The East Coast Road Trip

by Steve Deeks

  While tucking into our tasty whopper burgers and chips Mark rang. I gladly ignored the phone. Then another call. And again. This time he left a message. “Stop playing games mate we need to get off, we’re already running late.”

  “And who’s fault is that?” I muttered joyfully in response to the recording, as I took another succulent bite of my burger. Soon after I received a flurry of text messages. “Stop being a cunt mate. We need to leave,” one read.

  “Calling me a cunt is hardly going to speed me up now is it?” I said, shaking my head disapprovingly at the text, before scoffing another handful of salt-ridden chips into my mouth. Sam and Simon were in no rush to force their food down either. But after finally eating every last bit of food we had paid for we made our way back to the apartment, not before going to the toilet one final time and performing some extensive tooth glossing, though.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Mark asked angrily, frustration written all over his hairy face, having been made to wait 40 minutes while not having the faintest idea where we had been.

  “We were getting hungry waiting for you both so we got some food,” I replied innocently. Though judging from the look on his face he knew exactly that this was more about exacting revenge then being hungry. I turned to Julie. “You must have been starving?”

  She paused, looking blank, before she realised my question was a euphemism related to her all action stop off. “Oh aye…yeah Steve I woz aye,” she said, before letting out a restrained laugh that contained just a hint of embarrassment at being ousted for her misdemeanours.

  Realising the cat was out of the bag and seeing no point in withholding anything now it was abundantly obvious what she had been up to in the flat, Mark decided to enter the fun. “Yeah she sure got her fix of meat,” he sniggered. “As soon as she got in the flat my mate knew why she was there and took her into his room and gave her a portion. We heard her squealing like a pig in the room next door. Isn’t that right Julie?”

  She smiled sheepishly, still red-faced from her exertions. Attempting to put a brave face on she murmured something no one understood that left us looking blank. “You were the 125th bird he’s shagged by the way…bet you didn’t know that?” Unsure if this was a joke, she instinctively glanced at Mark with rolled eyes presuming it was a joke, but on meeting a straight face she slowly began realising that he was in fact telling the brutal truth. In a vain attempt to save face, she shrugged her shoulders like she wasn’t bothered.

  But it was plain for all to see that she was slightly irked at discovering that she was nothing more than a glorified piece of meat for this Neanderthal to have his wicked way with and register yet another notch on his considerably lengthy bedpost. The crushing reality also, presumably, meant that this rather forward individual wasn’t especially fussy about who he probed with his anatomy, thus rendering it in the same bracket as shaking hands or saying hello to a stranger. But perhaps the biggest indicator of all that this man had no interest in Julie, apart from how she could please him, was the very fact he was even with the Scot. After all he wouldn’t have understood her, nor was he likely to find her attractive, so there had to be something.

  It was becoming all too obvious that she, like the many before her, would soon be forgotten about as soon as he penetrated the next bit of flesh he could get his grubby hands on. “I hope you used a condom?” Simon asked inquisitively, though I suspected he was heaping on more agony having suspected bouts of “bareback” intercourse had been taking place. Offering nothing more than a rueful smile, Julie’s answer to the question was loud and clear, no doubt sparking a smidgen of remorse now she knew there was a good chance he had done the same with his other century-plus victims. But Mark, attempting to allay Julie’s fears, offered her some comfort, “Don’t worry, my mate gets checked out a fair bit cos he fucks so many birds, so you should be alright.”

  Despite the frustration she had caused us, it was thanks to Julie that we set off on the next leg of our journey in high spirits, with the sly Scot inevitably on the receiving end of some banter as she squirmed in the back. “You have tuna for lunch?” I asked innocently, only to be met by a dismissive smile. “Can someone open the window? It stinks of fish in here,” I added playfully, though it’s fair to say we were all fairly disgusted at the thought of spending a prolonged period of time stuck inches from her after she had just romped without washing. Having kept us waiting for ages while she squeezed in the crafty bonk we felt a bit of banter was the least she deserved.

  Chapter 11 – Nimbin and marijuana

  As we veered down the windy mountainous roads and into Nimbin, it instantly became clear that this was a place like no other. A small old-fashioned village that made you feel as though you had arrived in the Wild West, with the only difference being that it was located in the middle of a vast rainforest, as well as its striking preoccupation with cannabis and hippie culture.

  As we got closer I was staggered by the number of peculiar people wandering the streets, many of whom looking like they had been exhumed from a nearby graveyard, or at the very least thought they were still living in the 1970s. “Get out the road you fucking weed-smoking corpse,” Mark shouted at one gaunt looking man stumbling across the road barefooted with a joint in his hand, who couldn’t have cared less that a four tonne lump of metal was hurtling towards him.

  We’d heard stories about the smoking culture of the place but after driving down the main street it soon became strikingly obvious just how retro and overtly cannabis orientated this village really was. The notorious smell of gear lingered in the air like a two-fingered salute to the authorities, while it seemed you were almost an outcast unless you were a deranged hippie of some form - with the majority of people looking like they badly needed a haircut and a wash, as well as a change of clothes where the holes in their attire had gone way beyond a level that even a self respecting charity shop could accept. This was Amsterdam, but in the remote bush. And cannabis was not legal here either.

