Greetings From GanjaLand, Wish You Were Here

I live on the border of Holland and Belgium, which is a dodgy place to live for many reasons (see my previous rant). It's a place where cultures meet, and often clash, in pursuit of adventure, insight or in this particular area, pot.

There is one main road that leads from Belgium into the first major city of Holland, Terneuzen, where the infamous coffeeshop Checkpoint is located. Whomever founded Checkpoint is one clever hombre, because it's not only the only coffeeshop anywhere near the border, it's waterfront property, and located right smack in front of the city's one and only concert hall. This must be advantageous to certain parties besides Checkpoint's regular crowd of stoners; surely jazz musicians performing in the concert hall must see it as an added bonus that they only need to follow their noses from the artist entrance to Checkpoint's front door.

I once participated in a local radio debate about Terneuzen and it wasn't long before the issue of Checkpoint, its unfavorable location, its objectionable clientele and its overal shoddy appearence came up. This was a few years ago, when Checkpoint was a seedy, dilapidated building surrounded by pieces of asphalt which could only be assumed to be a parking lot. At one point, for reasons we will never know, the owner thought that he could elevate the esteem of the place by painting the building fluorescent green. By the looks of the paint-job he'd administered, it was obvious no one had told him beforehand he needed to use paint intended for outdoor use instead of finger-paint, which was evidently what he opted for. Undoubtedly a more cost-effective decision in the long run.

Not that the people of Terneuzen has ever really considered Checkpoint to be any sort of blemish on the face of its fine city. I guess when the traffic signs pointing the way to a coffeeshop are bigger and more prominent than those pointing to a cultural institution of any kind, you know that city has a problem deep down, they just don't want to admit it. Apparently, the city of Terneuzen could live with Checkpoint's appearance, but it was still situated so prominently in the wrong spot, even the city's rat population was beginning to get a little embarrassed. Something had to be done.

So what did the city of Terneuzen do to solve the problem? Did they tear the run-down building down and build a glorious monument to honour war heros in its place? No. Did they level the unsightly thing to make room for a handicap entrance to the concert hall? No. Did they demolish the repulsive piece of architecture in order to construct anything at all, like a playground? A sidewalk? A bus-stop?! No. Checkpoint was simply moved 50 meters to the right and the owner was even given permission to renovate and even add a story to an already recurring nightmare.

One can only conclude: trade is holy. The number of Drugs Tourists that enter Terneuzen on a daily basis must be staggering, so the amount of money they spend at McDonald's must be staggering as well. I bet the mayor of Terneuzen probably remembers from his wild youth that Mary Jane gives you the munchies so bad, you'd sell your gold fillings for a bag of nachos. Terneuzen could do with that kind of tourism.

As I drive to and from Terneuzen, I often see shabby cars with license plates from Belgium and France swerving over the road, usually containing three young males in baseball caps and emitting a fragrant blueish smoke from its cracked windows. If they're driving towards the city, all three of them will be sitting upright, looking about them frantically and probably listening to Limp Bizkit. If they're driving back towards the border, it's likely they will be slumped low in their seats, passing a fat blunt from the front to the back seat and listening to Bob Marley. You see, regardless of their origin, Drug Tourists are cliché.

It's a mystery to my why Drug Tourists risk traveling such great distances for a little bit of dope in such amazingly unreliable vehicles! More often than not, I see yet another broken-down Honda Civic along the side of the road with smoke still gushing out from under the hood. A couple of young men in baseball caps will be lingering around the car looking glum as a third desperately tries to get through to someone on his mobile. Maybe he's trying to call Checkpoint, to make sure they won't sell all the weed before they get there. I always wonder if they will end up walking the rest of the way to the coffeeshop, their own personal Walhalla. Distance is then no longer an issue, I guess, when there's pot to be scored. It's a 'no turning back now' scenario...

Not only is there the relatively harmless Drug Tourist I have to contend with on the open road, there's also a more professional, highbrow Drug Commuter. They tend to drive in a slightly newer version of the Honda Civic with real tinted windows and flames along the side that they didn't paint on themselves. These are the 'big guys', the 'head honchos', or at least they like to think they are. In all likelihood they're nothing more than a runner for the Drug Baron, who in turn is probably on some other big guy's payroll as a lowly go-between, and so on and so forth til you end up in Columbia where they don't really give a shit about dope anyway.

The Drug Commuters probably buy a couple kilos of marijuana and take all the B-roads back over the border, a long and tedious route for them, to be sure. Unfortunately, my route home just happens to be on one of these B-roads where I often find myself in front of a souped-up Civic with frenzied occupants behind tinted glass, unquestionably loaded up with cannabis on their way home from a hard day's work. At times like that, I'd give anything to be behind this crazed motorist, whose back seat is probably littered with a couple kilos of skunk and assorted used McDonald's wrappings. They're probably cursing their luck as well at being stuck behind a law-abiding citizen like me in a family sized Toyota when the odds of sharing the road with a co-Commuter are actually much higher.

It's common knowledge that the Drug Commuter wants to get across the border a.s.a.p, and although the B-roads are the safer route, they're certainly not the quickest. A run-in with the law on the main road, which is under frequent supervision, would give a whole new meaning to the concept of 'a bad trip', something the Drug Commuter will do just about anything to avoid.

So what other option do they have than to cling onto my bumper like it was a long-lost college roommate and force me to get a move on. Seeing as I usually like to return home after grocery shopping in one piece and without any dents in my car, I tend to just pull over and let the Drug Commuter pass me. Sometimes I try to see if they give me a little 'thank-you' wave from behind those dark windows, but they drive past me at a speed comparable to Warp 2, so it's doubtful they would have time to.

To this day, Checkpoint is alive and well and flourishing in Terneuzen, and it will most likely never ever go away. And the youth of France and Belgium can, based on the reliability of their vehicles, commute freely to and from its newly renovated structure without that pesky concert hall getting in their way. The big guys can do their jobs, collect their goods and still make it through the drive-thru and onto a safe B-road before the cops even know they've been in town.

Business as ususal.

Viva la Ganja.