at family could not say anything else while looking at his car.

Parents didn’t cry. Mom asked me to go to the hospital ER to get my head checked out. I thought she meant it so I went. Doug drove me to Kaiser. When I came back, she asked me, “Where did you guys go?” My dad locked himself in his room. Something I would do.

DUI Laywers. Court cases. Community service. Fines. Accident fees. Hiked up car insurance. Unable to get to work. Lost work. No license to work. No legs. No mobility. Lost year. "Fuck it!"

During this year, two months after the accident, Doug joined the marines. Hoo-rah. Went to Camp Pendleton for a bit. Got buff. Got tanned. Came home with a crew cut. Sweet brother Doug no more. But still shy, still soft spoken, still loyal. Still spoke with a speech impediment and underbit jaw. Would have surgery on it later, one of the many surgeries he would have. "I just shut up and shoot," he said.
“What the hell?” I said.

My mom caressed his shaved head. Jar-head now. My dad came outside and we had a barbecue. Drank Heineken’s in the backyard and had bulgogi style beef and Chinese short ribs. No hamburgers and hot dogs here. What are we, white?

We never talked about the car. I never paid him back for it either. But he was joining the marines during wartime. Who would had ever thought? How could you talk about anything else?

Doug invited his girlfriend with him. Dougy, she called him. She had a kid too but we did not this until after he left.

Very cliche. Soldier warrior leaves for battle. Proposes before he gets sent off. Child birthed while he was overseas. My brother couldn’t have reenacted it better. My brother. The one who kept Captain America and Batman comics under his bed.

He got on one knee and proposed to Connie. Right there on the backyard lawn. There was only for of us. Mom gasped and cried. Dad didn’t know what the hell was going on and was flipping meat over the Weber grill. Me: I yelled at him, "Fuck you Doug!" but in a happy way. "Hoo-fuckin’-rah! You’re bitch made now." I kept laughing. Boyz II Men start playing in my head.
"Watch your mouth boy. Don’t talk to him like that," my dad said.
Dougy and I looked at him. It’s alright, Dougy was saying. We’re family. He’s happy for me too.

Weeks later, they sent him to Iraq. His humvee column hit an IED on the way back to base. He lost a leg. Another cliche. Mom cried. Dad locked himself in his room for the second time. Connie, I could never forget her face that day. We couldn’t have written it any better.

They sent him to San Antonio first, Brooks Army Medical Center, before he came home. When he came back, he only stayed a few days. He was going to move in with Connie, who was in Santa Barbara with her family. He leave the day after. When I brought him from the airport, my dad came out to look at his sons.

Me, standing there. The one always causing shit. The one who went to college but was wasting away. Doug, the good one. The soft spoken shy sweet son. The sensitive and loyal one. The one who barely made it through school and made mom cry in all kinds of way, but never through his own fault.

Me: standing on two legs next to Doug. Doug: next to me with only one. The other half was his Navy colored uniform pants tucked underneath him. No wonder the first thing my dad did was punch me in the face. I didn’t say anything.
“Fuck you shit John!” he said. "Get out of my house! Get out! Get out!"
"See you later man," I said to Doug and left.

But I knew it wasn’t me he was really mad at. He didn’t mean to say that to me.

At night, we went out to the bar and he got smashed. He cried in the car while I drove him home. After that, I didn’t see Doug for a while. When I did, we were "grown ass men" by then who didn’t talk about feelings and memories.

A hot dog, a soda, a churro. A drive down to Pismo Beach. I realized that Santa Barbara was not that far from Pismo. It had been three years already. Junior should be almost ten now.

After calling Louis, I called Doug and told him I was coming down to Santa Barbara.
"What?" he said. He didn’t believe me.
"I said I’ll be there in six hours."
"Why all of a sudden?"
"A friend told me that when a person is busy being sad about them self, they forget about the rest of the world. I missed my brother. Is that not a reason."
I could hear something crash in the background.
"Alright alright. I’ll see you then."
"Later."
"Call me when you get here."


hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
I waited for her everyday at Exit A. It’s the exit that is closest to the APM shopping mall and the stairs on the other side will lead you onto the street that leads into the center of Kwun Tong. If you go to the end, where the railing and concrete barrier is, every few minutes, you can see and hear the MTR travel by in its muted roar.

Many people wait here. It is its most busiest during the late afternoon and early evening rush hour. People wait for their lovers. People wait for their friends and classmate. They stand by the railing smoking cigarettes, playing their hand-held games, seclude themselves into their headphones, or check the texts on their cell phones. I waited here everyday for her. She worked at a bank office during the day and went to school every night. I met her during her transition period when she transferred from one side of Hong Kong to the other. There was only enough time for a quick meal and we went through our daily ritual — "How was work?", "What did you do today?", "Have you ate yet?" — quickly. Then we would have a period of silence as we walked through the crowded streets.

It was a suffering existence. I use the word suffering because that is how we treated it and how we had felt. It suffered to be apart from each other. Enough that over time, even though we had lived under the same roof and shared the same bedroom, we had become ghosts to each other: the empty coffee cups left on the kitchen counter, dishes unwashed in the sink, the air conditioner suddenly turned on when it had been off, the ironing board that was hot to touch. And then there were the transitions: I would there early and look at the MTR travel by in it’s muted roar, the people around me, the people on the blurring by above me, and at 5:30 she would be coming from the end of the walkway. And I would wave and she would wave back. And I’d hug her and she’d hug me back. There is only so much that you can do in such short time.

During dinner one night, where they placed your cup of milk tea onto a bowl of ice to prevent the dilution that’s cause from melting ice, I told her, "I don’t feel like I know you anymore. And I want to know you again." She looked out the window at the MTR that you could feel and see whenever it came by, "But you do know me. What’s wrong? You’ve become so needy," she said.
"I’m not needy, I just feel like we’ve become indifferent; like routines that we go through everyday."
"I think you are trying hard to think about it; just let things go. The harder you try to analyze and think about things, the less you’ll know. And I’ll become unknowable."
I didn’t really understand her, but she had the feeling of being right.

We walked to the bus station down the street. I’d ride the bus with her to school. She would change out of her heels into her Converses. And I’d put them into my bag for her to bring back home. It was close to a two hour trip on some days including the walk to the front of the school. But what difference does two hours make in the end.


hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
"So what did she say?"
"She said, she said she cant’ make it and has other things to do."
"What things?"
"I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her for yourself?"
"I don’t want to. She’s probably screwing around with that guy."
"Which one?"
"The one who works at the hotel, the one from Shenzhen."
"Oh him."
"Let’s go."
"I don’t see why you’re getting worked up about it."
"I’m not."

They walked back across the bridge and into the rundown shopping plaza. Some of the men who loitered around town crowded around a window to watch Miss Hong Kong on the television screen. On other days, they would be rooted to turned up buckets crouched over wooden boards and chess pieces. But not today.

They forced a path through the gawkers. "Hey, watch were you going?"
"Why don’t you fuck off."

He unchained the motorbike and put the chain into the storage compartment on the back and then got on. She stepped lightly and quickly on a peg on the kickstand and straddled the seat behind him.

The engine reverberated along the alleyway as they joined the rest of the traffic along the ride. She reached over his shoulder and removed the carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket, removing one and gripping it between her lips with her chin on his shoulder. She then reached into his pocket and removed the lighter. With her arm reaching across his chest and underneath his chin, she lit it.

"What the hell are you doing?"
"Smoking."
"How many times have I told you to not put that thing near my face."
"Lighten up."

He unlocked and opened the door to the apartment. It was small and spare. The ceiling leaked during half the year and for that, they lined buckets underneath its drip along the corner. Occasionally, the floor drain in the kitchen would flood over. It splashed as he stopped over a small line of tiles on the other side of the door.

"Fuck. It’s flooded again."
"Do you want me to get the mop and the towels?"
"No. Just leave it. I’ll take care of it later. Let’s check the bedroom first."

She sat on the edge of the bed, facing the television as he propped himself up on one elbow and drank. As she watched, he observed the curve within the bottom of her neck line.

"Who do you think’s going to win this year?"
"None of them, if I had my choice."
"Well, choose one."
"The one on the left then."
"That one?"
"No. Number 14, the one over there."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah, why?"
"She’s ugly."

He placed the cup on the window sill. It began to rice outside. Soon, they would hear the droplets as they hit the bottom of the empty plastic bucket.
"Do you still want to go?"
"No, it’s raining. I don’t think it’s going to stop for the night."
"That’s too bad, I really wanted to go."
"Maybe tomorrow. My sister can go with you then."

"I’m going downstairs to cover the motorbike."

He took the blue tarp from the corner of the room and walked down the flight of stairs and to the sidewalk. He threw it over the length of the motorbike and tied it down, looping the rope through the spokes of the wheels. It rained harder as he worked while around him, interior lights along the sidewalks shops and buildings gradually turned on.

He looked up at the window of their apartment on the fifteenth floor. She opened the window and shouted down, "Hey! The one you picked! She won! Hurry and come watch with me."

He looked at her and then past her. The drops fell directly on this face and with his eyes open, he could almost see them form from nothing, tiny shards of light that shone briefly before they landed.

Nice High Herbal photos

Check out these high herbal pictures:

Herbal highs.
high herbal
Image by gak
The consumption of herbal supplements is very conspicuous in NZ.

Herbal High stall, Glade Festival, July 2008
high herbal
Image by ali wade

Nice Legal Bud Order photos

A few nice legal bud order images I found:

Seared Sea Scallops Provencale at Blue Heaven
legal bud order
Image by tsand
If you go to Key West and do NOT go to Blue Heaven AND order the scallops, you’re taste buds should seek legal counsel. Serious, it would be a crime.

Nice Legal Bud Black Magic photos

A few nice legal bud black magic images I found:

fae magic 2012
legal bud black magic
Image by mardi grass 2011
Prophetic Conspirators: Psychedelic Water 27>

The mess accumulates and energy swells as adventurous travelers strut toward the promise of a truly psychedelic experience – an indelible climax to the weekend’s hedonistic foreplay. By midday throngs already amass in the painted streets and shaded byways of the far out little village of Nimbin. Saturday’s brilliantine noonday heat transforms the vibrant subtropical splendour of the verdant landscape into a viridian radiance of enervating humidity. The autumnal atmosphere verges back into the sweaty green steambath conditions common during the last few years’ runaway greenhouse summers.

Yet untrammeled vigour still imbues the eagerly expectant assembly of freaks, straights, tourists and wannabe contenders with unabated intensity as they mingle and jostle for the year’s best buds, heads, colas and other less combustible comestibles. A demi-multitude straggles into town along gravel tracks and bitumen arteries, undeterred by the heat of climate catastrophe or police state shenanigans.

