SUMMERTIME BLUES

s the Amsterdam summer reaches its peak -- more a slight curve actually -- panic grips the intestines of coffeeshop owners everywhere. They wait with bated breath for the arrival of the annual bulletin from the city's catering and licensing department. A chatty mixture of new regulations, new fees (the bit that really frightens them) and threats, this is just what the coffeeshops
need.
The rules that govern what coffeeshops can and can't do are numerous and tight. But, thankfully, most have been barely enforced. There has been, however, sustained but mostly gentle pressure to maintain a low profile. Some years ago, all coffeeshops were required to remove pictures of grass leaves, buds and plants from their windows. The coffeeshops replaced them with pictures of palm trees and tried selling dates but . . . .
Although, in the main, the rules are followed there are coffeeshops who push the boundaries or their luck, depending on your viewpoint. The rule is no advertising outside of their own premises. But there are poster ads -- paid for, not fly stuck -- in the station and on lamp posts down the Damrak and along Leidsestraat -- the main tourist drags. Such coffeeshops are, however, the exception rather than the rule.
There aren't, anyway, that many advertising mediums available to the coffeeshops. Many coffeeshops are tourist traps designed specifically to satisfy the many cannabis tourists who make Amsterdam one of the most visited cities in Yerp. But, even when you are running a perfectly legal and socially acceptable small business, it is not easy to reach such customers. They are living in other countries with different laws and social attitudes, they are speaking a different language. In the case of the coffeeshops seeking to hit tourists on their way to the city of dreams, they are aiming for a tiny minority in a highly specialised and illegal market sector. It hardly seems worth the time or the money.
That was the prevailing situation, the status quo, right up until the myth of the world wide web became a reality. World wide access, freedom of speech, unregulated and probably unregulatable and -- for the Dutch a very crucial factor -- very inexpensive, the web was like (and maybe was) a gift from God.
The coffeeshops were quick to act. It was not long before there were a large number of coffeeshop sites on the web; maybe not a majority but certainly a large enough number to attract the interest of the authorities here on the ground.
In the bulletin from the licensing department last year (2001), coffeeshops were reminded of the no advertising outside their own premises rule and web sites were singled out for a special mention. Although some panicked and removed their web sites entirely, most interpreted this edict as relating to site content and removed pictures of buds, leaves and people with their eyeballs resting on tables. And, of course, many simply did nothing.
When nothing awful happened to the coffeeshops who had done nothing, the scaredy cats put their own sites back on the web.
That is how it works here in the last bastion of freedom. No one knows what's happening until it has happened. There is a basic conflict in the Dutch psyche that screws everything up -- they cannot abide rules but they love regulations. Of course, regulations only become rules when they are applied.
What this means in practice is that the coffeeshops are reminded of the regulations and have to wait to see if their are enforced. There are no clear statements of intent, nothing is spelled out in black and white, it is all discretionary. So it is no wonder confusion reigns.
The coffeeshop business is essentially illegal and it is, therefore, hardly surprising that there is a certain residual paranoia within it. The paranoia is, however, not without some justification. Although there is much good news on the freedom-front (like decriminalisation in the UK,) the swing is certainly not towards liberalisation. Increasingly Amsterdam stands out as a bit of a sore thumb on the hand of Yerp. It is a unique place with laws that are different to every other country in the EEC. And that makes coffeeshop owners very uncomfortable indeed. But it is not so much the internal pressures they worry about.
Whatever may happen in other Europ-ean countries to support Amsterdam’s case -- both Belgium and Switzerland have adopted policies similar to the Amsterdam model -- seems pretty irrelevant in the depths of the very deep shadow cast by the spectre of Amer-ican small mindedness.
This year's bulletin has just been issued and again has provoked a diverse range of reactions. Some coffeeshops no longer have menus on their counters. Others have removed their web sites. The majority have done nothing. But, same old, same old -- nothing is clear. There is, it seems some pressure for the coffeeshops to remove their addresses from their web sites. But no one seems to know for sure.