  In fact nowhere in New South Wales was it legal to cultivate, sell and possess cannabis. Yet naturally those activities formed the bedrock of daily Nimbin life and were participated in with the same normality as going to buy some bread and milk. The backward rural nature of this eerie place lent itself to being an authentic version of the free love era, but having only been in the place for a matter of minutes – and thankfully in the comfort of a vehicle – I already couldn’t wait to get out of this shithole.

  Unfortunately for me, the others were more enthusiastic about seeing what this throwback of a place had to offer. In particular, they were keen to check out the herbal range of goodies that could be purchased. I knew I would have to endure a spell of sufferance while the rest revelled in its mystical nature. Already thinking the worst, my fears were immediately confirmed when we pulled up in a remote car park and cautiously walked to a nearby pathway that led to the main street. There was a gang of five large men, all wearing baseball caps and vests, loitering at the entrance of the alley, forcing you to walk directly past them. They didn’t look the sort of people you would particularly want to bump into down such a place, with it clear they weren’t standing there to sell flowers or collect money for charity, unless you counted their marijuana habit as humanitarian.

  “Weed…you want any weed lads?” one whispered roughly as we approached the path.

  “Nah don’t do that shit,” I replied sharply. Unfortunately this was then somehow misinterpreted as though I was indulging in some form of macho game playing to try and drive down the price. And having just unwittingly mocked his profession and affronted his ego, I was then on the receiving end of a sarcastic jibe. “Yeah course you don’t want any mate.”

  “Nah seriously mate I hate the shit, I’m just here because of this lot.” I pointed with my thumb to the others behind me and strolled forward hoping I wouldn’t be stabbed in the back for pissing the dealers off.

  “I don’t
look like a weed smoker do I?” I muttered, turning to Mark.

  “Don’t know mate, but you can understand why he would think you were.” On reflection this was true. From the dealer’s point of view, why else would I be in the back end of nowhere unless it was to participate in the location’s primary tourist attraction? I could understand his scepticism more with this perspective, though still felt disgusted I could be mistaken for someone who sits around getting paranoid while not talking to anybody, under the guise of “chilling out” having put a vile tasting soggy bit of paper with revolting herbs and chemicals in my mouth.

  Finally, we reached the main street after what felt like a never-ending walk along the shady pathway. With everyone keen to experience the local produce - they had been boring me during the car journey with tales of how they were going to try the much talked about delicious home made marijuana cookies - we ventured cautiously along the street hoping to find the best place to score. Or at least they did. On this occasion I didn’t feel the need to inhale an excessive amount of fumes in order to get that much sought-after paranoid feeling, as this happened naturally with us peering our heads round shop doors hoping to find the magic cookies like a bunch of morons who stuck out like a load of lost clowns.

  Never in my life had I heard so much reggae or seen so many Bob Marley posters as we encountered in the assortment of venues we hesitantly entered, feeling as though we had imposed, like you would if you walked into the lounge of a stranger uninvited and caught a couple engaged in gratifying their love for one another by the open fireplace. “Just follow me you lot. I was told about this place to get the biscuits from,” Mark declared boldly, in all likelihood, having been told of a place to go while blind drunk one night.

  On top of being stuffed full of Bob Marley memorabilia, the shops weren’t short of hippie gear either, with the owners all wearing flared shirts and trousers and moving about as quickly as a severely disabled tortoise, while staring suspiciously in our direction, which I suppose was only natural when smoking ganja for a living. Everywhere you looked there was a sea of drug paraphernalia, matched only by the number of stoned people hanging about the street looking like vampires ready to suck the life out of you to fill their gaping void.

  While the others were checking out yet another shop I got myself a drink and stood outside. Obviously, I looked like I was playing it cool waiting for a shipment or to do a deal because I got asked three times if I wanted any gear. “Yeah can you get me a Mars Bar and a coke please?” I said to one scruffy old man. Well, he was probably only about 50 but he looked at least 95, if not older, after the decades of endless chain-smoking marijuana had taken its toll. He looked at me curiously attempting to figure out what these drug euphemisms were I was referring to. “I’ve got an ounce of gear, cookies…what you want?”

  “Nah I just really want a Mars Bar and a coke…you know chocolate that you eat? And that dark fizzy drink?”

  He paused, scratched his head and looked at me side on, before the penny seemingly dropped that I was, indeed, mocking him. Not that I would have turned down a Mars Bar or a can of coke, or course. “Bit of a joker are we?” he said, with a hint of a smile and a nod.

  And before I knew it he was telling me what seemed like the entire history of this third world place. “Every year since 1993,” he began poignantly. Unsure if I was physically capable of listening to this bore I contemplated kneeing him hard in the bollocks and doing a runner at that precise moment but good manners held me back. “For the Mardi Grass festival we have the Prohibition Protest Rally and Parade with the Ganja Faeries, the (Nimbin) Cannabis Cup, the Hemp Olympix, including the bong‘Throw’n’Yell’, joint rolling, and the Grower’s Iron Person event, where runners carry a 20kg sack of fertiliser, then a bucket of water, before the crop at the end. All this was to stick it to the fucking pigs and recognise the growers in the hills, and show that we’re as fit as anyone.” I let out a false cough to hide the involuntary squeal of laughter that had momentarily escaped out of my mouth.