The locals are thoroughly outnumbered. Garbage bins overflow along the crowd-filled footpaths as thousands of camera wielding, fast food chomping visitors from despoiled lands of drear normality throng and mix, deal and fix, see and be seen beneath banners of the rainbow tribes and the all-seeing eyes of robotic surveillance cams. Spectrum-spanning painted faces stud the baseball capped crowd in chaotic arcs of rainbow colours, a well laundered shimmering sea of shiny black-and-blue-clad suburbanites.

Why don’t you speak of what you’ve seen? The shaman muses as he rises from his seat to leave the Oasis. Is it just egotistic concerns over credibility – or a matter of not speaking of things which don’t want to be known?

Many of the visitors exist under a perennial stupor of paranoia in ‘normal’ workaday lives – fearing loss of station or job, marriage or children, afraid of peer or parental disapproval and all the other snares and grasping adhesions of the noxious social glue that holds the hive in which they’re enmeshed together – even, particularly, while walking and gawking down the main and almost only street of World Hippie Central. The alternative-minded but socially camouflaged throng doesn’t yet realise that they represent most of the world’s people – non-conformists at heart, who all live under the self-imposed harness of unnecessary fears, weighed down by the pointless guilt so keenly felt by true innocents deprived of normal human requirements, and made to feel inferior when they seek to satisfy their needs.

All yearn for release from the straightjacket asylum of a barely post-feudal civilisation run by lunatic control freaks.

The ages-old witch and shaman ride within us all, suppressed or oppressed or free as a bird and all of us are hankering after a flavour that leads to the taste of other dimensions, fresher views – zestier, more riveting impressions of the sumptuous reality through which we otherwise drift like limbo-bound wraiths and automatons.

Most Mardi Grass revelers couldn’t give a damn about hypocritical, unjust laws and certainly know they’re not damaged or damned, but blessed to be out and about in one of the brightest, freest times and places in all the vast murky realms of human history.

Everyone’s here to party and experience unseen sights and untried delights; hippies, yuppie ‘aspirationals’, dreadlocked Rastas and dreaded ferals, priests, politicians, students, TV crews and reporters and backpacking travellers from all round the globe, shopkeepers, soldiers, big and little old men and women, checkout chicks, lawyers, bureaucrats, proud parents carrying brightly bedecked newborn babes, emigrant Greek fishermen, Indian software writers and call centre voices, emo Goths – and anyone else not interested in being an active part of the subtly feudal friendly fascist police surveillance state of impersonal corporate Big Brother clones and militant industrialists – and all are seeking the selfsame source of the philosophers, stoned. A broad cross-section is represented, as they say, and just about everyone’s smiling.

Fleecy clouds begin coalescing in the wide open sky’s more distant margins, blowing apart in this late Interglacial Age’s inexorably rising winds. The Rainbow Region is multiply blessed with rich soil and Sun, sea breezes and rain, luxuriantly lush and deliriously green even at the end of a historic nationwide mother of all droughts, and for the first time the annual parade will be free of the double-edged benison of rain.

A good year for curing the mull, if you look on the bright side… Could be a good vintage… The shamanic prince’s thoughts flit hither and yon while he makes a sine wave beeline for the great Strangler Fig. The Tree of Life beckons, arching across the market ground’s outdoor stage as he strides through streams of fossicking punters hovering round myriad stalls and jewellery-strewn blankets. The future’s so bright we’ll have to wear shades…

He reaches the Chai Tent and gratefully slides into a mismatched litter of comfy cushions on the hempen expanse of canvas flooring. Each and every Mardi Grass, the space beneath the market site’s grand old fig is reserved for the Chai Tent, right beside the covered stage. The chai’s always good – if you wait for it to properly brew – gingery and purifying for the partied-out and jaded throng recovering from the pleasant excesses of Friday night.

After taking a breath Ram’yana rises to inspect a tasty array of homemade organic cakes while John ladles some brew into a varied menagerie of ceramic cups. Muzza and John are regular fixtures at most alternative events, their friendly bearded familiar faces ever beaming behind fluttering prayer flags and political messages. They help their latest batch of eager helpers mix chai, coffee, teas and munchies beneath the generously shady green canopies of tree and marquee.

These days only half the food vendors in the ‘alternative’ township pay any attention to actual human or environmental health, beyond ubiquitous legal requirements of sanitation, hygiene and the like. Most of what they sell to paying consumers is toxic crap, just like the stuff most human folk will eat before, during or after reading these words.

But in Nimbin the other half are still wonderfully fastidious and most local produce is fairly organic. It’s been decades since aerial spraying of Agent Orange was common in these parts – in a saleable form with a slightly different brand name, of course, sprayed directly into the waterways and everywhere else when the hippies first arrived; one more lasting legacy of war’s fine record of ongoing ‘technological advancement’.

In Vietnam the peasants had no idea what was happening to them, but in Oz and other ‘advanced’ nations they sprayed tetragenic toxic herbicides on their own cropland, water, animals and farming families and newcomer hippies alike. Still do. Even in the ‘developed world’, the peasants are too ignorant or naive to realise that poison is poison is poison, and that all the products of Big Pharma and Big Oil and Big Brother are noxious, toxic, persistent carcinogens and/or other agents of insidious slow death. Speed kills. So does strychnine, arsenic, Agent Orange, Roundup and irradiated food. So do preservatives, colourings, bleaches, flavours, microwave radiation and most of the other shit floating around in human bloodstreams in the early Third Millennium.

And people wonder why they feel stoned all the time, why so many promising lives end so quickly.

It’s worth remembering, even if it’s unbelievable to most – three quarters of everything you eat, drink, breathe, touch, paint on yourself or wear is toxic, carcinogenic and debilitating. In a world where you rely on others instead of nature, all the crap you buy is made for making money, not for your health. As any individual toxic compound combines with all the other stuff in a ‘modern’ human body in ever more chaotic synergy, it’s no surprise almost everyone in the modern world is walking wounded, half asleep, barely here – role-playing the parts of automata in an industrial nightmare instead of being here now. Not to mention living ridiculously short, painful lives, in constant fear of the puzzling rebellion of the unknown, unstudied territories of their own bodies and minds.

The only way out is in, to create an inner place of peace unaffected by the turmoil, the inner sanctuary from which all imagination and creativity and immunity spring – and OUT, moving far away from the worst crap, stuff and nonsense of feudal capitalism, to at least attempt a different life in the last remnants of a healthier world. To bring every ‘lost’ dream all the way back from the last seed-source heartlands that still survive, and grow new lives that keep those heartlands sacred and inviolate. To grow a healthy world with a whole glowing soul. That’s the dream that most pursue or seek or view complete on the busy streets of Nimbin.

Here in the Rainbow Region a generation of brave beings has largely succeeded in their attempt to change the world within their horizon. The Nimbin Mardi Grass is barely a tenth of a greater green iceberg lurking just out of sight of The Grey Man and his equally hideous hidebound mate, the all-consuming Shopping Bitch. Alternative notions have evolved into a hidden yet subtly influential nation nestled within the recovering rainforest canopy. Its denizens have no need to officially secede from the larger notional paradigm of Oz – nothing secedes like success.

The Prince of Centraxis allows a multitude of voices wash over him through the amplified reggae horn section while Celtic harpists work the crowd from the psychedelic stage; “We all have the Buddha and the Troll within”, a bearded man in saffron is saying to a group of escaped students beneath the hemp tarpaulin. “Which do you prefer to give rein, and allow to reign through you?”

A high-pitched squeak obtrudes from a dozen paces distant; “Have you really looked at the shots of the twin towers exploding before they fall? Come on, it’s a crock of shit…”

“He’s selling ounces for a hundred but we have to be quick, it isn’t seedy…”

“Did you see those three girls doing it together at the doof?”

“Draw me a mud map and I can find it. Can we camp there, do y’reckon?”

“…working on a flow form whereby the superfine patterning embossed, as it were, on the metal substrate energises the water flowing across it…”

“What kind of metal?”

“…nuclear dump site for the rest of the world because that’s the only way we can have nuclear power plants and vice versa…”

“…but also draws slight but measurable and ultimately usable energy from the interaction…”

“…it’s all a little unclear if you ask me…”

“It’s all about money – we’ll make a motza from the storage fees – pay off the national debt…”

“You guys don’t remember, do you?”

“I’m going to hear that bloke from Canadia talk – you know, the one who got the medical exemption that says he can smoke?”

“I and eye don’ have t’worry, bud. Jah Rastafarii!”

“You mean it? How does that work?”

“You seen Narla? I lost ’er last night at the dance…”

“You mean your little girl?”

“Nah – her mum. Here – try some o’ this…”

“You know they had to let Rusty off all the charges?”

“Why? Because he was picked up by that flying saucer?”

“…the real question is, is scratching an itch or a willed act?”

“Huh?”

“O’ course it is! Yer just don’ notice the instant that it takes f’ yer to decide to do it.” It’s all too fast unless yer pay attention…”

A true story
By R. Ayana

Continues @ centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/prophetic-conspirators-… BE AWARE – THIS LINK LEADS TO IMPLICATE & XPLICIT CONCEPTS & IMAGES!

faerie magic 2012
legal bud black magic
Image by mardi grass 2011
Prophetic Conspirators: Psychedelic Water 27>

The mess accumulates and energy swells as adventurous travelers strut toward the promise of a truly psychedelic experience – an indelible climax to the weekend’s hedonistic foreplay. By midday throngs already amass in the painted streets and shaded byways of the far out little village of Nimbin. Saturday’s brilliantine noonday heat transforms the vibrant subtropical splendour of the verdant landscape into a viridian radiance of enervating humidity. The autumnal atmosphere verges back into the sweaty green steambath conditions common during the last few years’ runaway greenhouse summers.

Yet untrammeled vigour still imbues the eagerly expectant assembly of freaks, straights, tourists and wannabe contenders with unabated intensity as they mingle and jostle for the year’s best buds, heads, colas and other less combustible comestibles. A demi-multitude straggles into town along gravel tracks and bitumen arteries, undeterred by the heat of climate catastrophe or police state shenanigans.

The locals are thoroughly outnumbered. Garbage bins overflow along the crowd-filled footpaths as thousands of camera wielding, fast food chomping visitors from despoiled lands of drear normality throng and mix, deal and fix, see and be seen beneath banners of the rainbow tribes and the all-seeing eyes of robotic surveillance cams. Spectrum-spanning painted faces stud the baseball capped crowd in chaotic arcs of rainbow colours, a well laundered shimmering sea of shiny black-and-blue-clad suburbanites.

Why don’t you speak of what you’ve seen? The shaman muses as he rises from his seat to leave the Oasis. Is it just egotistic concerns over credibility – or a matter of not speaking of things which don’t want to be known?

