This was all before “mountains of Afghanistan” became some quasi-mythic setting for John Rambo in 1987’s Rambo III or as part of a ridiculous American lie about where Osama Bin Laden was hiding (recall those wild diagrams that showed the man responsible for September 11 in a hollowed-out mountain remade into some ornate G.I. Joe’s Cobra-style lair) all of which excused the Bush administration’s failed ability to do even might-makes-right-style politicking correctly.
Afghani is a kind of antediluvian Indica — “nostalgic and giddy” is how I described it in a previous review of the much more nervy Sweet Tart (which mixes Purple Thai, Afghani and ATF) — that calms and comforts yet stops short of crushing motivation or dropping you into couch-locked despair as some of the cutting-edge Indicas are known to do.
In that sense, “smells like high school” was a bit of a boast by my friend. Afghani is some very good shit, far from the skunk-y (in a bad way) and stomped-on junk I was getting in the 10th grade at least. Instead it is refined and fierce and then a bit sleepy — still working its hangdog charms after all these decades.