ashes cleaner than green has to be the new motto at The Botanic Herbalist where Mother Mila, Amsterdam’s leading hash maker and pioneer of hash making technology, has come up with another quantum leap forward in automating the ancient art. Inventor of the Pollinator, now used, she tells me, in 37 countries, and the Ice-O-Lator, Mila has done more for hash making than just about anyone world wide. The Pollinator itself was regarded as an innovation in hash making when it made it onto the market a few years ago and the Ice-O-Lator has revolutionised the process again. With a simple collection of household vessels, a freezer, an electric whisk and Mila’s super fine mesh screen bags, you too can make hash that waves at you when you look at it under a microscope. Although the Pollinator produced excellent yields for no work, the quality left a little to be desired. The Ice-O-Lator solved that problem. The quality it produced was super fine. Hash produced using the Ice-O-Lator is a joy to behold -- each crystal is a sparkling, prismatic, honey coloured orb that sends ripples of delight down the spine. Such a step forward is the Ice-O-lator that few of Amsterdam’s many grass growers now use the Pollinator at all. Mila tells that one or two of the really dedicated growers will freeze their trimmings hard and then put them in the Pollinator for just three minutes before putting the grass trimmings into the Ice-O-Lator but everyone opts for the latter. Mila’s most recent technology upgrade to the Ice-O-Lator process is a gem of ingenuity and cunning. It is no more than an ancient Hoover washing machine. As she says, it was designed to ‘shake the dirt off clothes.’ The process still uses lots of ice to get the resin glands nice and brittle and the mesh screens. Then it is set the controls for Synthetics -- Non-iron, find a magazine and wait for the guy from the Levi ad to start taking off his trousers.

onversation is the frothy stuff that makes smoking cannabis such a joy. Dope smokers know how to use words; indeed, most of them can talk. And what a vocabulary. The stoners’ lexicon is rich and deeply coloured. But. Have you ever considered ‘stoned’ as description of being high? Just put those two concepts together: ‘stoned’ and ‘high’. Some mistake, surely? So we were sitting around in the big table at Katsu smoking some fine Northern Lights trying to come up with a better, more accurate term. But something that was close enough to existing slang to catch on. The witty ideas flew through the air like Terry Pratchett on speed, prisms of inspiration, globes of delight, great balls of . . . . er . . . . fire. And, like an unfolding parachute, one idea settled all the others. ‘Honed.’ What a great word for being high. A well honed cutting instrument, as we pacifists call knives, is capable of fulfilling its dharma to the ultimate degree. And are not we, when we are in the arms of the GanjaMa, capable of fulfilling our dharma also? Think of the phrases: ‘Well and truly honed’, ‘honed to perfection’, ‘honed is where your heart is’ . . . . This could catch on in a big way.

IN THE CANNABISNESS SECTION

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The Coffeehouse Creeper The leaden-lunged lothario is back. This Page

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CANNABIS CUP In the Temple of the Green Goddess Join us as we worship at the feet of the GanjaMa The Cups Overfloweth Yep, it's two for the price of one as we bring our cup coverage up to date Bouffants are Out Hair dispair Page Four

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BIG FEATURE Great Books, Laurence You've heard of Lawrence of Arabia. Well, this is Laurence of Indica. Page Five

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SERIES Let the Good Times Roll Part Two The second part of our review of just how things have changed in the UK

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COLUMNS Greenfinger Grow something for World Peace Page Five Neat Eats, Treats & Sweets Our own Foody, as we call the greedy bugger, butters you up Page Six And many INSPIRATIONALS

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This is a little cartoon somebody,
who took my hip transplant more
seriously than did I, sent to me. I
laughed. And maybe you will, too.
I do not know who drew the cartoon
(it had no credit attached) but if you
do, please let me know as I would
like to give its witty creator all the
credit that is due. Anyone who can
make older people feel as depressed
as your cartoon made me, deserves
credit. The trouble with agist jokes is
that the last laugh is always with
victims of the joke.

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MORE TABLE
TALK

itting at the Botanical Herbalist
in Cornelis Troosstraat around Mila’s big table while she checks a large order of assorted smoking and smokers’ supplies heading out to Jamaica, I am overcome by the strangeness of the experience. The table is piled high with debris, used and full drinking vessels, assorted soft drink cans and bags of freshly made hashish. Against the wall are wide shelves lit by growlights that contain an assortment of hallucinogenic cacti and other psychotropic plants.
Across the room a group is gathered around a large plastic vat containing a quantity of grass trimmings which they are stirring conscientiously with an electric hand mixer. There are bongs, pipes and smoking appliances everywhere. Surrounded by all this if not illegal certainly dubious stuff I am overwhelmed by the total lack of fear, paranoia, stress or upset in the atmosphere. Maybe a dozen people sit or stand, at least fifty percent of them smoking joints, and the vibe is warm, welcoming, cosy and very relaxed. This, I think, is one of those defining Amsterdam experiences.