Many of the visitors exist under a perennial stupor of paranoia in ‘normal’ workaday lives – fearing loss of station or job, marriage or children, afraid of peer or parental disapproval and all the other snares and grasping adhesions of the noxious social glue that holds the hive in which they’re enmeshed together – even, particularly, while walking and gawking down the main and almost only street of World Hippie Central. The alternative-minded but socially camouflaged throng doesn’t yet realise that they represent most of the world’s people – non-conformists at heart, who all live under the self-imposed harness of unnecessary fears, weighed down by the pointless guilt so keenly felt by true innocents deprived of normal human requirements, and made to feel inferior when they seek to satisfy their needs.

All yearn for release from the straightjacket asylum of a barely post-feudal civilisation run by lunatic control freaks.

The ages-old witch and shaman ride within us all, suppressed or oppressed or free as a bird and all of us are hankering after a flavour that leads to the taste of other dimensions, fresher views – zestier, more riveting impressions of the sumptuous reality through which we otherwise drift like limbo-bound wraiths and automatons.

Most Mardi Grass revelers couldn’t give a damn about hypocritical, unjust laws and certainly know they’re not damaged or damned, but blessed to be out and about in one of the brightest, freest times and places in all the vast murky realms of human history.

Everyone’s here to party and experience unseen sights and untried delights; hippies, yuppie ‘aspirationals’, dreadlocked Rastas and dreaded ferals, priests, politicians, students, TV crews and reporters and backpacking travellers from all round the globe, shopkeepers, soldiers, big and little old men and women, checkout chicks, lawyers, bureaucrats, proud parents carrying brightly bedecked newborn babes, emigrant Greek fishermen, Indian software writers and call centre voices, emo Goths – and anyone else not interested in being an active part of the subtly feudal friendly fascist police surveillance state of impersonal corporate Big Brother clones and militant industrialists – and all are seeking the selfsame source of the philosophers, stoned. A broad cross-section is represented, as they say, and just about everyone’s smiling.

Fleecy clouds begin coalescing in the wide open sky’s more distant margins, blowing apart in this late Interglacial Age’s inexorably rising winds. The Rainbow Region is multiply blessed with rich soil and Sun, sea breezes and rain, luxuriantly lush and deliriously green even at the end of a historic nationwide mother of all droughts, and for the first time the annual parade will be free of the double-edged benison of rain.

A good year for curing the mull, if you look on the bright side… Could be a good vintage… The shamanic prince’s thoughts flit hither and yon while he makes a sine wave beeline for the great Strangler Fig. The Tree of Life beckons, arching across the market ground’s outdoor stage as he strides through streams of fossicking punters hovering round myriad stalls and jewellery-strewn blankets. The future’s so bright we’ll have to wear shades…

He reaches the Chai Tent and gratefully slides into a mismatched litter of comfy cushions on the hempen expanse of canvas flooring. Each and every Mardi Grass, the space beneath the market site’s grand old fig is reserved for the Chai Tent, right beside the covered stage. The chai’s always good – if you wait for it to properly brew – gingery and purifying for the partied-out and jaded throng recovering from the pleasant excesses of Friday night.

After taking a breath Ram’yana rises to inspect a tasty array of homemade organic cakes while John ladles some brew into a varied menagerie of ceramic cups. Muzza and John are regular fixtures at most alternative events, their friendly bearded familiar faces ever beaming behind fluttering prayer flags and political messages. They help their latest batch of eager helpers mix chai, coffee, teas and munchies beneath the generously shady green canopies of tree and marquee.

These days only half the food vendors in the ‘alternative’ township pay any attention to actual human or environmental health, beyond ubiquitous legal requirements of sanitation, hygiene and the like. Most of what they sell to paying consumers is toxic crap, just like the stuff most human folk will eat before, during or after reading these words.

But in Nimbin the other half are still wonderfully fastidious and most local produce is fairly organic. It’s been decades since aerial spraying of Agent Orange was common in these parts – in a saleable form with a slightly different brand name, of course, sprayed directly into the waterways and everywhere else when the hippies first arrived; one more lasting legacy of war’s fine record of ongoing ‘technological advancement’.

In Vietnam the peasants had no idea what was happening to them, but in Oz and other ‘advanced’ nations they sprayed tetragenic toxic herbicides on their own cropland, water, animals and farming families and newcomer hippies alike. Still do. Even in the ‘developed world’, the peasants are too ignorant or naive to realise that poison is poison is poison, and that all the products of Big Pharma and Big Oil and Big Brother are noxious, toxic, persistent carcinogens and/or other agents of insidious slow death. Speed kills. So does strychnine, arsenic, Agent Orange, Roundup and irradiated food. So do preservatives, colourings, bleaches, flavours, microwave radiation and most of the other shit floating around in human bloodstreams in the early Third Millennium.

And people wonder why they feel stoned all the time, why so many promising lives end so quickly.

It’s worth remembering, even if it’s unbelievable to most – three quarters of everything you eat, drink, breathe, touch, paint on yourself or wear is toxic, carcinogenic and debilitating. In a world where you rely on others instead of nature, all the crap you buy is made for making money, not for your health. As any individual toxic compound combines with all the other stuff in a ‘modern’ human body in ever more chaotic synergy, it’s no surprise almost everyone in the modern world is walking wounded, half asleep, barely here – role-playing the parts of automata in an industrial nightmare instead of being here now. Not to mention living ridiculously short, painful lives, in constant fear of the puzzling rebellion of the unknown, unstudied territories of their own bodies and minds.

The only way out is in, to create an inner place of peace unaffected by the turmoil, the inner sanctuary from which all imagination and creativity and immunity spring – and OUT, moving far away from the worst crap, stuff and nonsense of feudal capitalism, to at least attempt a different life in the last remnants of a healthier world. To bring every ‘lost’ dream all the way back from the last seed-source heartlands that still survive, and grow new lives that keep those heartlands sacred and inviolate. To grow a healthy world with a whole glowing soul. That’s the dream that most pursue or seek or view complete on the busy streets of Nimbin.

Here in the Rainbow Region a generation of brave beings has largely succeeded in their attempt to change the world within their horizon. The Nimbin Mardi Grass is barely a tenth of a greater green iceberg lurking just out of sight of The Grey Man and his equally hideous hidebound mate, the all-consuming Shopping Bitch. Alternative notions have evolved into a hidden yet subtly influential nation nestled within the recovering rainforest canopy. Its denizens have no need to officially secede from the larger notional paradigm of Oz – nothing secedes like success.

The Prince of Centraxis allows a multitude of voices wash over him through the amplified reggae horn section while Celtic harpists work the crowd from the psychedelic stage; “We all have the Buddha and the Troll within”, a bearded man in saffron is saying to a group of escaped students beneath the hemp tarpaulin. “Which do you prefer to give rein, and allow to reign through you?”

A high-pitched squeak obtrudes from a dozen paces distant; “Have you really looked at the shots of the twin towers exploding before they fall? Come on, it’s a crock of shit…”

“He’s selling ounces for a hundred but we have to be quick, it isn’t seedy…”

“Did you see those three girls doing it together at the doof?”

“Draw me a mud map and I can find it. Can we camp there, do y’reckon?”

“…working on a flow form whereby the superfine patterning embossed, as it were, on the metal substrate energises the water flowing across it…”

“What kind of metal?”

“…nuclear dump site for the rest of the world because that’s the only way we can have nuclear power plants and vice versa…”

“…but also draws slight but measurable and ultimately usable energy from the interaction…”

“…it’s all a little unclear if you ask me…”

“It’s all about money – we’ll make a motza from the storage fees – pay off the national debt…”

“You guys don’t remember, do you?”

“I’m going to hear that bloke from Canadia talk – you know, the one who got the medical exemption that says he can smoke?”

“I and eye don’ have t’worry, bud. Jah Rastafarii!”

“You mean it? How does that work?”

“You seen Narla? I lost ’er last night at the dance…”

“You mean your little girl?”

“Nah – her mum. Here – try some o’ this…”

“You know they had to let Rusty off all the charges?”

“Why? Because he was picked up by that flying saucer?”

“…the real question is, is scratching an itch or a willed act?”

“Huh?”

“O’ course it is! Yer just don’ notice the instant that it takes f’ yer to decide to do it.” It’s all too fast unless yer pay attention…”

A true story
By R. Ayana

Continues @ centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/prophetic-conspirators-… BE AWARE – THIS LINK LEADS TO IMPLICATE & XPLICIT CONCEPTS & IMAGES!

Nice Free Legal Bud Blends photos

Some cool free legal bud blends images:

Buds and flowers of mango, Manifera indica …Phát hoa của cây Xoài ….
free legal bud blends
Image by Vietnam Plants & America plants
Vietnamese named : Xoài .
Common names : Mango
Scientist name : Mangifera indica L.
Synonyms :
Family : Annacardiaceae . Họ Đào Lộn Hột

Links :

**** caythuoc.chothuoc24h.com/cay-thuoc/X/780/
Xoài – Mangifera indica L., thuộc họ Ðào lộn hột – Anacardiaceae.

Mô tả: Cây gỗ lớn, cao 10-20m, có tán rậm. Lá đơn, nguyên, mọc so le, phiến lá hình thuôn mũi mác, nhẵn, thơm. Hoa họp thành chùm kép ở ngọn cành. Hoa nhỏ, màu vàng, có 5 lá đài nhỏ, có lông ở mặt ngoài, 5 cánh hoa có tuyến mật, 5 nhị nhưng chỉ có 1-2 nhị sinh sản. Bầu trên, thường chỉ có một lá noãn chứa 1 noãn. Quả hạch chín màu vàng, thịt vàng, ngọt, thơm, nhân có xơ. Hạt rất to.

Bộ phận dùng: Quả, hạch của quả, lá, vỏ thân – Fructus, Nux, Folium et Cortex Mangiferae Indicae.

Nơi sống và thu hái: Gốc ở Ấn Độ, được trồng nhiều ở các xứ nhiệt đới. Ở nước ta, Xoài được trồng ở nhiều nơi. Có nhiều thứ khác nhau như Xoài tượng, Xoài cát, Xoài cơm, Xoài thanh ca, v.v.. có thể thu hái các bộ phận của cây quanh năm, dùng tươi hay phơi khô.

Thành phần hóa học: Quả chứa nhiều caroten và vitamin B1, B2 và C. Hạch quả chứa nhiều tinh bột, dầu và tanin. Lá chứa tanin và một hợp nhất flavonoid là mangiferin. Vỏ thân chứa 3% tanin và mangiferin.

Tính vị, tác dụng: Quả, vỏ, lá có vị chua, ngọt, tính mát; hạch quả có vị chua, chát, tính bình. Quả có tác dụng thanh nhiệt tiêu trệ, ích vị, chỉ thổ, giải khát, lợi niệu. Hạt quả có tác dụng chỉ khái, kiện vị. Lá có tác dụng chỉ dương, hành khí sơ trệ, khu sa tích, lợi tiểu và có thể kháng nham. Vỏ thân có tác dụng thu liễm, sát trùng. Nhựa từ vỏ cây rỉ ra không mùi, có ví chát, đắng, hơi cay cũng có tác dụng như vỏ.