  The old timer wasn’t finished yet though, unfortunately, and seemed to have issues with the law. “No matter how hard the pigs try, they can’t stop us. They get CCTV on the main street. Fine. We just go and do business in the laneways or in the museum or wherever they can’t watch, you know?” As much as a pale, weak old man who smoked weed all day could get angry this was surely it. He continued his slating of the police, hatred etched on his face before spitting on the floor in disgust to continue his rant. “A few years back over 100 of the cunts turned up with bullet proof vests and a load of horses and dogs to do random searches. Eight people got police cautions, over 70 got cannabis cautions and they took four whole kilograms of our weed and cookies off us. I ask you mate what harm are we doing anyone? No fucking harm at all, that’s what. Those lot are pathetic wankers. They normally do a mini raid once a week too. Hate the cunts, hate them.”

  While the man did appear slightly bitter it also struck me that he may actually have a point. He was right they weren’t harming anyone. How could they having smoked enough cannabis to make them horizontal and appear as though a corpse had more zest for life? It seemed odd that the police station was on the main street, only a few hundred metres from the epicentre, yet apart from the odd token gesture raid and installation of CCTV nothing had really been done to stamp out the problem, if that was indeed what you call it. After all, the Nimbin locals saw the herb as more of a solution to life’s ills.

  If the police really wanted to stop the wide scale use and dealing of drugs then all it would surely take is for them to deploy a single officer – providing he had a pair of working eyes – to simply stop people in the streets and check them, as it was the kind of place where it was rare to find someone who either didn’t have a joint in their hand, or wasn’t about to spark up one. After all, those participating in the illegal culture were hardly hardnosed drug barons with guns or knives, who were ready to fire their pump action machine guns at cops before being taken down by several bullets to the chest after heroically attempting to defend a small mountain of ganja.

  In fact they were more like sloth tramps, who most of the time didn’t know who they were and certainly not how they got where they were, so you would of thought that capturing these harmless deviants should not really have presented any great challenge to any living policeman on earth, including those in sleepy Nimbin. Maybe the truth was that after all the years of fighting both sides had found a way of living together and reached an uneasy truce of sorts.

  After what seemed like an age, Mark came out of one of the shops with a mischievous look, which only meant one thing, he had finally scored. “The old lady in there,” he pointed discreetly with his head. “She’s cooking us up some lovely cookies as we speak. Going to meet her back there in one hour to get the goods. Everyone just play it cool until then yeah.” Suddenly Mark thought he was Al Capone, having seemingly pulled off the gangster deal of the century from Mrs Miggins.

  “You better shoot her then if she hasn’t done them by then. A deal’s a deal right?” I retorted mockingly. “We best get off the streets in case the pigs are watching us on CCTV. Maybe we should try the pub.”

  So off to the pub we went. If that is what you call it, as it was more like a zoo of freaks where alcohol was sold, interspersed with an eclectic mix of amateur mad artists, musicians and poets. On a table in one corner there was a bunch of tambourine-playing scruffy old men, who looked like they would have been better suited to the eighteenth century; while on the other side there was a bearded chap with an endless flow of tunes coming from his antiqued guitar, which other punters showed their appreciation for by clapping along joyfully, as if without a care in the world. This was the Nimbin Hotel; a place like no other I had ever been to, nor would particularly ever want to go to again. After being looked up and down rather suspiciously by a member of the bar staff – presumably for looking normal – I was reluctantly granted my wish of purchasin
g beer. Clearly, as an outsider, my money wasn’t deemed as good as some of the regulars’ cash. “Thanks, I’m eternally grateful,” I said dryly on collection of my drink.

  Desperate to escape the conflicting noises from the various band factions, while also keen to avoid being ogled at further by a sea of strange faces, we made our way to the garden, where at least you didn’t feel like you were imposing on the staff’s precious time. After no more than ten minutes of beer sipping, a guy claiming to be a poet sat his self down on our table and started rolling up a joint, before spouting some of his poetic genius, while kindly interspersing this with his life story. “As well as my poetry I also do the gardening for the pub – they pay me with beers,” he began, immediately giving off the impression that he was fond of the odd daily drink. “Now I think about it I spend nearly all my time here. If I’m not working the garden like a Sheila in the kitchen then I’m doing my poetry – it’s a great place to be inspired - or having a beer or two with the boys.”

  We all looked curiously at one another and then back at this strange man, who had for some reason decided to sit on our particular table out of all the tables he could have chosen and then, potentially, put us in trouble with the law, or possibly the landlord, by openly rolling an illegal substance and brazenly smoking it. I felt convinced I was getting high from the fumes, which was not surprising with a massive cloud of toxic smoke being blown forcefully into my nose and throat. It struck me that the individual, like so many others in the village, should be in a mental asylum. Then it finally dawned on me that the village itself was effectively one big mental asylum.