he very first smoking establishment in Amsterdam was not, as many might surmise, a coffeeshop but a tea house. Started in the early 70s by Werner Bruining, who would later come to fame as the founder of the ultimate growshop, Positironics, Mellow Yellow has long since disappeared but the tea drinking goes on. In a city where beer and coffee would seem to be the drinks of choice, the number and variety of teas available is astounding. But maybe it is the same the whole world over. Tea drinking is on the increase. Alongside the fine blends of ceylon, darjeeling and orange pekoe and even the not so fine blend known as English Melange at my local supermarket, there are a multitude of fruit, herbal and spiced teas in an almost infinite combination of flavours. As well as teas flavoured by just about every fruit from apple to persimmon, there are some amazing combinations. How about melon and passion fruit? Or grapefruit and vanilla? Or coconut and kelp? And it is a mix and match bonanza when it comes to the mixes. The herbal mixes are legion -- though simple mint seems hard to find. One of the most popular is Sterrenmix (star mix) which contains a cast of thousands. And, like so many beverages, tea has been forced through the marketing man’s hoop. Merely slaking one’s thirst is not enough, these days, to induce consumers to buy drinks. They all have to have some kind of effect on the mind or body. There are teas to relax, to energise, to relax but in an energetic kinda way, to induce pregnancy and to grow brain cells. Tea, however, is nice for those who can’t handle a real beverage. In the Coffeehouse Creeper household we drink coffee, hot and strong. It puts hairs on your chest (and on your tongue) and has a hit like a line of sulphate. Now that’s what you call a drink.

ne of the many things I like about Amsterdammers is that they have a finely tuned appreciation of things beautiful. (Or so it seems to me.) Throughout the whole of Amsterdam, hidden behind the facades there are delightful rooms and shady gardens carefully constructed to delight the eye, the ear and the soul. Amsterdam is full of hidden nooks and crannies. The area of Amsterdam in which Mila’s shop is to be found (although she is said to be moving soon) is called the Pijp and it is one of the most racially mixed areas of this most cosmopolitan of cities. Traditionally it was one of the poorer areas offering cheapish accommodation to immigrants and students but these days there are no truly poor areas in central Amsterdam and the Pijp is in the process of coming up in the world. But it is still mainly flat-fronted townhouses and tenements (though, in Amsterdam, even these seem to be built with a eye on how they will look). Just next door to Mila’s shop is the site of one of the Amsterdam smoking world’s most famous shops: Positronics. Once owned by the father of the Amsterdam coffeeshop scene, Werner Bruining , this was the home of the famed Sensimilla Fan Club. Now it is a very good grow shop called PositivGrow, which is run by some very expert growers. As well as selling everything you need to become a complete criminal, they sell all the usual headshop stuff. And it is very pleasant just to browse, take a relaxed, unpressurised look at everything (making sure you visit their small growroom). At the end of your visit ask them nicely and they will show their garden where for the price of a smile and tidying up after yourselves, you can sit beneath an eastern canopy and listen to the talking water while you elevate your consciousness. Yet another joy in this the most joyful city in the western hemisphere.