Công dụng, chỉ định và phối hợp: Quả Xoài và hạch quả dùng trị ho, tiêu hóa không bình thường, sán khí. Thịt quả dùng trị bệnh hoại huyết và loạn óc. Hạch quả còn dùng trị giun, kiết lỵ và ỉa chảy. Vỏ quả dùng trị kiết lỵ.

Lá dùng trị các bệnh phần trên đường hô hấp như ho, viêm phế quản mạn tính hay cấp tính, thủy thũng và dùng ngoài trị viêm da, ngứa ngáy ngoài da.

Vỏ thân thường được dùng trị ho, đau sưng họng và đau răng. Nhựa từ vỏ dùng trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy và bệnh ngoài da, cũng dùng trị bạch đới, kinh nguyệt quá nhiều.

Cách dùng: Ta thường trồng Xoài để lấy quả ăn. Vỏ thân dùng chữa đau răng. Lấy 1 miếng vỏ bằng bàn tay, cạo vỏ ngoài rồi thái mỏng. Nếu dùng vỏ tươi thì giã nhỏ, vắt lấy nước, thêm tí muối để ngậm rồi nhổ nước, mỗi ngày 4-5 lần. Nếu dùng vỏ khô thì sắc lấy nước: đổ 2 bát nước đun sôi, giữ nước sôi kỹ trong nửa giờ, gạn lấy nước sắc, thêm vài hạt muối rồi ngậm. Mỗi lần ngậm chừng một chén con. Ngậm trong 10 phút, thỉnh thoảng súc sang hai bên má rồi nhổ đi. Ngậm 3-4 lần trong ngày, liên tiếp vài ba ngày.

Nhựa cây tươi đem ngâm trong nước Chanh dùng trị các thứ ghẻ lở. Hạt phơi khô, tán bột, dùng mỗi lần 1,5g trị giun hoặc uống trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy. Lá thường dùng nấu nước xông trị các bệnh trong họng.

**** www.khoahocchonhanong.com.vn/CSDLKHCN/modules.php?name=Ne…
**** www.khuyennongtphcm.com/index.php?mnu=4&s=600012&…
**** www.dongthap.gov.vn/wps/portal/huyencaolanh/!ut/p/c0/04_S…

______________________________________________________________

**** en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mango
The mango is a fleshy stone fruit belonging to the genus Mangifera, consisting of numerous tropical fruiting trees in the flowering plant family Anacardiaceae. While other Mangifera species (e.g. horse mango, M. foetida) are also grown on a more localized basis, Mangifera indica – the common mango or Indian mango – is the only mango tree commonly cultivated in many tropical and subtropical regions, and its fruit is distributed essentially worldwide.
In several cultures, its fruit and leaves are ritually used as floral decorations at weddings, public celebrations and religious ceremonies[citation needed].
Mangos were first cultivated in Southeast Asia

Etymology

The word mango comes from the Portuguese manga, which is probably derived from the Malayalam മാങ്ങ (māṅṅa; pronounced "manga"). The word’s first recorded attestation in a European language was a text by Ludovico di Varthema in Italian in 1510, as Manga; the first recorded occurrences in languages such as French and post-classical Latin appear to be translations from this Italian text. The origin of the -o ending in English is unclear.[2]
When mangoes were first imported to the American colonies in the 17th century, they had to be pickled due to lack of refrigeration. Other fruits were also pickled and came to be called "mangoes" (especially bell peppers), and by the 18th century, the word "mango" became a verb meaning "to pickle"

Description
Mango trees (Mangifera indica L.) grow up to 35–40 m (115–130 ft) tall, with a crown radius of 10 m (33 ft). The mango tree is long-lived, as some specimens still fruit after 300 years.[citation needed] In deep soil, the taproot descends to a depth of 6 m (20 ft) with profuse, wide-spreading feeder roots; the tree also sends down many anchor roots, which penetrate several feet of soil. The leaves are evergreen, alternate, simple, 15–35 cm (5.9–14 in) long and 6–16 cm (2.4–6.3 in) broad; when the leaves are young they are orange-pink, rapidly changing to a dark glossy red, then dark green as they mature. The flowers are produced in terminal panicles 10–40 cm (3.9–16 in) long; each flower is small and white with five petals 5–10 mm (0.20–0.39 in) long, with a mild sweet odor suggestive of lily of the valley. The fruit takes three to six months to ripen.

The seed of mango can be hairy or fibrous

The "hedgehog" style is a common way of eating mangoes (left). A cross section of a mango can be seen on the right, not quite fully halving the fruit as the stone is not visible
The ripe fruit varies in size and color. Cultivars are variously yellow, orange, red or green, and carry a single flat, oblong pit that can be fibrous or hairy on the surface, and which does not separate easily from the pulp. Ripe, unpeeled fruit gives off a distinctive resinous, sweet smell. Inside the pit 1–2 mm (0.039–0.079 in) thick is a thin lining covering a single seed, 4–7 mm (0.16–0.28 in) long. The seed contains the plant embryo.

Cultivation

Mango orchard in Multan, Pakistan

Unripe mangoes on a mango tree
Mangoes have been cultivated in South Asia for thousands of years[4] and reached East Asia between the 5th and 4th centuries BC. By the 10th century AD, cultivation had begun in East Africa.[4] The 14th century Moroccan traveler, Ibn Battuta, reported it at Mogadishu.[5] Cultivation came later to Brazil, the West Indies and Mexico, where an appropriate climate allows its growth.[4]
Mango is now cultivated in most frost-free tropical and warmer subtropical climates; More than a third of the world’s mangoes are cultivated in India alone second being China[citation needed].[6][7][8]
Mango is also being grown in Andalusia, Spain (mainly in Málaga province), which is one of the few places in mainland Europe that allows growth of tropical plants and fruit trees.[9] Many of the 1,000+ mango cultivars are easily cultivated using grafted saplings, ranging from the "turpentine mango" (named for its strong taste of turpentine[10]) to the huevos de toro.[citation needed]
Other cultivators include North, South and Central America, the Caribbean, south, west and central Africa, Australia, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Southeast Asia.
Though India is the largest producer of mangoes (Pakistan being the largest exporter[citation needed]), it accounts for less than one percent[citation needed] of the international mango trade, consuming most of its own output.[11]
Dwarf or semi-dwarf varieties serve as ornamental plants and can be grown in containers.
A wide variety of diseases can afflict mangoes; see List of mango diseases.

Potential for contact dermatitis
Mango peel and sap contains urushiol, the chemical in poison ivy and poison sumac that can cause urushiol-induced contact dermatitis in susceptible people.[12] Cross-reactions between mango contact allergens and urushiol have been observed.[13] Those with a history of poison ivy or poison oak contact dermatitis may be most at risk for such an allergic reaction.[14] Urushiol is also present in mango leaves and stems. During mango’s primary ripening season, it is the most common source of plant dermatitis in Hawaii.

Food

An unripe mango of Ratnagiri (India)
The mango is generally sweet, although the taste and texture of the flesh varies across cultivars, some having a soft, pulpy texture similar to an overripe plum, while the flesh of others is firmer, like a cantaloupe or avocado, or may have a fibrous texture. For consumption of unripe, pickled or cooked fruit, the mango skin may be consumed comfortably, but has potential to cause contact dermatitis (above) of the lips, gingiva or tongue in susceptible people. In ripe fruits which are commonly eaten fresh, the skin may be thicker and bitter tasting, so is typically not eaten.

Cuisine

Commercially packaged mango powder sold in clear plastic wrapping
Mangoes are widely used in cuisine. Sour, unripe mangoes are used in chutneys, athanu, pickles, or side dishes, or may be eaten raw with salt, chili, or soy sauce. A cooling summer drink called panna or panha comes from mangoes.
Ripe mangoes are typically eaten fresh; however, they can have many other culinary uses. Mango Lassi, a popular drink made throughout South Asia[citation needed], is created by mixing ripe mangoes or mango pulp with yogurt and sugar. Ripe mangoes are also used to make curries. Aamras is a popular pulp/thick juice made of mangoes with sugar or milk, and is consumed with bread, rice or pooris. The pulp from ripe mangoes is also used to make jam called ‘mangada’.
Mangoes are used in preserves like moramba, amchur (dried and powdered unripe mango) and pickles, including a spicy mustard-oil pickle. Ripe mangoes are often cut into thin layers, desiccated, folded, and then cut. These bars are similar to dried guava fruit bars available in some countries. The fruit is also added to cereal products like muesli and oat granola.

Native green mangoes from the Philippines

A basket of ripe mangoes from Bangladesh
Unripe mango may be eaten with bagoong (especially in the Philippines), fish sauce or with dash of salt. Dried strips of sweet, ripe mango (sometimes combined with seedless tamarind to form mangorind) are also popular. Mangoes may be used to make juices, mango nectar, and as a flavoring and major ingredient in ice cream and sorbetes.
Mango is used to make juices, smoothies, ice cream, fruit bars, raspados, aguas frescas, pies and sweet chili sauce, or mixed with chamoy, a sweet and spicy chili paste. It is popular on a stick dipped in hot chili powder and salt or also as a main ingredient in fresh fruit combinations. In Central America, mango is either eaten green mixed with salt, vinegar, black pepper and hot sauce, or ripe in various forms. Toasted and ground pumpkin seed (called pepita) with lime and salt are the norm when eating green mangoes. Some people also add soy sauce or chili sauce.
Pieces of mango can be mashed and used as a topping on ice cream or blended with milk and ice as milkshakes. Sweet glutinous rice is flavored with coconut, then served with sliced mango as a dessert. In other parts of Southeast Asia, mangoes are pickled with fish sauce and rice vinegar. Green mangoes can be used in mango salad with fish sauce and dried shrimp. Mango with condensed milk may be used as a topping for shaved ice.

