Along with the physical symptoms, there was a worrying loss of perspective in my life. My notoriety meant I’d be a key witness at the forthcoming hearings, but instead of taking this responsibility seriously I arrogantly assumed the judges would simply roll over and be swayed by my celebrity status.
As our day in court approached, my relationship with Mandu deteriorated. He accused me of becoming more like a drug dealer than a campaigner—a pimp, obsessed with making money instead of raising consciousness. He said that I was hanging out with the wrong people, cosying up to wheeler-dealer types instead of the liberal politicians who could support our case in court. What we needed to win the Whitefella’s legal game was credibility, not status.
Deep down I knew he was right, but I was too far gone to admit it. My judgement had become clouded by ego, ambition, and mind-altering cactus seeds. I was a high-flyer now, over-reaching again, sailing too close to the wind, flying too close to the sun ... a fall from grace was inevitable.
Committee Room 1, Parliament House, Perth. Monday, September 4, 2017, 10:00. I arrived at the inquiry, looking the part in a new suit and tie, to do my civic duty as an expert witness. I’d made the 4,500 kilometre round trip to argue against the criminalisation of a humble cactus plant—a criminal waste of time in my opinion. No doubt WA’s great and good would be persuaded by my evidence and agree with me.
As soon as I’d been sworn in I faced a barrage of questions from the state’s lawyers:
“Is it not true that ingesting these cactus seeds is not without danger, Mr Fraser?”
“Yes, that’s correct” I replied, wondering why the hell lawyers have to overcomplicate everything with double negatives. I qualified my answer:
“The Aboriginal people who’ve been using the Plant for hundreds of years advocate smoking it, rather than ingesting it, and that’s the advice Dreamtime Plant Products gives to our customers. We also publish guidelines about safe doses on our website.”
“So there are harmful side effects?”
“Possibly, but there’s currently no proof. The research has yet to be carried out.”
“So, what about these reports of people suffering anxiety attacks, paranoia, and generally ‘freaking out’ with so-called ‘bad trips’?”
The lawyer formed ironic ‘air quotes’ with his fingers and apologised to the committee for resorting to “contemporary ergot” (or slang, as the rest of us call it).
I replied by quoting Timothy Leary’s testimony at the 1966 Senate hearing. When Senator Ted Kennedy asked him if LSD was surely “extremely dangerous?” Leary replied: “Sir, the motor car is dangerous if used improperly ... Human stupidity and ignorance is the only danger human beings face in this world.”
I went on to include a list of other familiar products and activities that were “dangerous if used improperly”: alcohol, tobacco, electricity, cooking, sport, and so on ... In other words, we were both arguing that what’s needed was education, not criminalisation.
I told the inquiry that like Dr Leary I was focussed on informing people of the dangers, as well as raising consciousness about the benefits of this powerful psychoactive plant. It had been used for centuries by the indigenous people of the Kimberley region who knew it to be a ‘medicine for the head’. This was why we had a contract to supply samples to a multinational pharmaceutical company for their research.
I suggested that instead of banning the Plant, the government should license it—make it available only as a prescribed pharmaceutical drug, or from reputable suppliers (such as ourselves), to be used solely by responsible adults.
I concluded my testimony by suggesting that if the state of Western Australia in its wisdom, and with the benefit of half a century of hindsight, licensed the Plant, they could then tax it, and who knew how much revenue that might generate for the state?
There was a thoughtful silence as the assembled politicians and lawyers considered this argument. Nobody could think of a reason why the tax man shouldn’t be allowed to get his hands on this extra revenue and there were no more questions for me, so I left the stand feeling reasonably satisfied with my performance and muttering “I rest my case” under my breath.
The inquiry adjourned for lunch at this point, which was a blessed relief. Expert witnessing was hard work. My testimony had taken most of the morning (the account I’ve given here is just a bullet point summary) and I was starving.
I walked out of the committee room to find someone waiting for me in the crowded lobby. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he looked familiar. At first I thought he was one of my journalist friends expecting to interview me, but I couldn’t quite place him. Our eyes met across the lobby, he smiled at me, and with surprise verging on shock, I recognised him. There was only one human being who could smile like that.
“G’day Nick. Quite a show y’put on in there for those fat galahs.”
“Mandu! What are you doing here?” I gasped. “You look ... umm, you look ...”
I tailed off, lost for words for once. Having told me he wouldn’t be testifying I never expected to see him in Perth, but it was his appearance that threw me. I shook his hand and looked him up and down, taking in the complete outfit. From the newly shined formal shoes and sober black socks to the neatly sweptback dreadlocks ponytail, he was immaculate. There wasn’t a hair out of place, but the most shocking detail was definitely those shoes and socks. I’d never seen him wear anything other than ratty old sandals before, and that was only when he was riding his motorcycle.
He laughed at my confusion. “Yeah mate, I scrub up OK when I need to. I wanted t’hear what y’ad to say to those buggers, but I don’t think they’d ‘ave let me in if I showed up in the Abo biking gear.”
