I'm typing this a few days after the actual event, so this retelling may not capture the exact quality of said event. Actually, words aren't enough anyway.
On Thursday the 10h of November, we boarded a crappy minibus at the Arts Factory. The eponymous Jim was away, so Gerald (or something) took the bus over instead. And off we went, to pick up more backpackers. At the last hostel we picked up a rather handsome Irish boy called Ciarin (or something) who, as the sexiest bitch on the bus, decided it would be wise to sit next to me. The further depths of his (un)intelligence were revealed to me slowly but surely as the day progressed.
Immediately, it was obvious that emphasis of
music on this tour was justified. Great track after great track, pumped out of not small speakers lining the inside of the bus, helped soothe our sweaty impatience to reach our destination.
Lismore didn't seem as awful as Mr. Bus Driver made it out to be, but we were only there for 10 minutes to pick up snacks from the wacky tourist information centre, which had a spiral ramp leading up to it. The attendant was nice enough. But I doubt I'll be spending too much longer there in the future.
The bus rode on through rolling hills stripped of their beautiful rainforesty hair to make way for failing dairy farm after failing dairy farm. This seems to be the affliction of the Far North Coast of NSW. This is how Nimbin was born-again in the 70s. In his slick, highly trained TV-travel-show monologue, Gerald (or something) told us about the University of Canberra students who set out back then to save the Far North NSW subtropical rainforest of which there was
only 3% left! To try and raise awareness of this sorry state of affairs, the dirty hippies organised the first Aquarius music festival in Nimbin, in 1973, which was attended by over 5000 people. Of those 5000 people, roughly three quarters of them were smoking pot. Instead of trying to fit that many people in Nimbin police station's two person cell, the authorities decided to overlook it, just this once. This turned into a lucky little loophole for Nimbin, cos now the police couldn't arrest anyone within the town for possession or use of marijuana. They couldn't tolerate it one week, and then punish it the next. So now Nimbin is the easiest place to get the strongest pot in the world, according to Gerald. And there are 4 "Nimbin Lifestyle" cafes, where you can enjoy a little toke 'n' chips. Neat huh?
I had it on good confidence that Elsabeth (or White-Haired Lady, because I cen't remember her real name) made
the best hash cake ever. We saw her waving at the bus as we drove past. I can picture her cackling and rubbing her hands with glee at the daily busload of cashed-up English and Irish backpackers gagging for some weed. Before letting us run riot through the streets, (actually, there was just the one) Mr Bus Driver gave us the four golden rules of Nimbin: 1. Be Polite 2.Don't Overconsume 3.Drink Lots of Water and 4.Um...Eat lots of Vegetables? Well anyway, it was good, commonsense advice. And off we went.
I didn't enjoy Nimbin. Because of the hordes who are at you from all sides, trying to relieve you of your money for "a bit of smoko". Because it was really hot. Because everyone was on edge, even the poor middle-aged dears who seemed to be completely straight and only visiting Nimbin for its delightful country quirkiness :P What annoyed and upset me the most was the fact that these people, who tended their marijuana crops with the same or greater love as any other farmer, were reduced to desperate, furtive criminals by the law. The law which says that we as human beings cannot take what is given to us by nature and do what the fuck we like with it as long as we don't harm other human beings. But I guess that law is keeping Nimbin the bustling tourist attraction it never could be without it. Regardless, one day, I hope to return to Nimbin, to attend the Monthly Marijuana Markets. Cops will smile benignly at us, strolling through stalls selling a delightful selection of cookies, slices and cakes all with a dash of hash love, while we lounge around on woven hemp mats, passing dutchies in the sun.
I headed fairly quickly towards The White Haired Lady's Big Red Car, dodging a host of dodgies, and stood there in the queue which wasn't a queue, clueless as all buggery. When it was my turn, I sat on the convenient cafe stools beside the White-Haired Lady's car, and looked expectantly at her. She was cool. Probably mid-fifties, dark wrinkly skin, white hair flowing free, pink and lilac everywhere, she was the most perfectly hip hippy I'd ever met, I reckon. She asked quietly and professionally how often I smoke pot, and on my response told me sternly to only have an eighth of a piece of her cake at a time. Bear in mind that each piece is roughly 5cm cubed. Also, she was very paranoid, which was amusing and perplexing. I mean, why else would people be lining up, all day every day, beside a dilapidated old station wagon belonging to a dilapidated old hippy, in the main street of Nimbin? She certainly ain't giving out no kisses.
Ok, we'll leave out all the boring bits now, and fast forward to an hour or two later on the bus. I have had a lot of Elsabeth's cake (thanks to the munchies), and I am becoming increasingly disconnected from the bus, from the rushing landscape, from my self. Almost everyone is completely silent. Ciarin, the gregarious young sexpot, is trying vainly to engage me in conversation. However, despite the pleasure of watching those luscious lips spilling forth Irish mead for the ears, I just can't handle his inane chatter. Sad but true. So I'm looking out the bus, loving how I'm thinking three hundred different things at the same time, and how the music is directly connected to my soul, and how good is reggae? (Unstoned, it's one of my least favourite genres.)
Next stop is Dr Paul Recker's Fruit Spirit (?) and the trip intensifies. This crazy American has bought 83 acres of dairy farm and over 27 years has
hand-planted the whole lot with various exotic plants. If you can just imagine a very tidily arranged jungle, and imagine the effect it was having on my poor kooky fruit cake intoxicated brain, you would still have no idea. While we're just hanging out at his lovely shack, gorging on these delicious plum thingies, I'm thinking lazily about how Dr Paul is now drugging all of us, and I'm thinking he's probably gay (I remember a giant carved penis in the garden on the way in, and right beside my head there was a Peter Pan figurine creatively glued to a Batman figurine's arse) and I'm thinking about how slow everything is in comparison to my brain. And now he's talking about how we should eat more insects. I get the impression he's very intelligent, but then I'm reminded of my beloved callers back at the SBS switchboard, and in particular that one man who was adamant that he had proven that the speed of light was not the fastest thing in the universe. He was fucking crazy.
In The Channon, which sounds so Irish, we stopped at the showground. I talked to this insanely cute British boy. He was skinny and shortish and had floppy hair, which is so not my type at all, but I liked him a helluva lot. He was kinda like Igby (in
Igby Goes Down - you should see it). I felt so stupid while I was trying to talk to him, trying to explain what I was feeling, but he was still so so so nice and patient. I can't even remember his fucking name. I lost him once he got back on the bus. The end.
And then, the absolute fucking highlight of this trip into another world: Minyon Falls. A hundred metre sheer cliff face. With me and some other stoners on top, gripping the handrail and trying hard to breathe. The beautiful mountains were flattening and zooming off into the distance, and then jiggling back into place. The trees at the bottom of the falls were massive, which made my sense of scale even more useless. Everyone was laughing nervously. Everyone was feeling it. It was unbelievable. I really can't describe it any better than that.
I know it was "just" pot, but I don't think I've ever felt like I did on that trip (I've had a few other drugs). This probably sounds like every other bloody drug experience. But it was fucking amazing to me. Everything was vibrating wildly. All this extra crap was playing over the top of the ordinary world. I kept thinking about how I was seeing the world as it really was, and it was all just flooding in. There were times when I felt decidedly uncomfortable about it, like I was losing my grip. I still feel a bit out of it.