Nutrients and phytochemicals
Mango, raw
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz)
Energy272 kJ (65 kcal)
Carbohydrates17.00 g
– Sugars14.8 g
– Dietary fiber1.8 g
Fat0.27 g
Protein0.51 g
Vitamin A equiv.38 μg (4%)
– beta-carotene445 μg (4%)
Thiamine (Vit. B1)0.058 mg (4%)
Riboflavin (Vit. B2)0.057 mg (4%)
Niacin (Vit. B3)0.584 mg (4%)
Pantothenic acid (B5)0.160 mg (3%)
Vitamin B60.134 mg (10%)
Folate (Vit. B9)14 μg (4%)
Vitamin C27.7 mg (46%)
Calcium10 mg (1%)
Iron0.13 mg (1%)
Magnesium9 mg (2%)
Phosphorus11 mg (2%)
Potassium156 mg (3%)
Zinc0.04 mg (0%)
Percentages are relative to US recommendations for adults.
Source: USDA Nutrient database
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz) is 272 kJ (65 kcal) and that of the apple mango is slightly higher (79 kcal per 100g). Mango is rich in a variety of phytochemicals[16] and nutrients. The fruit pulp is high in prebiotic dietary fiber, vitamin C, diverse polyphenols and provitamin A carotenoids.[17]
Mango contains essential vitamins and dietary minerals. The antioxidant vitamins A, C and E compose 25%, 76% and 9% of the Dietary Reference Intake (DRI) in a 165-gram (5.8-oz) serving. Vitamin B6 (pyridoxine, 11% DRI), vitamin K (9% DRI), other B vitamins and essential nutrients, such as potassium, copper and 17 amino acids are at good levels. Mango peel and pulp contain other phytonutrients, such as the pigment antioxidants – carotenoids and polyphenols – and omega-3 and -6 polyunsaturated fatty acids.[citation needed]
Mango peel contains pigments that may have antioxidant properties,[16][18] including carotenoids, such as the provitamin A compound, beta-carotene, lutein and alpha-carotene,[19] polyphenols[20][21] such as quercetin, kaempferol, gallic acid, caffeic acid, catechins, tannins, and the unique mango xanthonoid, mangiferin,[22] any of which may counteract free radicals in various disease processes as revealed in preliminary research.[23][24] Phytochemical and nutrient content appears to vary across mango species.[25] Up to 25 different carotenoids have been isolated from mango pulp, the densest of which was beta-carotene, which accounts for the yellow-orange pigmentation of most mango species.[26] Peel and leaves also have significant polyphenol content, including xanthonoids, mangiferin and gallic acid.[27]
The mango triterpene, lupeol,[28] is an effective inhibitor in laboratory models of prostate and skin cancers.[29][30][31] An extract of mango branch bark called Vimang, isolated by Cuban scientists, contains numerous polyphenols with antioxidant properties in vitro[32] and on blood parameters of elderly humans.[33]
The pigment euxanthin, known as Indian yellow, is often thought to be produced from the urine of cattle fed mango leaves; the practice is described as having been outlawed in 1908 due to malnutrition of the cows and possible urushiol poisoning.[34] This supposed origin of euxanthin appears to rely on a single, anecdotal source, and Indian legal records do not outlaw such a practice.

Cultural significance

Mango roundabout, Rajshahi, Bangladesh
The mango is the national fruit of India,[36] Pakistan, and the Philippines.[37] The mango tree is the national tree of Bangladesh.[38]
In Hinduism, the perfectly ripe mango is often held by Lord Ganesha as a symbol of attainment, regarding the devotees potential perfection. Mango blossoms are also used in the worship of the goddess Saraswati.
Mango leaves are used to decorate archways and doors in Indian houses and during weddings and celebrations like Ganesh Chaturthi. Mango motifs and paisleys are widely used in different Indian embroidery styles, and are found in Kashmiri shawls, Kanchipuram silk sarees, etc. Paisleys are also common to Iranian art, because of its pre-Islamic Zoroastrian past.
In Tamilnadu, Mango is considered, along with Banana and jack fruit, as the Three royal fruits (Mukkani)
Famous Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib was very fond of mangoes. There are many anecdotes concerning his love for mangoes.

In Australia, where mangoes are considered to be a symbol of summer, the first tray of mangoes of the season is traditionally sold at an auction for charity

………………………………………………………………….. Click on link to read more, please

Bud and flower ‘s close up ( Mangifera indica ) ….Chụp gần hoa và nụ của cây Xoài….
free legal bud blends
Image by Vietnam Plants & America plants
Vietnamese named : Xoài .
Common names : Mango
Scientist name : Mangifera indica L.
Synonyms :
Family : Annacardiaceae . Họ Đào Lộn Hột

Links :

**** caythuoc.chothuoc24h.com/cay-thuoc/X/780/
Xoài – Mangifera indica L., thuộc họ Ðào lộn hột – Anacardiaceae.

Mô tả: Cây gỗ lớn, cao 10-20m, có tán rậm. Lá đơn, nguyên, mọc so le, phiến lá hình thuôn mũi mác, nhẵn, thơm. Hoa họp thành chùm kép ở ngọn cành. Hoa nhỏ, màu vàng, có 5 lá đài nhỏ, có lông ở mặt ngoài, 5 cánh hoa có tuyến mật, 5 nhị nhưng chỉ có 1-2 nhị sinh sản. Bầu trên, thường chỉ có một lá noãn chứa 1 noãn. Quả hạch chín màu vàng, thịt vàng, ngọt, thơm, nhân có xơ. Hạt rất to.

Bộ phận dùng: Quả, hạch của quả, lá, vỏ thân – Fructus, Nux, Folium et Cortex Mangiferae Indicae.

Nơi sống và thu hái: Gốc ở Ấn Độ, được trồng nhiều ở các xứ nhiệt đới. Ở nước ta, Xoài được trồng ở nhiều nơi. Có nhiều thứ khác nhau như Xoài tượng, Xoài cát, Xoài cơm, Xoài thanh ca, v.v.. có thể thu hái các bộ phận của cây quanh năm, dùng tươi hay phơi khô.

Thành phần hóa học: Quả chứa nhiều caroten và vitamin B1, B2 và C. Hạch quả chứa nhiều tinh bột, dầu và tanin. Lá chứa tanin và một hợp nhất flavonoid là mangiferin. Vỏ thân chứa 3% tanin và mangiferin.

Tính vị, tác dụng: Quả, vỏ, lá có vị chua, ngọt, tính mát; hạch quả có vị chua, chát, tính bình. Quả có tác dụng thanh nhiệt tiêu trệ, ích vị, chỉ thổ, giải khát, lợi niệu. Hạt quả có tác dụng chỉ khái, kiện vị. Lá có tác dụng chỉ dương, hành khí sơ trệ, khu sa tích, lợi tiểu và có thể kháng nham. Vỏ thân có tác dụng thu liễm, sát trùng. Nhựa từ vỏ cây rỉ ra không mùi, có ví chát, đắng, hơi cay cũng có tác dụng như vỏ.

Công dụng, chỉ định và phối hợp: Quả Xoài và hạch quả dùng trị ho, tiêu hóa không bình thường, sán khí. Thịt quả dùng trị bệnh hoại huyết và loạn óc. Hạch quả còn dùng trị giun, kiết lỵ và ỉa chảy. Vỏ quả dùng trị kiết lỵ.

Lá dùng trị các bệnh phần trên đường hô hấp như ho, viêm phế quản mạn tính hay cấp tính, thủy thũng và dùng ngoài trị viêm da, ngứa ngáy ngoài da.

Vỏ thân thường được dùng trị ho, đau sưng họng và đau răng. Nhựa từ vỏ dùng trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy và bệnh ngoài da, cũng dùng trị bạch đới, kinh nguyệt quá nhiều.

Cách dùng: Ta thường trồng Xoài để lấy quả ăn. Vỏ thân dùng chữa đau răng. Lấy 1 miếng vỏ bằng bàn tay, cạo vỏ ngoài rồi thái mỏng. Nếu dùng vỏ tươi thì giã nhỏ, vắt lấy nước, thêm tí muối để ngậm rồi nhổ nước, mỗi ngày 4-5 lần. Nếu dùng vỏ khô thì sắc lấy nước: đổ 2 bát nước đun sôi, giữ nước sôi kỹ trong nửa giờ, gạn lấy nước sắc, thêm vài hạt muối rồi ngậm. Mỗi lần ngậm chừng một chén con. Ngậm trong 10 phút, thỉnh thoảng súc sang hai bên má rồi nhổ đi. Ngậm 3-4 lần trong ngày, liên tiếp vài ba ngày.

Nhựa cây tươi đem ngâm trong nước Chanh dùng trị các thứ ghẻ lở. Hạt phơi khô, tán bột, dùng mỗi lần 1,5g trị giun hoặc uống trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy. Lá thường dùng nấu nước xông trị các bệnh trong họng.

**** www.khoahocchonhanong.com.vn/CSDLKHCN/modules.php?name=Ne…
**** www.khuyennongtphcm.com/index.php?mnu=4&s=600012&…
**** www.dongthap.gov.vn/wps/portal/huyencaolanh/!ut/p/c0/04_S…

______________________________________________________________

**** en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mango
The mango is a fleshy stone fruit belonging to the genus Mangifera, consisting of numerous tropical fruiting trees in the flowering plant family Anacardiaceae. While other Mangifera species (e.g. horse mango, M. foetida) are also grown on a more localized basis, Mangifera indica – the common mango or Indian mango – is the only mango tree commonly cultivated in many tropical and subtropical regions, and its fruit is distributed essentially worldwide.
In several cultures, its fruit and leaves are ritually used as floral decorations at weddings, public celebrations and religious ceremonies[citation needed].
Mangos were first cultivated in Southeast Asia

Etymology

The word mango comes from the Portuguese manga, which is probably derived from the Malayalam മാങ്ങ (māṅṅa; pronounced "manga"). The word’s first recorded attestation in a European language was a text by Ludovico di Varthema in Italian in 1510, as Manga; the first recorded occurrences in languages such as French and post-classical Latin appear to be translations from this Italian text. The origin of the -o ending in English is unclear.[2]
When mangoes were first imported to the American colonies in the 17th century, they had to be pickled due to lack of refrigeration. Other fruits were also pickled and came to be called "mangoes" (especially bell peppers), and by the 18th century, the word "mango" became a verb meaning "to pickle"

Description
Mango trees (Mangifera indica L.) grow up to 35–40 m (115–130 ft) tall, with a crown radius of 10 m (33 ft). The mango tree is long-lived, as some specimens still fruit after 300 years.[citation needed] In deep soil, the taproot descends to a depth of 6 m (20 ft) with profuse, wide-spreading feeder roots; the tree also sends down many anchor roots, which penetrate several feet of soil. The leaves are evergreen, alternate, simple, 15–35 cm (5.9–14 in) long and 6–16 cm (2.4–6.3 in) broad; when the leaves are young they are orange-pink, rapidly changing to a dark glossy red, then dark green as they mature. The flowers are produced in terminal panicles 10–40 cm (3.9–16 in) long; each flower is small and white with five petals 5–10 mm (0.20–0.39 in) long, with a mild sweet odor suggestive of lily of the valley. The fruit takes three to six months to ripen.

