2. Cannabis-and-Travelling
Travelling while stoned can be relaxing-and-enjoyable, or stressful-and-terrifying. A large influencer into which category a travel experience falls is dependent on the mode-of-transport. Let’s take the most common of them in-turn, and examine how they influence the cannabis experience via self-less research conducted over many years. Putting my mathematician’s hat on, let’s assign these modes to two disjoint-sets; those where someone else usually does the piloting/driving/steering (planes, trains, buses, trams and boats), and ones where you do this (cars, motorbikes, bicycles and by-foot). Let’s explore these two, element-by-element, starting with the first set (Set-A for Automatic), followed by the second set (Set-M for Manual).
Planes are OK, and on the whole, I enjoy the flying experience, but we must split it into two parts; the stressful part of checking-in, getting through the metal detectors, customs, passport-control, endless travelators and escalators. This is where peak-stress is experienced, especially at passport-control where you can be asked “trick-questions” such as “where are you going to?”. Easy, unless you’re stoned. Cannabis can make the simplest thing flee your mind during a stressful situation. The solution is to take/eat any cannabis just before you enter the airport. That way the hour-or-so-delay before onset of stoned-ness allows you should breeze through to the departure lounge where you can mega-relax as the cannabis kicks-in.
This was my strategy for many years, and it worked well. It was an ideal approach to the weekly commuting I did to Italy, the UK or wherever. So, on a Sunday afternoon it would be taxi to Schiphol, eat the hash, through the stressors and onto the bar at the departure gates. If I was early, I’d seek out the Irish bar on pier-D, or one of the courtesy lounges (aghhh, the good-old days). Then a couple of lagers and await lift-off, which would sometimes happen before take-off, if you see what I mean. Then onto the plane itself. I like this bit, staring out of the window, picking at my vegetarian-option, and taking a couple more beers. Occasionally I’d get a little paranoid, but being a frequent-flyer anything short of an emergency landing I could cope-with. At the other end just pick-up your luggage, taxi to the hotel, then dinner and bed.
This modus-operandi also avoided the mega-stress of taking any supplies through customs. It’s only a five-days I thought, so just console yourself during the week with a beer or two instead. I have taken gear through, the best way being to hold a little hash under your lip which you can easily swallow if you have to. This was never picked-up by the detectors, though a sniffer-dog would probably take an interest in you. The good news is that cannabis is so ubiquitous these days you hardly see one because of too many false-positives; yes, attack dogs to scare the shit out of you for 9/11 reasons, but not trained to sniff. I hope in the not-too-distant future all this will be unnecessary and there will be coffee-shops at your destination as the prohibition laws are repealed-or-relaxed. Overall, a very positive experience which I can thoroughly recommend.
Trains are even better for stoned travellers. They have far less security and the other stuff airports have. If you are travelling in the Schengen zone in Europe as I often did, it was just jump-on the train at Amsterdam-Central-Station and get-off at Dusseldorf, Paris or wherever. They also have tonnes more space, and a bar! As trains are subsidised, business class with its veggie-meals is relatively cheap, even if you can’t put it down on expenses. Sitting there watching the countryside whizz past on the high-speed track is a fantastic experience, especially on those German and French wonders of engineering.
The only time I had some trouble was when for some reason I was travelling first-thing on Monday morning to Germany rather than the Sunday afternoon. Stupidly I decided to take a little hash with me as there was no customs. So, I put it in my back-pocket and not my mouth as I didn’t want to be even mildly stoned for work, as there is always a slight” leakage” in this situation into your stomach. What could go wrong? I’ll tell you what can go wrong, just before the German border three police officers and a huge German-shepherd sniffer-dog burst into the end of the carriage I was in!
My brain-and-body went into full-survival mode. Having “kicked-a-few-tyres” in my druggy-lifetime (as the Americans would say). I instantly understood their tactic; surprise-and-scare the passengers and see who makes any movement, however minor. These would then be their main suspects before “friendly-Fido” would confirm their suspicions. It was the Dutch cosying-up to the German authorities by putting spot-checks on the trains so they could demonstrate they were cracking-down on weekend tourists taking a little blow back to Germany. I concluded this within a second of the fuzz’s appearance. The tricky sods!
I made no movement whatsoever. I put on a slightly inquisitive face as the chief-cop said something in Dutch, then repeated it in bad English, which is unusual for the Dutch. It was pretty much a threat; “give-up your dope now and things will be better for you”. Oh no they won’t, I thought. By-the-way, never fall for this one, it just makes their life easier and they have no intention of making anything better; they are here to narco-terrorize. That is their job, after all.
I didn’t fall for it, but a young-couple in front of me did as they raised their hands. This was my opportunity to act. As friendly-Fido dragged his three police minders towards the unfortunate couple I went into action. I leaned-out a little as others were doing. This in conjuring-terms is a mis-direction, and at the same time I deftly reached into my back-pocket for the dope. I then went to scratch my nose, at the same time invisibly transferring the hash into my mouth. I was a lot safer now as I could always swallow the lot if I had to. I’d have to ring the client with some excuse of why I couldn’t come Monday, but that was the least of my worries.
