For those adverse to vivid descriptions of drug intake and the resulting zaniness, (I'm looking straight at you Mum; and you're in the corner of my eye too Santa!) this is not the post for you. And don't get me wrong, I am not advocating the use of drugs as they can be very dangerous and malignant things. Unfortunately, they also catalyze the most intense, enjoyable and bizarre experiences you could ever have as a human. So remember, don't do drugs. Much.
The first drugs consumed were of a medicinal nature, accepting the fact that that classification is quite a blurry one. Perhaps they can be considered less legally questionable. The rowdy revelers in my gut had migrated to George Michaels house and another visit to the hospital was required to force an eviction. Thankfully the bombs I was given were so strong, not only was all my intestinal life totally leveled, the drugs induced a mild euphoria that replaced all the niggling complaints I had. Unfortunately, the effectiveness of the Wham! offensive consigned me to the hammock for the day, (Oh no!) and made me mildly paranoid that I' was never going to dance again, as guilty feet have got no rhythm apparently.
I did have to leave at one point as an ice cream craving got the better of me. Using the trusty 'finger-point' method, I asked a grinning shop keeper with no idea what language Westerners spoke, for a serve of the delicious deliciousness. My request translated into no discernible change in our interaction other than this linguistic virtuoso's smile changing a few shades to totally moronic. Finally, his finger asked which flavour, and my cringe and shrug somehow got across the idea that the ice-cream was going to be for my sore ass, rather than my mouth. Taking my money, he smiled smugly knowing that this tasty treat was never going to see a taste bud; unless acidophilus has them.
The following day, the scene was set for what is widely regarded as the best day of my life ever, by those in a position to judge such matters ie. me. A post breakfast spliff made the mornings snorkelling trip into the most mind-boggling adventure of Nemo proportions. The warmth of the water made floating feel like total weightlessness, and my head added extra bouyancy with the fact that it was completely empty. It was as physically close as I could get to another realm of existence without boarding a spaceship.
With a peeling onion for a back, I chose to spend the afternoon in the bungalow away from an impartial sun who seems happy to cross racial borders and just fry everyone here. Cancer must be highly fashionable though, because no one really minds sun-baking even when they start looking like a tomato with limbs. Anyway, a tiny shack with just a double bed is more than sufficient to keep amorous young people entertained for hours. The fifth stunning sunset in a row passed unphotographed, and only the promise of the nights planned activities lured us away from weed-induced agoraphobia.
A young thaumaturgist named Ot, shortened from a Thai name even he forgets, ran the Roots Korner bar a short stagger, stagger, roll, roll from our bungalow. We were served up a shake containing a different variety of sorcerous mushroom to the ones we had on New Years Eve. These ones contained different properties and unfortunately, more unpalatable elements that tasted like freshly mowed grass and yoghurt. But worse! I tried using it as a dip with chips but it nearly brought everyone present to convulsions, choosing to say nothing about how malefic it actually tasted. The simpleness of a cold beer tasted like a holiday in a glass by calculated comparison.
We gagged our way through a mountainous serve that illustrated quantity was what Ot thought justified the cost for Westerners, rather than the quality of its effects. As soon as the Primary School standard paintings on the wall starting moving on their own accord, we knew that Ot had a reliable source even if his preparations were akin to a terminal excrement. Kaleidoscopical visions and hallucinations accompanied the trance like beats that I normally consider to be the cucumber of the music world.
A few years later, Suze found some of Stephs usual piffle to be absolutely hysterical and the next part of the journey was all about laughing, crying, snorting, giggling and dubious bladder control. As soon as the music inexplicably went from the smooth harmonies of a galaxy far, far away to cheesy 80's pop, a decade not far, far away enough, it became apparent that a change of scene was in order.
Being some previously unheard of hour of the a.m. variety, in truth heard of before on recent sleepless bus trips, no other establishment was operational enough to provide further entertainment. Moving quickly from the disabling laughter stage to the single mindedness of the 'homeward bounders', Suze and Lydia disappeared from our universe probably moments before they disappeared from their own.
By this time I had totally lost it, and no amount of aimless wandering was going to help me find it again, so back to the bungalow it was. No small task in itself given how deceptively flat the ground was. Here the mushroom, spliff, beer, chip combo took on a whole new role unrelated to the role such a combination had on my digestion. Everything about everything became about each other, and all associated sentiments became far more intense than they had on my 3 previous attempts at taking ecstacy.
Days like that don't end, even with concupiscent concluding statements unspoken of, they just endure. Against the normal tendency of drugs to obliterate all memory of the amazing times they provided, this experience lingered on through the following days, infusing them with a flavour of bliss that still brings a huge smile to my face as I write of it now.
And that's when I decided I like apples!
