This will probably be my longest blog post, and contains no yoga, so feel free to skip it.
I've always been fascinated by the stories of drug smugglers
transporting huge quantities of drugs across borders, and harboured a
secret desire to tick it off the bucket list. This was my chance. Last
year I had fun smuggling contraband in and out of Cuba. Out of that I
scored free plane tickets, so it was an inexpensive holiday, if not a
profitable venture. Smuggling drugs is a step up from brand name
clothing and cigars though...
Hashish is very cheap in
Spain, and quite expensive in Germany, so it makes sense to play the
game from a financial perspective. Game on, let's give this a go.
First
check was the laws. I did a quick check to make sure that if I did get
caught, I wouldn't get into any trouble. I did that by making sure I
was only carrying a small amount. The police turn a blind eye to personal consumption in both Spain and Germany.
Next up was to check for security. The airport that flies cheap
flights out of Berlin is basically a small hay-shed, so security isn't
an issue there. Checking out the Barcelona side was more difficult.
Yes there was security, but the airport seemed to be "under
construction" in that Spanish way that says that there hasn't been any
construction going on the last few years, and no plans exist to finish
the work that was started before the financial crisis. There were
scanners, but only hand-held ones, no x-rays or any dogs. I felt safe.
My
first difficulty arose in trying to acquire the hashish. Not having
done it before, I realise that even in my thirties, I have no idea how
to buy drugs. Is that the genuine definition of a mis-spent youth?
People describe mis-spent youths as being wasted on drugs and alcohol
and women, but was mine wasted on hard work, study and competitive
sport? Had I been a pot-smoking hippie, I'd no doubt have found my yoga
devotion earlier on!!
Fortunately some friends of mine
were off to visit an electronic music festival in the hills above
Barcelona while I wandered around the city doing an inspection of
Gaudi's work. They seemed to think that all music festivals were places
where hashish would be easily obtained. This baffles me to this day.
Is there a stall advertising hashish? Is there a guy walking around
with a sign? Or do you just ask the nearest guy who looks like he's
stoned and hope it's not a cop? ...actually maybe you just ask the
cops. Everyone knows that's how they make their money. And the
purchase? Is it done like James Bond with a secret drop and pickup, or
is it out in the open these days?
I got home fully expecting everyone to be at the local prison, but contrary to my skepticism, everone was on the balcony smoking sangria and watching the city below. Faby shouted Nico!
and threw this little lump of what looked like kangaroo poo at me. I
asked her how much I owed her and she just laughed and replied "tonto"
which in context means "don't be silly!" (Thanks Faby)
Let
me describe it. It was dark and hard, but sticky. And the smell was
sooo strong. It wasn't the same smell as marijuana smoke though. That
smell is ubiquitous in Australia and Mexico, and omnipresent whenever
there are young people together. That smells like tobacco but heavy and
sweet, like barbequing marinated meat. This smelt nothing like that!
It actually smelled very nice, like a balm that you'd rub onto your
muscles to relieve aching joints. It smelled more like a candle shop
where you'd buy expensive candles for mothers' day, and less like a
stall selling incense. It smelt like eucalyptus throat lozenges, or
even fresh linen shirts hanging on the racks in a shop.
First
step over, it was time to do the deed. I had one little carry-on bag,
and we'd spent the day with friends, and had a bus followed by another
bus to the airport. Now it was over 40 degrees that day, and everyone
was melting. There must have been roadworks, because the bus just
didn't come. Nor the next one, or the next one. It was starting to get
a little late, and of course I was stressing. Finally the bus came and
everyone squeezed onto it. The doors couldn't close properly, and we
were just a huge mass of sweating, sunburnt bodies steaming up the
windows. Each stop was the same with people having to unload to get
others off, and then squeezing back on. Each stop all new passengers
were refused, but they tried anyway, resulting in some existing
passengers losing their spots on the bus having slipped out to let
others alight. At one stop there must have been someone stuck half in
the door when the bus started moving, because they fell out and were run
over by the bus! I don't know if they were killed or not, but
Screaming and shouting ensued and the police were of course soon on the
scene. This whole venture was turning into a disaster.
The
second bus was air-conditioned and cool, and my nerves chilled a little
bit. The problem was that I had a brown lump burning a hole in my
pocket, and not much time to hide it. Finally at the airport, and we
only had a few minutes to get to the gate.
Now we were at the airport, and I still had to do the 'insertion'. We hunted around for a toilet, but the only one we found had a long line of guys waiting outside it. Being a typical Spanish toilet, one of the two cubicles and the urinal were both out of order, so the line was all waiting for the one cubical. I was watching my phone as the minutes ticked away one by one, getting more and more agitated... My friend had given up on me, and had headed upstairs to board the plane, but I'd come too far. There was no way I was going to give up now! All of a sudden I hear a "NICOOOO" from the stairs, and she comes running down to tell me that there are toilets upstairs. So I come running upstairs only to suddenly be in the line for the scanners, with people taking their laptops out of bags around me. She points past the scanners to a "baño" sign. I explain to her gently that I need a baño before the scanners, or I'll get caught. The people around us were clearly listening to me because they started sniggering, and one of the security guards started looking at us. I could feel my face getting all hot and red, and he had that look like he was about to come over, so I turned and ran back down the stairs!
At the toilet downstairs the line hadn't moved, and I gave a pleading look to the kid who'd been waiting behind me and told him I only needed 30 seconds. He let me in front (I'm a big guy) and I nipped into the cubicle and managed the slightly uncomfortable but entirely painless affair. Finally back up the stairs, and magically the long line for the security scan had gone, so we rushed through and ran to the gate, last onto the plane.
Now being a
devout adherant to satya, I was in trouble if anyone asked any
questions. "Are you carrying any drugs son?" being the worst of the
possible questions and my answer would certainly cause me to miss my
flight at best, and who knows what at worst!
If there's one
thing Spanish people are tolerant of, it's running late. So the fact
that I was shaking like a leaf in the wind, glowing bright red and
sweating, and with obvious stress on my face was probably put down to
the fact that our plane was about to take off without us. That one Security guard that was staring at me before I went downstairs must have thought I just desperately needed a toilet!
On the plane and finally settled in, I was fine. I could never quite get comfortable though. It's just not comfortable having something inside your anus. I ended up chatting to the guy sitting next to me about it, and he just laughed and said he had an easier way. He had a missing molar, and had pushed a ball of hashish into the place where his tooth had been. I just laughed. So I wasn't really trailblazing here, everybody does it.
Getting through airport security in Berlin was easy... there was none. Then finally the train home, and it was time for extraction. Well work done, and a success. I left the "merchandise" in Berlin on my friend's very messy table, and it's probably still there when I'm writing these blog posts nearly a year later.
Next stop Frankfurt, then Kassel.