Friendly-Fido duly arrived at couple’s row, barking and wagging his tail like mad. They were German, and quickly handed-over a ridiculously small amount of weed in a plastic-zip-up-bag. The chief-cop read them the riot act, again in very bad English. He enjoyed his job. The young-couple apologised and squirmed. He they said, where’s the rest? The dog thinks you’ve got more. They hadn’t; it was my hash friendly-Fido could smell. Handbags, rucksacks and everything was searched, with the young-couple insisting that was all they had.
The chief-cop didn’t look happy. He warned them one more time before scanning the rest of the carriage as if to say “you don’t mess with me”. He then said he was not going to arrest them this time. They all then continued to the end of the carriage, gathered themselves, then sprang through into the next carriage to repeat this tawdry procedure. Is this why people join the police force? To shout? How is this helping anybody? As of now Germany has tempered its cannabis laws, so I hope nobody has to endure a similar experience as this unfortunate young-couple had imposed on them. I wasn’t too happy either; bloody-bad start to a Monday morning!
One last minor train diversion needs recounting; the bar at Brussels-South. When I used to weekly-commute between Amsterdam and London I had to change high-speed trains there. This was before a direct service between Amsterdam was launched, and passport-checks were done in Brussels. If I was a bit early, I would have a couple of lagers at the bar in the concourse which was just outside of the international platforms and passport, customs-checks and, and railway-police with their dogs. The bar provided great entertainment for the stoned business-traveller such as myself, showing videos such as Daft-Punk’s “Get-Lucky”.
The bar was “womaned” by a gay-lady, with lots of attitude. There are many lesbian sub-tribes, lipstick-lesbians, mumsy-lesbians etc, but she belonged to the fighting-lesbians. At the slightest provocation she would square-up to any customer over a real or imagined remark or “funny look”. I’ve seen her jump onto the bar itself and challenge a young man to a fight. She did have a secret weapon (alongside the baseball bat), a concealed buzzer she would press which ushered-across two railway-police who would inevitably march the miscreant out of the concourse. I was always on my very best behaviour at her bar as this wasn’t a rare occurrence.
Buses and trams are less enjoyable when you’re stoned. They are both ideal for short-journeys, which means as soon as you are on its almost time to jump off. When you’re “off-your-trolley” its easy to miss your stop. The driving is done for you, but you still have to keep alert, which is difficult on cannabis. Nothing dangerous or anything; just tiresome. As for long range bus travel I’ve never really tried it. The times look excessive; I’d rather fly. I’m supposing though, that those who do go on long bus trips can benefit from an out-of-it experience (e.g. young retro-hippies on a budget?).
Lastly boats. Yes, I thoroughly recommend getting-high on boats. Again, someone else is doing the driving/steering. You just literally sit-back-and-relax. Tourist boats such as the canal-boats of Amsterdam are great fun, especially now you can hire headsets so don’t have to listen to a running commentary in six languages, Including Danish and Russians (unless you want to!). For longer ferry journeys the same is true, though I’ve only done this a couple of times (there used to be a fast hydrofoil between the Hook-of-Holland and Harwich which took just four hours).
Cars. Don’t do it. Don’t even think of doing it. Just don’t mix cannabis with driving cars. Nobody really minds that much from a moral stance if you damage or kill yourself as a consequence of your drug taking - it’s your choice on the risk/reward scale. But involving others? So have I ever done it? Yes, I have to fess-up, I did it once, and this is my cautionary story.
It started out as usual on a Sunday trip to the UK. I finished off a little dope on the way to Schipol, then onto the plane and Heathrow, and planned to take tube-and-train to my destination. No tubes due to something-or-other (engineering works, strike, badgers-on-the-track – take your pick, it was one of those). I was feeling as sober as a judge, my destination was just around the M25, it was a Sunday afternoon so hardly any traffic, and the car-hire was right in front of me.
Ten minutes later I was on the road and going up the slip-road to join the M25, London’s ring-road. It was surprisingly busy, so I settled-in on the slow inside lane and waited for time to deliver me to my exit junction. I’ve never liked driving at the best of times. I’m just not very good at it – all those levers and gears and mirrors and pedals – why the hell are there three foot-pedals when humans only have two feet – a design flaw if ever I saw one.
It was near the notorious Watford Junction that it happened. The biggest “whoosher” I had experienced in years hit-me, and I was high-as-a-kite within minutes. What do you do, apart from panic? I thought of pulling-off and having a break, but could I even do that safely? Every car looked like an undercover cop-car, and every truck seemed to be driven by hippy-killing red-necks. I decided the only thing to do was concentrate-and-continue.
Unlike alcohol it is possible to get yourself together under the influence of cannabis. I wouldn’t recommend it, but its do-able. I remembered the story of a man/reporter who was arrested on suspicion of DUI (driving under the influence) before cannabis-testing came into force. He was interrogated, kept behind bars for a couple of hours, then given his licence back and politely told to “fuck off” (just the police’s way of building rapport with the public). He appeared to be perfectly normal on the outside, but on the inside, he was like me; totally paranoid.