Over lunch he told me he’d always fancied “a bit of a trip” on his motorcycle before they both “bit the bullet.” So, on a whim, he’d borrowed the smart togs, jumped on the Royal Enfield Bullet, and ridden the 2,250 kilometres down to Perth—just to watch me testify!
We spent a pleasant hour together and it was just like the early days of our friendship, before all the White Man stuff got in the way. He complimented me on my performance—the way I’d delivered my evidence, the mix of research and passion, and he told me that now he understood why I’d made such an impression on the Master. I blushed and smiled my thanks, lost for words again.
Then his tone darkened. He predicted that the inquiry’s verdict would be negative and that it would give the bastards the green light to trample all over us. I told him not to be so pessimistic, to have some faith in the legal process. Hadn’t he just told me I’d made a convincing case for legalising the Plant?
He laughed, bitterly, and said he’d had enough experience of the Whitefella’s ways to know how these things would turn out. Yes, I’d made a good fist of it, but I shouldn’t delude myself into thinking I had any real power in this world (he gestured around the smart city eatery full of similar besuited professionals). It was their world. They made the rules and we’d always be the little guys fighting the system.
I pointed out that David beat Goliath fair and square. He countered that it was just a story. This was real life—a reality he knew only too well. I mentioned that we had plenty of support: I’d fraternised with the right politicians; I knew the right people in the media; I was doing deals with the right business people ... He looked me in the eyes and smiled, sadly this time.
“Remember what Alejandro told ya, Nick?”
His laser-like gaze probed me, just like the Master, and suddenly I felt as foolish as I had aboard the Abyss. I shrugged, resorting to my default defensive gesture.
“Y’know: be careful not t’sail too close t’the wind, not t’fly too close t’the sun in case yer wings melted ... Remember that, mate?”
I frowned, wondering what else he’d said about me. For the past six months I’d been in control of my own destiny, no longer a puppet. But suddenly he was a presence, the elephant in the room again.
Mandu smiled his smile and i
mitated my trademark shrug, ludicrously exaggerating the gesture. It was comical—the gesture of a clown dressed as a city slicker. It lightened the atmosphere, cleared the air, and we both laughed a little.
He told me he was just giving me a friendly warning to be careful, not to over-reach myself, watch my back—the shit was about to hit the fan and the dung was about to hit the Domino Dingo.
Mandu’s pessimism proved justified. My appearance as an expert witness was a complete waste of time. My testimony was ignored and the state’s lawyers persuaded the committee to make the Plant illegal in WA. A total ban across the whole country was soon enshrined in law by the federal parliament in Canberra.
I should have seen this coming. If I hadn’t been so distracted by delusions of grandeur and those addictive little cactus seeds perhaps I’d have heeded Mandu’s warnings. I was well aware of the historical parallels and this was definitely a case of history repeating itself ...
Timothy Leary’s testimony had also proved ineffective. On October 6, 1966, just months after the subcommittee hearings, LSD was banned in California, and by October 1968 it was illegal in all states. In an attempt to maintain some kind of legal usage he founded the ‘League for Spiritual Discovery,’ a religion with LSD as its holy sacrament. This was unsuccessful and Leary found himself and his followers forced underground, criminalised, his work discredited.
Here in Australia, fifty years later, there were a few glimmers of hope. First, the inquiry allowed the pharmaceutical company to continue their research into the medicinal benefits of the cactus. Second, unlike Leary’s attempt, here the ‘freedom of religion’ argument proved successful—a court in Broom decriminalised the Plant for Mandu’s tribe and exempted them from prosecution. Third, the same court upheld the tribe’s rights to their land.
The mayor was influential in all three of these positive developments. As promised, he testified in Perth to support the deal he’d ‘personally facilitated’ with the pharma company, and in Broom to support our ‘indigenous cousins’. He received plenty of favourable publicity in the local media and shortly after his appearance at the land rights hearing he was re-elected with an increased majority.
Mandu enjoyed the 4,500 kilometre round trip on his Enfield (although it proved terminal for the motorcycle—the Bullet finally ‘bit the bullet’ and was retired). I think he secretly relished taking on the White Man at his own game and in the end he got pretty much everything he wanted. The tribe’s land was now legally protected, as was their right to use the Plant in their ‘religious ceremonies’. The fact that it was now banned for everyone else didn’t concern him. In any case, he wanted nothing more to do with the business of selling it. The money we’d made together had done nothing for his people except distract them with useless consumerism and the White Man’s poison: alcohol.
As for me? Well, the inquiry verdict and the ban were a massive disappointment—a sad anticlimax to my career as an activist and entrepreneur. It was the end for Dreamtime Plant Products and my newly acquired status in the community. It looked like the end of my relationship with Mandu, as well.
For the past few months we’d been travelling in opposite directions. My ambition was to be a contender, whereas Mandu just wanted his people to be allowed to live their lives as they had for centuries. His objectives had been achieved, but mine had been thwarted by the government. He’d been proved right and I was wrong: you can’t beat the system playing by the White Man’s rules.
Now I was drifting in limbo again, but there was one more glimmer of hope: at least the windless season was nearly over. For the past six months I’d been a workaholic and a Plantaholic, now there was something else to distract me. My old friend, the Fremantle Doctor, had just made his first tentative attempts at a reunion. I was dusting down my windsurfing equipment, looking forward to feeling some wind in my sail again, eagerly anticipating my first session, when events intervened ...