The seed of mango can be hairy or fibrous

The "hedgehog" style is a common way of eating mangoes (left). A cross section of a mango can be seen on the right, not quite fully halving the fruit as the stone is not visible
The ripe fruit varies in size and color. Cultivars are variously yellow, orange, red or green, and carry a single flat, oblong pit that can be fibrous or hairy on the surface, and which does not separate easily from the pulp. Ripe, unpeeled fruit gives off a distinctive resinous, sweet smell. Inside the pit 1–2 mm (0.039–0.079 in) thick is a thin lining covering a single seed, 4–7 mm (0.16–0.28 in) long. The seed contains the plant embryo.

Cultivation

Mango orchard in Multan, Pakistan

Unripe mangoes on a mango tree
Mangoes have been cultivated in South Asia for thousands of years[4] and reached East Asia between the 5th and 4th centuries BC. By the 10th century AD, cultivation had begun in East Africa.[4] The 14th century Moroccan traveler, Ibn Battuta, reported it at Mogadishu.[5] Cultivation came later to Brazil, the West Indies and Mexico, where an appropriate climate allows its growth.[4]
Mango is now cultivated in most frost-free tropical and warmer subtropical climates; More than a third of the world’s mangoes are cultivated in India alone second being China[citation needed].[6][7][8]
Mango is also being grown in Andalusia, Spain (mainly in Málaga province), which is one of the few places in mainland Europe that allows growth of tropical plants and fruit trees.[9] Many of the 1,000+ mango cultivars are easily cultivated using grafted saplings, ranging from the "turpentine mango" (named for its strong taste of turpentine[10]) to the huevos de toro.[citation needed]
Other cultivators include North, South and Central America, the Caribbean, south, west and central Africa, Australia, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Southeast Asia.
Though India is the largest producer of mangoes (Pakistan being the largest exporter[citation needed]), it accounts for less than one percent[citation needed] of the international mango trade, consuming most of its own output.[11]
Dwarf or semi-dwarf varieties serve as ornamental plants and can be grown in containers.
A wide variety of diseases can afflict mangoes; see List of mango diseases.

Potential for contact dermatitis
Mango peel and sap contains urushiol, the chemical in poison ivy and poison sumac that can cause urushiol-induced contact dermatitis in susceptible people.[12] Cross-reactions between mango contact allergens and urushiol have been observed.[13] Those with a history of poison ivy or poison oak contact dermatitis may be most at risk for such an allergic reaction.[14] Urushiol is also present in mango leaves and stems. During mango’s primary ripening season, it is the most common source of plant dermatitis in Hawaii.

Food

An unripe mango of Ratnagiri (India)
The mango is generally sweet, although the taste and texture of the flesh varies across cultivars, some having a soft, pulpy texture similar to an overripe plum, while the flesh of others is firmer, like a cantaloupe or avocado, or may have a fibrous texture. For consumption of unripe, pickled or cooked fruit, the mango skin may be consumed comfortably, but has potential to cause contact dermatitis (above) of the lips, gingiva or tongue in susceptible people. In ripe fruits which are commonly eaten fresh, the skin may be thicker and bitter tasting, so is typically not eaten.

Cuisine

Commercially packaged mango powder sold in clear plastic wrapping
Mangoes are widely used in cuisine. Sour, unripe mangoes are used in chutneys, athanu, pickles, or side dishes, or may be eaten raw with salt, chili, or soy sauce. A cooling summer drink called panna or panha comes from mangoes.
Ripe mangoes are typically eaten fresh; however, they can have many other culinary uses. Mango Lassi, a popular drink made throughout South Asia[citation needed], is created by mixing ripe mangoes or mango pulp with yogurt and sugar. Ripe mangoes are also used to make curries. Aamras is a popular pulp/thick juice made of mangoes with sugar or milk, and is consumed with bread, rice or pooris. The pulp from ripe mangoes is also used to make jam called ‘mangada’.
Mangoes are used in preserves like moramba, amchur (dried and powdered unripe mango) and pickles, including a spicy mustard-oil pickle. Ripe mangoes are often cut into thin layers, desiccated, folded, and then cut. These bars are similar to dried guava fruit bars available in some countries. The fruit is also added to cereal products like muesli and oat granola.

Native green mangoes from the Philippines

A basket of ripe mangoes from Bangladesh
Unripe mango may be eaten with bagoong (especially in the Philippines), fish sauce or with dash of salt. Dried strips of sweet, ripe mango (sometimes combined with seedless tamarind to form mangorind) are also popular. Mangoes may be used to make juices, mango nectar, and as a flavoring and major ingredient in ice cream and sorbetes.
Mango is used to make juices, smoothies, ice cream, fruit bars, raspados, aguas frescas, pies and sweet chili sauce, or mixed with chamoy, a sweet and spicy chili paste. It is popular on a stick dipped in hot chili powder and salt or also as a main ingredient in fresh fruit combinations. In Central America, mango is either eaten green mixed with salt, vinegar, black pepper and hot sauce, or ripe in various forms. Toasted and ground pumpkin seed (called pepita) with lime and salt are the norm when eating green mangoes. Some people also add soy sauce or chili sauce.
Pieces of mango can be mashed and used as a topping on ice cream or blended with milk and ice as milkshakes. Sweet glutinous rice is flavored with coconut, then served with sliced mango as a dessert. In other parts of Southeast Asia, mangoes are pickled with fish sauce and rice vinegar. Green mangoes can be used in mango salad with fish sauce and dried shrimp. Mango with condensed milk may be used as a topping for shaved ice.

Nutrients and phytochemicals
Mango, raw
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz)
Energy272 kJ (65 kcal)
Carbohydrates17.00 g
– Sugars14.8 g
– Dietary fiber1.8 g
Fat0.27 g
Protein0.51 g
Vitamin A equiv.38 μg (4%)
– beta-carotene445 μg (4%)
Thiamine (Vit. B1)0.058 mg (4%)
Riboflavin (Vit. B2)0.057 mg (4%)
Niacin (Vit. B3)0.584 mg (4%)
Pantothenic acid (B5)0.160 mg (3%)
Vitamin B60.134 mg (10%)
Folate (Vit. B9)14 μg (4%)
Vitamin C27.7 mg (46%)
Calcium10 mg (1%)
Iron0.13 mg (1%)
Magnesium9 mg (2%)
Phosphorus11 mg (2%)
Potassium156 mg (3%)
Zinc0.04 mg (0%)
Percentages are relative to US recommendations for adults.
Source: USDA Nutrient database
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz) is 272 kJ (65 kcal) and that of the apple mango is slightly higher (79 kcal per 100g). Mango is rich in a variety of phytochemicals[16] and nutrients. The fruit pulp is high in prebiotic dietary fiber, vitamin C, diverse polyphenols and provitamin A carotenoids.[17]
Mango contains essential vitamins and dietary minerals. The antioxidant vitamins A, C and E compose 25%, 76% and 9% of the Dietary Reference Intake (DRI) in a 165-gram (5.8-oz) serving. Vitamin B6 (pyridoxine, 11% DRI), vitamin K (9% DRI), other B vitamins and essential nutrients, such as potassium, copper and 17 amino acids are at good levels. Mango peel and pulp contain other phytonutrients, such as the pigment antioxidants – carotenoids and polyphenols – and omega-3 and -6 polyunsaturated fatty acids.[citation needed]
Mango peel contains pigments that may have antioxidant properties,[16][18] including carotenoids, such as the provitamin A compound, beta-carotene, lutein and alpha-carotene,[19] polyphenols[20][21] such as quercetin, kaempferol, gallic acid, caffeic acid, catechins, tannins, and the unique mango xanthonoid, mangiferin,[22] any of which may counteract free radicals in various disease processes as revealed in preliminary research.[23][24] Phytochemical and nutrient content appears to vary across mango species.[25] Up to 25 different carotenoids have been isolated from mango pulp, the densest of which was beta-carotene, which accounts for the yellow-orange pigmentation of most mango species.[26] Peel and leaves also have significant polyphenol content, including xanthonoids, mangiferin and gallic acid.[27]
The mango triterpene, lupeol,[28] is an effective inhibitor in laboratory models of prostate and skin cancers.[29][30][31] An extract of mango branch bark called Vimang, isolated by Cuban scientists, contains numerous polyphenols with antioxidant properties in vitro[32] and on blood parameters of elderly humans.[33]
The pigment euxanthin, known as Indian yellow, is often thought to be produced from the urine of cattle fed mango leaves; the practice is described as having been outlawed in 1908 due to malnutrition of the cows and possible urushiol poisoning.[34] This supposed origin of euxanthin appears to rely on a single, anecdotal source, and Indian legal records do not outlaw such a practice.

Cultural significance

Mango roundabout, Rajshahi, Bangladesh
The mango is the national fruit of India,[36] Pakistan, and the Philippines.[37] The mango tree is the national tree of Bangladesh.[38]
In Hinduism, the perfectly ripe mango is often held by Lord Ganesha as a symbol of attainment, regarding the devotees potential perfection. Mango blossoms are also used in the worship of the goddess Saraswati.
Mango leaves are used to decorate archways and doors in Indian houses and during weddings and celebrations like Ganesh Chaturthi. Mango motifs and paisleys are widely used in different Indian embroidery styles, and are found in Kashmiri shawls, Kanchipuram silk sarees, etc. Paisleys are also common to Iranian art, because of its pre-Islamic Zoroastrian past.
In Tamilnadu, Mango is considered, along with Banana and jack fruit, as the Three royal fruits (Mukkani)
Famous Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib was very fond of mangoes. There are many anecdotes concerning his love for mangoes.

In Australia, where mangoes are considered to be a symbol of summer, the first tray of mangoes of the season is traditionally sold at an auction for charity

………………………………………………………………….. Click on link to read more, please

Mango ‘s buds and flowers close up ….Chụp gần nụ và hoa của cây Xoài …
free legal bud blends
Image by Vietnam Plants & America plants
Vietnamese named : Xoài .
Common names : Mango
Scientist name : Mangifera indica L.
Synonyms :
Family : Annacardiaceae . Họ Đào Lộn Hột

Links :

**** caythuoc.chothuoc24h.com/cay-thuoc/X/780/
Xoài – Mangifera indica L., thuộc họ Ðào lộn hột – Anacardiaceae.

Mô tả: Cây gỗ lớn, cao 10-20m, có tán rậm. Lá đơn, nguyên, mọc so le, phiến lá hình thuôn mũi mác, nhẵn, thơm. Hoa họp thành chùm kép ở ngọn cành. Hoa nhỏ, màu vàng, có 5 lá đài nhỏ, có lông ở mặt ngoài, 5 cánh hoa có tuyến mật, 5 nhị nhưng chỉ có 1-2 nhị sinh sản. Bầu trên, thường chỉ có một lá noãn chứa 1 noãn. Quả hạch chín màu vàng, thịt vàng, ngọt, thơm, nhân có xơ. Hạt rất to.

Bộ phận dùng: Quả, hạch của quả, lá, vỏ thân – Fructus, Nux, Folium et Cortex Mangiferae Indicae.