ue to the fact that Leidsestraat has been stripped back to the bare bones that actually hold the street together, my tram is diverted via East Germany and I find myself in a part of town I rarely visit. On the fringes of the picturesque Jordaan -- all skinny houses and expensive little shops full of stuff no one actually needs -- is Marnixstraat. Unlike the area of which it is nearly a part, Marnixstraat has little charm. Although at its lower end it skirts a pretty canal lined on one side, at least, with the infinitely varied lurching and leaning shops and houses that are so characteristic of this city, once it crosses Rozengracht it becomes a much more sombre affair. There it is a long wide street of flat fronted, straight onto the sidewalk tenement buildings. The red and yellow brickwork from which these are made has long since discoloured and become pitted and stained by the pollution that, with almost no justification, Amsterdammers complain about so vociferously. It is a featureless road unrelieved by canals with a few dirty-windowed shops and -- unusually for Amsterdam -- little of architectural interest. There is the Marnixbad, a bathhouse, midway along the road that marks its presence known by leaking across the pavement, but even that is of little interest. The vista is generally a bleak one of twanging tram cables and grubby buildings. Needless to say, isolated pieces of paper drift like urban tumbleweed across the empty expanse of the road. Desolate is the word that springs to mind. Desolate and uncared for.
Taking advantage of the tram’s diversion and being a spontaneous, take-it-as-it-comes sort of guy (a much better description of me than a complete wastrel with time on his hands,) I decide to jump the tram and visit a coffeeshop I used to hang out in when I was a tourist. As I stroll up the road with the wind whipping at my eyelids, I wonder what the hell I am doing there. But, of course (there is, of course, no ‘of course’ about it), I am there for a reason. I just can’t, for the moment, remember what it is. As I pass the statue of the running violinist just up from the Rozengracht intersection, I notice that he is not running up Marnixstraat but away from it. I can understand why. Marnixstraat is, perhaps, the most unenticing street I have yet encountered in this city where there is so much beauty and character. If cold hard reality is going to get to you anywhere, it is on a street such as Marnixstraat. If you ever happen to be looking for a really bad trip Marnix-straat might be a good place to start.
I am there, of course, to visit a coffeeshop. And for me to suffer the Marnixstraat experience, it must be a good one. Free City is one of Amsterdam’s best kept secrets. It is even one of Marnixstraat’s best kept secrets. Although the large face, once a native American Indian with full head dress but now just a face with a fully trepanned skull, that looks out benignly over Marnixstraat from the first floor corner of the building is a bit of a giveaway, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. For inside is not only one of the most artistically and lovingly decorated and cared for coffeeshops we have come across but a menu that is excellent in both quality and pricing.
Although the grass here, both indoor and outdoor, is of excellent quality and comes at a great price, the speciality of the house is their Manali Creme hash. This comes in fingersticks bunched into whole hands that look like they have been auditioning for the first of the Great Books of Hashish. The smell is incredible, the taste divine and the hit . . . . well . . . .
Although Free City is close enough to the centre of town to just about make it into some of the tourist guides, it is a bit too far out for most visitors. The walk from Centraal Station, which is inevitably the point from which most tourists start their treks around town, is a long one and on the way the temptations are innumerable. Most tourists opt to walk along Haarlem-merstraat which is lined with coffeeshops and are getting tired, disorientated and withdrawn around about the time they reach Barney’s Breakfast Bar, another beautifully decorated coffeeshop, so they go in there.
It is a shame that so few of them do not make it through the Jordaan and into the back of beyond for there is a treasure hidden there that so few see. I cannot now remember exactly what led me to seek out Free City for the first time. Something, probably, that I had read in one of the guide books. But one cold November morning while my fellow travellers lay abed trying to recover their eyeballs from the covers, I ventured across town to find Free City. It was one of the very first trips to Amsterdam I made after an absence of 20 or more years and I was full of the breath of freedom.
I entered Marnixstraat right at the top where the triumphal arch, so right for Vienna but somewhat out of place in Amsterdam, creates a deceptive aura of grandeur that is completely out of keeping with the street itself. As I looked down the long empty boulevard cowering under the low grey sky, I seemed to have entered a ghost town. Walking towards the south, the featureless buildings hung over me glowering. The wind whipped across the road bouncing from building to building and not one gust missed me. It was mid-morning but it felt like the evening as I walked in the shadows of Marnixstraat. As I looked out down the arrow straight line of the street I could see no building that might resemble a coffeeshop, no fairy lights, no Rastafarian flags. So I walked. And walked. By the time I reached the Marnixbad, leaking across the sidewalk then as now, I had passed only maybe half a dozen boring shops and was about ready to give up. Then, in the distance, I caught the face and I knew I had found it.
It was a rather innocuous building that had little more to say than those around it. I wondered if I might have had a long journey for little but disappointment. However as I stood in the doorway facing the beautifully painted windows I knew I had not. Full of swirls, starbursts, rainbows, symbols, faces and original surreal touches, the painted windows are beautiful from the outside and stunning from the inside. But all the art within this extremely arty coffeeshop
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SAD CELLED
LADY OF THE
LOWLANDS