I was locked in. I couldn’t go too fast, or too slow, or too near the car in front, or weave across the lanes, or anything. I was on perfect road behaviour; a bit like having an Indian meal without dropping any bits, but even more exacting. I breathed a sigh-of-relief when I pulled off at Junction-28 towards Chelmsford and the heart of Essex, my ancestral home. The A12 then guided me through the towns and onto the villages where I was safe. I felt a little elated like the late-great Wilko Johnson of the pub-rock-band Dr Feelgood returning in their van to Canvey-Island, but they were always on amphetamines! I did manage it, but it taught me a lesson.
Motorbikes. Just one story as I can’t drive a motorbike. I was on the Thalys from Amsterdam to Paris (Garde-de-Norde) on the high-speed rail as usual on the Sunday afternoon as I had a three-week gig there. As usual I was stoned and a little tipsy on arrival, but no worry, the taxi would whisk me away to my hotel on the other side of the city, La-Défense, where all the skyscrapers are, which host the HQs of almost all the big French companies. France is very centralised, like the UK on steroids; there’s Paris and the rest, though the denizens of Marseille bitch-a-bit about this.
I arrive and there’s a manifestation. This is one of my favourite French faux-amis words as its nothing to do with ghostly apparitions, but everything to do with civil-insurrection. The French do this better than anybody; on the one side are the riot-police, and on the other side an ever-changing assortment of the radical-left, pensioners, trade-unionists, and the only group that puts the shits-up the authorities, the farmers. It was chaos, and there were no realistic options for me to get to my destination. I could clearly see it, first the Arc-de-Triomphe, then the Eifel-Tower, then the towers of La-Défense.
I thought about walking it, but with my luggage it would have taken literally hours, so I stood and thought. This is actually a very good strategy and one more people should adopt, though it made bugger-all difference in this situation. No buses, no metro, taxi queues hundreds of metres long; I was fucked! At this point a large black-guy approached me wearing a motor-cycle helmet and beaming an enormous, welcoming smile. As he rolled his wrists backwards-and-forwards he said “Taxi brrrm brrrm?”. My French isn’t that good, and the hash/alcohol mix was definitely slowing my mental processes, until I got-it. He was a motorbike-taxi, and in the spirit of radical adventurism, I replied “oui” (I could see he was impressed with my rusty O-level French).
That was it really. His bike was an enormous German-jobby parked only metres away which swallowed my pc and luggage with no problem whatsoever. A second helmet appeared, I put it on with some difficulty, climbed on-board with all the grace of a dancing-dad, and off we zoomed. God he was quick. I thought I would enjoy the experience, and to be honest I did, but it was like being on a burning roller-coaster – barely containable terror massively amplified by being stoned. In-and-out of the traffic, round the Arc at an angle of 45-degrees, accelerating up the Champs’-Elysee leaving everything as dust behind. Exhilarating, terrifying and as I said, massively enjoyable. It’s one of the very few times I’ve ever been on a motor-bike, and if I ever had had a mid-life crisis, I now knew how I might have approached it (buy-a-bike instead of joining the Amsterdam SM/fetish-scene? – thank God I chose the latter!).
Bicycles and by-foot I’ll put together as although you have to do the steering, its very unlikely you can injure anyone other than yourself, regardless of how stoned you get. On a bike you just fall-off, on-foot you have to sit-down. Its as simple as that really; the only fuzz trouble we had was cycling back into town returning from the Amsterdam woods. A policeman stopped us shooting a red light. The Dutch take a dim view of this, especially if you are drunk-and-stoned, and can take your driving licence away. The solution? Grovelling. The ability to grovel cogently should be taught at schools and not have to be learnt on-the-street. Yes, tourists (we weren’t), didn’t see the lights (yes, we did), love the traffic-police and the important job they do (no, we didn’t). Job done; let off with a warning.
The only niggle is navigating when stoned. If you are familiar with where you are and how to get from A to B, that’s fine, otherwise, problems arise. The only difference is that on a bike you get lost even quicker than you do by-foot. Ray-Mear’s tips on how to find your way out of a jungle are always good to have-at-hand (e.g. remembering where you started from so that when you stumble in a circle back to where you started from, at least you know about it!).
Maps don’t really help with all those canals, roads and churches, none of which ever seem to match-up with where you are. Landmarks are problematic. In Amsterdam the only high buildings are five churches, but unfortunately from afar they look identical, so are useless for navigation. The best strategy is to learn from physics; do a two dimensional random-walk. The maths states you have a high probability of stumbling across where you want to go to, and even if you miss your destination, you’ll find something interesting to stop-by-at, and you’ll forget about your original goal. Technology might work though; an app that points with a huge arrow which way to go (left, right or forward).
The strangest navigation error occurred to Marvella and me when we were leaving an SM/Fetish club on the Prinsengracht canal at four in the morning (as you do!). As we were living on the Prinsengracht at that time I surmised the safest course of action was to follow it until we came across our flat. Twenty-five minutes later we were outside the sodding-club again! To this day the only thing I can think of by way of an explanation is that we encountered some type of Klein-manifold-inversion/wormhole in the space-time continuum. Weird. Mega-weird.