Green pt 1

I broke a promise to my mother. Then I broke one to myself. I shared joint with some strangers at a rooftop bar in Chiang Mai. Mind you, the bar is called Freedom Bar (remember that one?), and is covered with emblems of marijuana leaves. They sell at the counter some nights, and multiple groups were smoking freely on the roof. I suppose they bribe the police, or they just don't care. Either way, this felt like a pretty damn safe place.

It was Matt who got me to break my promise to my mother to not do drugs abroad. Sure, its not coke or pills or heroin, but it's still an illegal drug. Nor will I spend life in prison like with harder things, but it's still an illegal drug. Still, my friend invited me to split a joint for free, and it had been awhile, and I felt safe, so why not.

It started with just me and Matt on the roof. Others came up and went into their own groups. Most notably was a group of German girls sitting not far. Before too long, Matt got lost drawing trippy shit in his notebook, and I joined the German girls (half of whom were high themselves). One of the girls, named Freeda of all things, was celebrating her birthday in style: with beer, pot, and chocolate. I was only too happy to join in.

Too many girls in one place attracts a crowd, and before long two South Africans joined us. One was named Danny, the other I couldn't give a shit. Danny asked us about our night, and feeling safe, passed his joint around the circle. Before long, when he realized the girls weren't going to put out sober or stoned, he and his friend left for greener pastures, so to speak. One by one, the girls all nodded off to sleep themselves until only Freeda and I remained.

We walked over to join a Frenchman reclining lazily against the railing, smoking out of a pipe. Naturally it was full of ganja. Despite having shared two joints already, I took his beaming grin and his pipe and topped up. Smelling bud, we were eventually joined by a growing throng of people: Another Frenchman, a local Thai, a Singaporean, and a Japanese couple. All laying back in this bastion of freedom, enjoying the Devil Weed in the company of strangers. Life was good.

Then, with almost no sleep and what I can only describe as a pot hangover, I went trekking in the hills. Could explain why the first day was such shit.

Upon returning to Chiang Mai, I decided to make Freedom Bar my regular joint (so to speak). That night, I took Joris and made the 15 minute walk I'd make a number of times again before leaving Chiang Mai.

In Freedom was a different set of stoners, but they become interchangeable after awhile. None had green, but I was feeling bold. I offered to collect money (100 baht from all participants) and buy: 500 baht ($15 US) would buy the equivalent of $50 in Australia. Sadly, the bartender either didn't have or didn't want to sell to me, so we went home empty-handed that night. However, I made the acquaintance of an aging dreadlocked Seattle hippie rock climber named Richard. I assumed from his hair he'd have drugs, but he did not. In fact, he was quite shy to talk about them at all. But by the end of the night, that was all he could talk about. The fine art of rolling, or baking cookies, or making milkshakes. He fancied himself a cook and a connoisseur, and offered to teach me to roll if I could find any. Sounds like a challenge.

The next night I met up with Richard outside his hostel, where he was talking to a young climber from Laramie (and a friend of Matthew) named Ben. The three of us eventually worked our way to Freedom, where we all ordered beer and sat downstairs. However, I knew the smokers were upstairs, so I made an excuse to slip away. Upstairs I found Danny, relaxing with his J, which he kindly shared. We exchanged pleasantries, asking about our future plans, ect. When I mentioned my overnight train ride coming up, he suggested I 'be prepared'. I surmised well enough he wanted to sell. Now here's the promise I made to myself: Not to carry drugs. Its fine enough when there's no evidence, but if I'm caught with stuff on me, I'd be fucked.

I bought 200 baht worth. Danny delivered half an hour later a very densely pressed slice of a brick. Easily worth $30 or so in Australia, it only cost me 7 bucks. Richard and Ben were impressed. I could practically see Richard's mouth water. We made an appointment for rolling lessons the next night at Freedom's free BBQ.

Next night I went to Richard's hostel, but he wasn't around. Nor was he at Freedom. So I enjoyed the free BBQ with Freeda and more randoms. An hour later, Richard shows up quizzical. "How come you never came up to my room?" he asked. I told him I didn't know his room or that he wanted to meet me there, but I'd be glad to go up now and practice, so we left.

Richard really did have an ideal room. Big, open, with AC and a small balcony overlooking nothing (bad for views, great for privacy). Over the course of an hour, I rolled, unrolled, and rolled again. I must've rolled atleast 10 joints. I had no idea it was so frustrating! Even with the AC, my hands were sweating so bad that the weed was sticking to my hands and the rolling paper was getting soaked. After an hour and two decent joints, I gave up and we lit one up on the balcony.