16
The Consortium
In October, several weeks after my appearance at the inquiry, the mayor invited me to a “little soirée” he was having to celebrate his re-election. He’d benefitted from his association with the pharmaceutical deal and our land rights campaign, and he wanted to thank me personally, perhaps even to reward me “more substantially”.
I was in two minds whether to go. I was intrigued to find out just how substantial a carrot he was dangling, but I was in no shape to soirée. Since the inquiry, I’d gone from drifting around in limbo into something of a downward spiral. My life had fallen apart—again.
The Plant was now a banned substance and Dreamtime Products were defunct, but I was still dependent on those little cactus pellets—those illegal little cactus pellets. I was suffering from panic attacks and paranoia. I lived in fear of a knock on my door. If I was arrested it wouldn’t be long before the police found out I wasn’t who I said I was, and once they discovered my true identity it would open a can of worms. Apart from Malcolm Fraser’s false passport, there were my previous drug deals, I was still on the run from the Great White Mafia sharks, Robo’s death, Alison ...
I agonised over it but in the end the carrot beat the worms. I decided I had too much to lose by not going. I had to get my life back together before it was too late, so I accepted the mayor’s invitation. Perhaps his ‘little soirée’ would be my lifeline out of this downward spiral.
Saturday, October 21, 21:00. The party was held at a luxury beach villa some way out of town, the home of one of the mayor’s colleagues. I arrived on my swanky Japanese motorcycle, looking the part, to find a gathering of Broom’s great and not-so-good: lawyers, politicos, businessmen, the chief of police, and some rather more nefarious individuals.
From the moment I walked in, I felt something wasn’t quite right. For one thing, all the guests were men, nobody had brought a female partner. The only women were employees, paid to serve us food and drinks, or to provide additional services—‘hostesses’, to use a polite term—elegantly dressed, sophisticated, but clearly ‘ladies of the night’. It was all very civilised, but the kind of polite, superficial bonhomie you get at the start of a party. The calm before the storm.
People were getting on with each other rather too well for my liking. Sworn enemies from opposing sides of the political divide were fraternising with rival ‘fat cat’ developers, and the chief of police was deep in conversation with a burly wheeler-dealer with a shaved head and tattoos. There was something disconcertingly familiar about him, but before I could work out who he was the mayor sidled up and greeted me with exaggerated warmth:
“G’day Malcolm. I’m so glad you could make it.”
He pumped my hand as if I was his most loyal supporter. I congratulated him on his election victory.
“Thanks, mate. I have to say that it helped a lot to have the backing of our indigenous cousins and your media presence.”
I nodded graciously, but to my mind it was more a matter of political expediency—he aligned himself with our campaign, rather than the other way around. Anyway, he was grateful and he wanted to keep me “in the loop” (as he put it):
“I invited you here this evening to tell you about some interesting developments ... (he left a significant pause as if waiting for a drum roll). I’ve been asked to lead a new consortium of like-minded players ... (he gestured around the room) ... and we’d like you to join us.”
I nodded, cautiously. Perhaps it had been the right decision to turn up after all.
“There are going to be some exciting new investment opportunities for you, Malcolm.”
I shrugged and replied that now Dreamtime Plant Products had ceased trading, I doubted whether I could be considered a “player”.
He looked disappointed but he was determined to have me on board: “OK, well perhaps there might still be a position in the consortium for you—in a consultant or PR role ...”
I responded with a polite, noncommittal reply, and that seemed to satisfy him:
“Great. I’ll flesh it ou
t over the course of the evening.”
His eyes roamed around the room, located his next contact, and he moved on to do more meeting, greeting, back-slapping, and hand-pumping.
We sat down to eat a sumptuous five-course meal. It was all very formal—multiple cutlery options, fine wines, place settings reserved with name tags. I found myself sitting between the mayor and his opposition colleague, our host. Opposite us were an executive from the pharmaceutical company, the chief of police, and the burly businessman.
The seating arrangement had, no doubt, been chosen by the mayor’s colleague—it was his house after all, and it soon became clear that these were the main players in the mayor’s consortium. Looking at us seated at the long banqueting table I was reminded of paintings of the Last Supper. I wondered who was playing the Jesus role and who was Judas Iscariot.
As I was mulling this over, the mayor put his hand on my shoulder and introduced his colleagues. Adrenaline and paranoia hit me as I realised they included the two reprobates who’d threatened Mandu’s tribe: Mr Nice Guy politician and his sidekick, Mr Nasty ‘businessman’. With a shudder, I finally recognised the burly, tattooed wheeler-dealer. Mister Nasty was indeed one of the Great White drug sharks who’d pursued me and Robo. Did he remember me? That was the crucial question. If he did, then Malcolm Fraser’s days were numbered.
Smalltalk over, we got down to business. The banquet became less like the Last Supper and more like a game of poker, with stakes that were worryingly high. The mayor was the dealer and he opened the bidding:
Too Close to the Wind Page 20