owards the end of the winter, when the piercing icy barbs of intense cold have been replaced by a wind that merely whips the flesh from the bones, the ladies of Amsterdam emerge from their hibernation. Sleepy, blinking, pale and lean after a winter wrapped in duvets and depression, they appear in the coffeeshops like ghosts of the 1960s to buy their little baggies. Surrounded by an aura of soft grey, they stumble, mumble and bumble in the half world into which they have emerged but so many of them carry their age like a bouquet that it is hard not to enjoy their presence. Unlike the Molochs of H. G. Wells’, Time Machine epic, the ladies of Amsterdam do not shun the sun they crave it. As the days grow warmer and brighter, they blossom and bloom. It is, I am told, a fact that the sun deficiency syndrome that is responsible for so many suicides in Sweden (of course, the fact they are all alcoholics having constant meaningless sex with masseuses has nothing to do with it) has a big effect in Amsterdam. But only on the women. The medical profession call it SAD Syndrome but it is just a lack of sunlight. The same sunlight that we all know is beneficial (in moderation) because we can feel our cells responding to its presence. And it must be admitted that it is grey in Amsterdam from the turn of autumn into winter until they do that clock thing we all forget. Although the city is a beautiful sight with golden sunlight reflecting off the canals, with the intricate architectural facades picked out against a sky as blue as a Turag’s robe, with its cobbled streets and humpbacked bridges, it is less easy to find the beauty when it is bathed in shadows and backed by a glowering, flat, non-reflective sky. As the hormonal chemistry set that ladies walk around with (men having no problems of that sort whatsoever) cranks up, the mood changes, the disappearance of light from the world can have a fairly negative effect on their morale. As summer slips away, a gentle melancholia takes over that can easily become a deep, winter-long depression. Being the mood enhancer that it is, at such times, the ladies of Amsterdam tend to go easy on the smoking. But, when they emerge from their teapots, it is great to have them back.

ne of the many nice things about Amsterdam is that there are just so many coffeeshops that it seems they are never going to run out. For all the years I have been here as a committed dope smoker and coffeeshop user, it is surprising that I do not have a better knowledge of the shops. But there are nearly 300 of them. Much as I love new experiences, I find myself trolling around the same limited number of places all the time. There is, of course, a reason for this. For a start they almost all have exceptionally good smoking menus. If they do not, they have something else that keeps me coming back -- good music, a nice vibe, good conversation, comfort, whatever. And when you are comfortably numb, having a good conversation and can’t feel your legs, it is hard to move on. I have, however, been spreading my wings recently and what a very pleasant experience it was. So pleasant, in fact, that I am resolved to visit more new coffeeshops. In Centrum I discovered Woltje Wiet, in Kolksteeg. I had often walked by and admired the large aluminium vases of long
stemmed flowers sitting outside on the pavement. I felt that it showed a nice spirit to put flowers out on the street for passers-by like me to enjoy. Then, one day, I had reason to go in there. And it was just sooooo nice. Although their good value menu

offeeshops, of course, derive much of their ambiance from the area in which they are situated and their customers. And it would be wrong to judge all coffeeshops on those to be found on the main tourist drags. Beyond the central bit of Centrum coffeeshops tend to be more individual and less commercial. On the whole they are the shops for Amsterdammers. Many are almost exclusively middle eastern -- Turkish or more often Moroccan -- some are dark, some are light, some are orange, some are white. Sorry about that. Out beyond the bustle of the Albert Cuypstraat market tucked between Van Woustraat and the Amstel canal is a haven of peace called Yo Yo. Nice big windows and lots of space make this a great place to sit and watch the world go by (not much of the world, however, because they are on a quiet backstreet.) But, once again, it is the attitude of the owners who make this such a nice place to sit. No hassle to buy a drink -- although, children, it is always nice if you buy at least one drink if you are going to take advantage of a coffeeshop owner’s hospitality -- and no pressure on the tables. And the menu? Well, the menu is very interesting and well priced. But that is not why people go there. It is to sit in the leafy speckled front area to write letters and read and watch. If you want conversation, well, everyone will talk to you in Amsterdam and Katsu is only ten minutes away if you want something more multilingual. But for peace, pleasant and relaxing vibes and unintrusive music, Yo Yo is great.
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FRIED EDITOR

red for short. I have ways of revenging myself, you know. I was not happy when Fred asked me to write new copy for issue two. ‘What! All new copy?’ I screamed. ‘You must be kidding.’ But he wasn’t. I tried pleading that I had already exhausted my entire vocabulary writing the issue two preview diary and needed to learn some new words but he would have none of it. I tried whining, begging, crying, ridiculing the size of his genitalia -- nothing would work. Finally he agreed that I could use selected pieces from the preview and just write ‘some’ new stuff.
But when it came to it, I rather liked the preview diary. Although issue two took long enough that I was, indeed, able to learn some new words and I, therefore, had enough copy to make a whole new diary, I decided to combine both diaries and make them one. The preview diary has, after all disappeared. With the arrival of issue two on-line, a preview of it is obviously redundant. So I was merely saving the lives of my babies.
But, oh dear, Fred is not happy again. Is he ever happy? Now the column is too long. What can I say, dear Freditor, but you are frying in your own juices. So there.
PLAIN TEXT.
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