Its easy to underestimate how much pot is in a well-rolled joint. Despite being two of us, I was suddenly more fucked up than any of the previous nights. With the dogs barking and the traffic grinding and the waist-high railing suddenly being too low, I was itchy to get back inside. I sat on his bed, and he sat next to me, cliche reggae music mousing out of his mobile phone speakers. We chatted for a bit, with Richard seeming overly concerned with my well being. Suddenly (or maybe not suddenly, I was baked) he scooted up to me and started rubbing my neck. It felt good for about two seconds before I became suddenly paranoid. Am I sitting next to a rapist?

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Nothing, just giving you a massage," he cooed back. I tensed up, and said, half-demanding and half-panicked "Why are you touching my neck?" He quickly retreated to the opposite corner of the bed. "Ok, personal space, I get it." Now I just felt uncomfortable in this tiny cramped hot room with a strange older man. Who was 55, apparently. It didn't take me long before I claimed the munchies and a need to get outside and eat.

Outside we met Ben, who indulged us by buying us 5 baht chocolate biscuits. Pure heaven, and I felt that much safer with him around. The three of us went on a market run (where I had Pad Thai noodles, Banana Fried Crepe, and of course more chocolate) before making out way to Freedom for the last time. But rather than go in and drink, we joined a group outside (including Freeda) and somehow managed to talk our way into going on a kebab run on the other side of town (the Eagle House side). So one last time we made the trek. After indulging in more fattening awesome, we all went our separate ways.

But before he left, Ben told me that he stopped smoking weed. "I used to have alot of fun and do stupid shit, but I was always afraid. I couldn't understand why I was scared all the time. Then I stopped smoking."

The next day (or same day, they blur together), I boarded an overnight train at 3pm bound for Bangkok. Some music, a brief nap, but I eventually found myself striking up conversations with everyone in the carriage. One in particular, a 20 year old Brit named Jack, I ended up spending much of the long journey with. He seemed bright, but was unemployed, uneducated (high school dropout) and had no plans. So I offered to help him figure out what he was passionate about. I shouldn't have asked, in hindsight. It resulted in an hours-long conversation about 9/11 conspiracy theories with Jack and some ancient withered dude from Denmark. Far too much crazy old dude for one day, even though Jack seemed to love him. Jack's passion was more about overthrowing the current corrupt capitalist system (something I hear plenty of from the left socialist uni students enjoying government welfare benefits I know back in Sydney), as well as bizarre physical theories such as the golden ratio Phi and the effects of the Cygnus constellation on human evolution. I offered my biology knowledge to suggest why a disparate group of stars at vast distances from each other only linked by human imagination in a 2-dimensional view of the night sky would not influence the random process of evolution in a positive-change way, but shyed short of a full slap-down of his theories. And I promised to atleast investigate the 9/11 'alternative views' for myself. Having already broken a promise to my mother I wouldn't feel so bad ignoring him, but he's like the third person to try and discuss it with me this year when I say I'm from New York.

Anyway...

We chatted for over six hours, but eventually he needed his sleep. I tried to sleep for an hour to no avail. The train was just too loud and jarring. Instead, I crept to the bathroom and locked the door. Assuming the uniformed conductors were long asleep, I became the ultimate suss person, huddled by a window in a hard metallic shitty train toilet in Thailand. Afterward, I threw the butt out the window and crept back into bed. No one stirred.

There are a number of levels of being high. There's being slightly buzzed. Then there's that happy medium, just chilled out. Above that, there's being really high where you're spacing out and feeling weird. Above that you just get quiet and paranoid and it isn't fun. I've known all levels in my life. However, after doing too much acid at a warehouse party, I've discovered a new level, more of a side level than one further up. Essentially, sometimes when I'm really high, I experience a recreation of my acid trip. Sometimes it's a flat-out memory. Even more rarely, it's a recreation of the symptoms but in a whole new context. This is what is known as an Acid Flashback. This is what I was experiencing in my tiny uncomfortable cot in a hard cold train, loud and jarring, completely isolated with only the plentiful cockroaches to keep me company. My body was spinning in ways that defied physics, and my brain went places. Paint chipped away from the wall became horses breathing fire racing around the Circus Maximus.

Unlike my actual acid trip, I knew the whole time what was going on. I never lost the ability to discern I was in an overnight train to Bangkok and having an acid flashback. But it was long and lonely, and the whole time I remembered Ben's words about feeling afraid.