Nơi sống và thu hái: Gốc ở Ấn Độ, được trồng nhiều ở các xứ nhiệt đới. Ở nước ta, Xoài được trồng ở nhiều nơi. Có nhiều thứ khác nhau như Xoài tượng, Xoài cát, Xoài cơm, Xoài thanh ca, v.v.. có thể thu hái các bộ phận của cây quanh năm, dùng tươi hay phơi khô.

Thành phần hóa học: Quả chứa nhiều caroten và vitamin B1, B2 và C. Hạch quả chứa nhiều tinh bột, dầu và tanin. Lá chứa tanin và một hợp nhất flavonoid là mangiferin. Vỏ thân chứa 3% tanin và mangiferin.

Tính vị, tác dụng: Quả, vỏ, lá có vị chua, ngọt, tính mát; hạch quả có vị chua, chát, tính bình. Quả có tác dụng thanh nhiệt tiêu trệ, ích vị, chỉ thổ, giải khát, lợi niệu. Hạt quả có tác dụng chỉ khái, kiện vị. Lá có tác dụng chỉ dương, hành khí sơ trệ, khu sa tích, lợi tiểu và có thể kháng nham. Vỏ thân có tác dụng thu liễm, sát trùng. Nhựa từ vỏ cây rỉ ra không mùi, có ví chát, đắng, hơi cay cũng có tác dụng như vỏ.

Công dụng, chỉ định và phối hợp: Quả Xoài và hạch quả dùng trị ho, tiêu hóa không bình thường, sán khí. Thịt quả dùng trị bệnh hoại huyết và loạn óc. Hạch quả còn dùng trị giun, kiết lỵ và ỉa chảy. Vỏ quả dùng trị kiết lỵ.

Lá dùng trị các bệnh phần trên đường hô hấp như ho, viêm phế quản mạn tính hay cấp tính, thủy thũng và dùng ngoài trị viêm da, ngứa ngáy ngoài da.

Vỏ thân thường được dùng trị ho, đau sưng họng và đau răng. Nhựa từ vỏ dùng trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy và bệnh ngoài da, cũng dùng trị bạch đới, kinh nguyệt quá nhiều.

Cách dùng: Ta thường trồng Xoài để lấy quả ăn. Vỏ thân dùng chữa đau răng. Lấy 1 miếng vỏ bằng bàn tay, cạo vỏ ngoài rồi thái mỏng. Nếu dùng vỏ tươi thì giã nhỏ, vắt lấy nước, thêm tí muối để ngậm rồi nhổ nước, mỗi ngày 4-5 lần. Nếu dùng vỏ khô thì sắc lấy nước: đổ 2 bát nước đun sôi, giữ nước sôi kỹ trong nửa giờ, gạn lấy nước sắc, thêm vài hạt muối rồi ngậm. Mỗi lần ngậm chừng một chén con. Ngậm trong 10 phút, thỉnh thoảng súc sang hai bên má rồi nhổ đi. Ngậm 3-4 lần trong ngày, liên tiếp vài ba ngày.

Nhựa cây tươi đem ngâm trong nước Chanh dùng trị các thứ ghẻ lở. Hạt phơi khô, tán bột, dùng mỗi lần 1,5g trị giun hoặc uống trị kiết lỵ, ỉa chảy. Lá thường dùng nấu nước xông trị các bệnh trong họng.

**** www.khoahocchonhanong.com.vn/CSDLKHCN/modules.php?name=Ne…
**** www.khuyennongtphcm.com/index.php?mnu=4&s=600012&…
**** www.dongthap.gov.vn/wps/portal/huyencaolanh/!ut/p/c0/04_S…

______________________________________________________________

**** en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mango
The mango is a fleshy stone fruit belonging to the genus Mangifera, consisting of numerous tropical fruiting trees in the flowering plant family Anacardiaceae. While other Mangifera species (e.g. horse mango, M. foetida) are also grown on a more localized basis, Mangifera indica – the common mango or Indian mango – is the only mango tree commonly cultivated in many tropical and subtropical regions, and its fruit is distributed essentially worldwide.
In several cultures, its fruit and leaves are ritually used as floral decorations at weddings, public celebrations and religious ceremonies[citation needed].
Mangos were first cultivated in Southeast Asia

Etymology

The word mango comes from the Portuguese manga, which is probably derived from the Malayalam മാങ്ങ (māṅṅa; pronounced "manga"). The word’s first recorded attestation in a European language was a text by Ludovico di Varthema in Italian in 1510, as Manga; the first recorded occurrences in languages such as French and post-classical Latin appear to be translations from this Italian text. The origin of the -o ending in English is unclear.[2]
When mangoes were first imported to the American colonies in the 17th century, they had to be pickled due to lack of refrigeration. Other fruits were also pickled and came to be called "mangoes" (especially bell peppers), and by the 18th century, the word "mango" became a verb meaning "to pickle"

Description
Mango trees (Mangifera indica L.) grow up to 35–40 m (115–130 ft) tall, with a crown radius of 10 m (33 ft). The mango tree is long-lived, as some specimens still fruit after 300 years.[citation needed] In deep soil, the taproot descends to a depth of 6 m (20 ft) with profuse, wide-spreading feeder roots; the tree also sends down many anchor roots, which penetrate several feet of soil. The leaves are evergreen, alternate, simple, 15–35 cm (5.9–14 in) long and 6–16 cm (2.4–6.3 in) broad; when the leaves are young they are orange-pink, rapidly changing to a dark glossy red, then dark green as they mature. The flowers are produced in terminal panicles 10–40 cm (3.9–16 in) long; each flower is small and white with five petals 5–10 mm (0.20–0.39 in) long, with a mild sweet odor suggestive of lily of the valley. The fruit takes three to six months to ripen.

The seed of mango can be hairy or fibrous

The "hedgehog" style is a common way of eating mangoes (left). A cross section of a mango can be seen on the right, not quite fully halving the fruit as the stone is not visible
The ripe fruit varies in size and color. Cultivars are variously yellow, orange, red or green, and carry a single flat, oblong pit that can be fibrous or hairy on the surface, and which does not separate easily from the pulp. Ripe, unpeeled fruit gives off a distinctive resinous, sweet smell. Inside the pit 1–2 mm (0.039–0.079 in) thick is a thin lining covering a single seed, 4–7 mm (0.16–0.28 in) long. The seed contains the plant embryo.

Cultivation

Mango orchard in Multan, Pakistan

Unripe mangoes on a mango tree
Mangoes have been cultivated in South Asia for thousands of years[4] and reached East Asia between the 5th and 4th centuries BC. By the 10th century AD, cultivation had begun in East Africa.[4] The 14th century Moroccan traveler, Ibn Battuta, reported it at Mogadishu.[5] Cultivation came later to Brazil, the West Indies and Mexico, where an appropriate climate allows its growth.[4]
Mango is now cultivated in most frost-free tropical and warmer subtropical climates; More than a third of the world’s mangoes are cultivated in India alone second being China[citation needed].[6][7][8]
Mango is also being grown in Andalusia, Spain (mainly in Málaga province), which is one of the few places in mainland Europe that allows growth of tropical plants and fruit trees.[9] Many of the 1,000+ mango cultivars are easily cultivated using grafted saplings, ranging from the "turpentine mango" (named for its strong taste of turpentine[10]) to the huevos de toro.[citation needed]
Other cultivators include North, South and Central America, the Caribbean, south, west and central Africa, Australia, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Southeast Asia.
Though India is the largest producer of mangoes (Pakistan being the largest exporter[citation needed]), it accounts for less than one percent[citation needed] of the international mango trade, consuming most of its own output.[11]
Dwarf or semi-dwarf varieties serve as ornamental plants and can be grown in containers.
A wide variety of diseases can afflict mangoes; see List of mango diseases.

Potential for contact dermatitis
Mango peel and sap contains urushiol, the chemical in poison ivy and poison sumac that can cause urushiol-induced contact dermatitis in susceptible people.[12] Cross-reactions between mango contact allergens and urushiol have been observed.[13] Those with a history of poison ivy or poison oak contact dermatitis may be most at risk for such an allergic reaction.[14] Urushiol is also present in mango leaves and stems. During mango’s primary ripening season, it is the most common source of plant dermatitis in Hawaii.

Food

An unripe mango of Ratnagiri (India)
The mango is generally sweet, although the taste and texture of the flesh varies across cultivars, some having a soft, pulpy texture similar to an overripe plum, while the flesh of others is firmer, like a cantaloupe or avocado, or may have a fibrous texture. For consumption of unripe, pickled or cooked fruit, the mango skin may be consumed comfortably, but has potential to cause contact dermatitis (above) of the lips, gingiva or tongue in susceptible people. In ripe fruits which are commonly eaten fresh, the skin may be thicker and bitter tasting, so is typically not eaten.

Cuisine

Commercially packaged mango powder sold in clear plastic wrapping
Mangoes are widely used in cuisine. Sour, unripe mangoes are used in chutneys, athanu, pickles, or side dishes, or may be eaten raw with salt, chili, or soy sauce. A cooling summer drink called panna or panha comes from mangoes.
Ripe mangoes are typically eaten fresh; however, they can have many other culinary uses. Mango Lassi, a popular drink made throughout South Asia[citation needed], is created by mixing ripe mangoes or mango pulp with yogurt and sugar. Ripe mangoes are also used to make curries. Aamras is a popular pulp/thick juice made of mangoes with sugar or milk, and is consumed with bread, rice or pooris. The pulp from ripe mangoes is also used to make jam called ‘mangada’.
Mangoes are used in preserves like moramba, amchur (dried and powdered unripe mango) and pickles, including a spicy mustard-oil pickle. Ripe mangoes are often cut into thin layers, desiccated, folded, and then cut. These bars are similar to dried guava fruit bars available in some countries. The fruit is also added to cereal products like muesli and oat granola.

Native green mangoes from the Philippines

A basket of ripe mangoes from Bangladesh
Unripe mango may be eaten with bagoong (especially in the Philippines), fish sauce or with dash of salt. Dried strips of sweet, ripe mango (sometimes combined with seedless tamarind to form mangorind) are also popular. Mangoes may be used to make juices, mango nectar, and as a flavoring and major ingredient in ice cream and sorbetes.
Mango is used to make juices, smoothies, ice cream, fruit bars, raspados, aguas frescas, pies and sweet chili sauce, or mixed with chamoy, a sweet and spicy chili paste. It is popular on a stick dipped in hot chili powder and salt or also as a main ingredient in fresh fruit combinations. In Central America, mango is either eaten green mixed with salt, vinegar, black pepper and hot sauce, or ripe in various forms. Toasted and ground pumpkin seed (called pepita) with lime and salt are the norm when eating green mangoes. Some people also add soy sauce or chili sauce.
Pieces of mango can be mashed and used as a topping on ice cream or blended with milk and ice as milkshakes. Sweet glutinous rice is flavored with coconut, then served with sliced mango as a dessert. In other parts of Southeast Asia, mangoes are pickled with fish sauce and rice vinegar. Green mangoes can be used in mango salad with fish sauce and dried shrimp. Mango with condensed milk may be used as a topping for shaved ice.

Nutrients and phytochemicals
Mango, raw
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz)
Energy272 kJ (65 kcal)
Carbohydrates17.00 g
– Sugars14.8 g
– Dietary fiber1.8 g
Fat0.27 g
Protein0.51 g
Vitamin A equiv.38 μg (4%)
– beta-carotene445 μg (4%)
Thiamine (Vit. B1)0.058 mg (4%)
Riboflavin (Vit. B2)0.057 mg (4%)
Niacin (Vit. B3)0.584 mg (4%)
Pantothenic acid (B5)0.160 mg (3%)
Vitamin B60.134 mg (10%)
Folate (Vit. B9)14 μg (4%)
Vitamin C27.7 mg (46%)
Calcium10 mg (1%)
Iron0.13 mg (1%)
Magnesium9 mg (2%)
Phosphorus11 mg (2%)
Potassium156 mg (3%)
Zinc0.04 mg (0%)
Percentages are relative to US recommendations for adults.
Source: USDA Nutrient database
Nutritional value per 100 g (3.5 oz) is 272 kJ (65 kcal) and that of the apple mango is slightly higher (79 kcal per 100g). Mango is rich in a variety of phytochemicals[16] and nutrients. The fruit pulp is high in prebiotic dietary fiber, vitamin C, diverse polyphenols and provitamin A carotenoids.[17]
Mango contains essential vitamins and dietary minerals. The antioxidant vitamins A, C and E compose 25%, 76% and 9% of the Dietary Reference Intake (DRI) in a 165-gram (5.8-oz) serving. Vitamin B6 (pyridoxine, 11% DRI), vitamin K (9% DRI), other B vitamins and essential nutrients, such as potassium, copper and 17 amino acids are at good levels. Mango peel and pulp contain other phytonutrients, such as the pigment antioxidants – carotenoids and polyphenols – and omega-3 and -6 polyunsaturated fatty acids.[citation needed]
Mango peel contains pigments that may have antioxidant properties,[16][18] including carotenoids, such as the provitamin A compound, beta-carotene, lutein and alpha-carotene,[19] polyphenols[20][21] such as quercetin, kaempferol, gallic acid, caffeic acid, catechins, tannins, and the unique mango xanthonoid, mangiferin,[22] any of which may counteract free radicals in various disease processes as revealed in preliminary research.[23][24] Phytochemical and nutrient content appears to vary across mango species.[25] Up to 25 different carotenoids have been isolated from mango pulp, the densest of which was beta-carotene, which accounts for the yellow-orange pigmentation of most mango species.[26] Peel and leaves also have significant polyphenol content, including xanthonoids, mangiferin and gallic acid.[27]
The mango triterpene, lupeol,[28] is an effective inhibitor in laboratory models of prostate and skin cancers.[29][30][31] An extract of mango branch bark called Vimang, isolated by Cuban scientists, contains numerous polyphenols with antioxidant properties in vitro[32] and on blood parameters of elderly humans.[33]
The pigment euxanthin, known as Indian yellow, is often thought to be produced from the urine of cattle fed mango leaves; the practice is described as having been outlawed in 1908 due to malnutrition of the cows and possible urushiol poisoning.[34] This supposed origin of euxanthin appears to rely on a single, anecdotal source, and Indian legal records do not outlaw such a practice.

Cultural significance

Mango roundabout, Rajshahi, Bangladesh
The mango is the national fruit of India,[36] Pakistan, and the Philippines.[37] The mango tree is the national tree of Bangladesh.[38]
In Hinduism, the perfectly ripe mango is often held by Lord Ganesha as a symbol of attainment, regarding the devotees potential perfection. Mango blossoms are also used in the worship of the goddess Saraswati.
Mango leaves are used to decorate archways and doors in Indian houses and during weddings and celebrations like Ganesh Chaturthi. Mango motifs and paisleys are widely used in different Indian embroidery styles, and are found in Kashmiri shawls, Kanchipuram silk sarees, etc. Paisleys are also common to Iranian art, because of its pre-Islamic Zoroastrian past.
In Tamilnadu, Mango is considered, along with Banana and jack fruit, as the Three royal fruits (Mukkani)
Famous Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib was very fond of mangoes. There are many anecdotes concerning his love for mangoes.

In Australia, where mangoes are considered to be a symbol of summer, the first tray of mangoes of the season is traditionally sold at an auction for charity

………………………………………………………………….. Click on link to read more, please

Nice Buy Legal Bud Canada photos

Some cool buy legal bud canada images:

Nice Legal Bud Blog photos

Check out these legal bud blog images:

Nice Very Cheap Legal Buds photos

Check out these very cheap legal buds images:

Nice Legal Bud Stores photos

Check out these legal bud stores images:

Nice Legal Budd photos

A few nice legal budd images I found:

[No. 572 Budd, haberdasher – West 47th St. – Miss Carroll – …
legal budd
Image by New York Public Library
Digital ID: 1113271. [No. 572 Budd, haberdasher – West 47th St. – Miss Carroll – Scott & Fowles, art dealers – West 48th St.]. Welles & Co. — Publisher. c1911

Source: Fifth Avenue, New York, from start to finish. (more info)

Repository: The New York Public Library. Irma and Paul Milstein Division of United States History, Local History and Genealogy.

See more information about this image and others at NYPL Digital Gallery.
Persistent URL: digitalgallery.nypl.org/nypldigital/id?1113271

Rights Info: No known copyright restrictions; may be subject to third party rights (for more information, click here)

[No. 550 L.P. Hollander & Co. – Dreicer & Co. – West 46th St…
legal budd
Image by New York Public Library
Digital ID: 1113269. [No. 550 L.P. Hollander & Co. – Dreicer & Co. – West 46th St. – Pickslay, jeweler – No. 572 Budd, haberdasher.]. Welles & Co. — Publisher. c1911

Source: Fifth Avenue, New York, from start to finish. (more info)

Repository: The New York Public Library. Irma and Paul Milstein Division of United States History, Local History and Genealogy.

See more information about this image and others at NYPL Digital Gallery.
Persistent URL: digitalgallery.nypl.org/nypldigital/id?1113269

Rights Info: No known copyright restrictions; may be subject to third party rights (for more information, click here)

Nice Legal Bud Missouri photos

Check out these legal bud missouri images:

Mick, Toby, Dakota, Alec — Submitted by Dee in kansas city, MO
legal bud missouri
Image by humanesocietyoftheunitedstates
Reason #319,116: Mick came to us from a backyard breeder who had only one pair of Austrailian Shephers, the bloodline was very impressive. I had recently helped my 16 1/2 year old girl walk the bridge after a very long, productive life.Mick instantly fit our
family! We took him with us to the US National Championship Arabian Horse Show, along with JayJay and Hank. During the show we were in the shopping area and could not take more than a few stepps before being stopped by someone to pet the dogs. Mick was completely socialized within thrity minutes.

Unfortunately, jayJay had to be assisted across the bridge the following summer and Mick was in such mourning that we searched for another Aussie pup. Toby came to us at three months of aga to help fill that empty space that JayJay left. I had found him listed locally on Craig’s list. After numberous e-mail exchanges and telephone calls we met with his owner.
They had had the puppy only a couple weeks. After waiting for a year the young man had just
found out that his application with a legal firn in Tennessee had been accepted and they would have to make do in an apartment. They felt that it wouldn’t be the best circumstance to raise and active Aussie puppy. When he and Mick met it was like they had been bud’s from the beginning. Toby joined our growing pack in the fall of 2006.

Our German Shepherd, Hank, had been ill in 2006, having surgery to remove one of his kidneys. Once it was sent to pathology we discovered that one of his kidneys had been encapsualized in the tumor. We had Hank until the fall of 2007.

The following spring we began to look for another German Shepherd. I located Dakota on Craig’s List, when we went to meet him we took all the dogs. What we saw was a young male who had been kept chained in the backyard, with no social skills and little training. I did not see an agressive dog. We asked them to bring him out of his yeard to be introduced to the rest of the boys, Dakota was hyper, barking, etc. Mikc went up to him, gabe a couple sniffs and then turned his back and sat down completely ignoring him.

Dakota was just one of two special need German Shepherds we have taken into our family. As a member of Missouri German Shepherd Rescue I have fostered 5 outside dogs, working with them and preparing them for their forever homes. Dakota has issues with smaller dogs which we continue to work on. He loves people! Alec was our last foster who came directly from heartworm treatment and for the next month had to be kept on a leash and made to sit or lay down beside me with very little to no play time. As the worms die, there is a strong possiblity that if the dog atempes to exersise and gets
excited that a clot of dieing heartworms can block their artieries or shoot straight to the heart and kill them instantly.It was such a hard job to keep him quiet for a month. However, we built a very strong bond during that time and he adopted me. We still have issues to work on, don’t come at me with a ssquirt bottle, thinking you might be correcting him….he sees it as a threat to me. It is wiser to let me correct him by myself! Alec was a feral street dog who had no basic training, was not housebroken, was reported to be afraid of men (within an hour in our home he was in my husband’s lap). We work continually on his manners in social situations, for the most part he is a perfect gentelman, but there are sometimes when the situation just gets the best of him and we had to reestablish who is the leader. He is an absolutely regal ol’ man, who loves me and will protect me in an instant if he feels I have been threatened. We have established a very strong bond, if he is acting up all I have to do is get up shap my fingers at him and point, he will drop to the floor and usually roll over onto his back with a big grin on his face.

Adopting these dogs has givine them a home they might not otherwise have had, rules, noundries and limitations which are making them much better citizens and a joy to be around. I am very proud of my part in giving these guys a second lease on life when they might not have gotten that chance. I will continue to help those dogs who are unable to help themselves. [To submit your own reason why you love your pet, click here.]

Nice Free Legal Bud Catalog photos

A few nice free legal bud catalog images I found:

Nice Growing Legal Bud Seeds photos

A few nice growing legal bud seeds images I found:

Nice Legal Bud Weed photos

A few nice legal bud weed images I found:

Nice Can You Buy Legal Buds photos

A few nice can you buy legal buds images I found:

Nice Legal Bud Cigarettes photos

Check out these legal bud cigarettes images:

Nice Legal Bud Ingredients photos

A few nice legal bud ingredients images I found:

Nice Is Legal Bud Healthy photos

Check out these is legal bud healthy images:

Nice Legal Bud Blog photos

Some cool legal bud blog images:

 Page 1 of 2  1  2 »