The Baz. - Great Barrier Island.
A haven for people like us seeking respite from the ravages of reality.
So as I said in Part 1… The decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd planned it all along, subconsciously waiting for the right moment….
An island off the coast of New Zealand it had been a pirate like hide out for hippies and burnouts for years. People there would understand us. They would not judge us and they would leave us alone if we just wanted to hole up and gibber.
The hut he had grown up in was in a very secluded place, an oasis in that utopia like land, where marijuana plants grow wild and so large they had to be harvested with chainsaws. We could stay there. There we would be safe.
The hut now belonged to his uncle but he was living in a far away city and thus the hut would be ours for the entire summer or more!
Scrounging together the funds for the journey we purchased two large boxes of food. Sardines, Crackers, apples, porridge, raisins, powdered milk, cans of beans, rice and 400 bags of Earl Grey tea. Which we called EARL.
The drinking of the EARL made us feel as if we were somehow connected to the royalty of England and thus upper class drifters, the royal seal and the words “By appointment to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II” in one millimeter high caps under it completing the delusion.
We made the 14-hour journey to the island on the weekly ferry. We arrived at the wharf and hitchhiked across the island carrying our meager swag and the two boxes of provisions, to a friend of his family, who would put us up in his backpackers hostel for free if we played the poor lost teenage wastrel -looking for a disaffected wastrel father figure role, well enough.
We arrived at this place and when I saw the guy I saw a glimpse of a possible future for myself. fifty-seven going on seventy, bitter, divorced, unhealthy, and so thoroughly damaged by drugs that it was all he could do to speak in a harsh rasping whisper and gaze about in a perplexed fashion. I immediately blocked out the portent and encouraged my friend to harass the old guy for drugs. We had been without for a day and the dark fairies were starting to pull at my insides as reality threatened to come creeping back in on me like some sort of swift spreading fungus.
He told us in his wheezy voice that he was trying to give up – yet he would not give us any from his dried store of poor quality leaves in the cupboard ( so I had to steal it, creeping like a shaking sock-clad ninja into his kitchen at 1:00 a.m. ).
The next day, suddenly feeling unwelcome ( it probably had to do with the nourishing muesli breakfast he kindly brought us ) we started the 8-hour hike over the island to the hut with the intention of beginning our experimental isolation which I had subconsciously named: “Operation – Hide from the world. ”
We were nearly after a the grueling eight hour hike carrying boxes and our packs… when we met with quite a surprise.
Exhausted, dirty, stumbling and numb, we rounded a forest bend where we saw HIS UNCLE AND FAMILY GOING ALONG THE PATH TOWARD THE HUT WITH A FOUR WHEELER MOTOR BIKE LOADED WITH FOOD AND OTHER HOLIDAY STUFF.
SURF BOARDS AND PLASTIC BUCKET AND SPADE SETS SPARKLED IN THE SUN AT US IN AN ACCUSING MANNER.
We dropped to the ground and hid ninja-style. Of course we hadd’t ASKED if we could stay at the cabin… why risk that?
The last time we had seen this uncle he had screamed at us and told us that if we didn’t get our shit together, he would beat us to death with our own shoes.
Spoiler alert… We didn’t get our shit together.
We stashed the boxes and groveled forward in the dust peering.
Yes it looked like they had just arrived and were gearing up for quite a fun couple of days/weeks/months. . .?
We shuffled back into the wilds and hid, stunned and mullet like pondering what to do.
It was decided that we establish some sort of base from which to spy. Then as soon as they moved away we could move in.
Actually going and seeing him the uncle and asking if we could stay was not an option.
We were the types who were heavily biased in favor of subterfuge and thought that if you could trick someone into giving you something, or steal it then there was no need to ask.
Because we thought nobody really owns anything anyway as it’s all just made of energy and perceived by us because we believe it’s there and thus it’s not really real and so nothing exists.
So stealing is ok.
Obviously this mindset was helping us live a rich fulfilling life….as you will see…
We found an old abandoned boatshed, roofless and empty except for a few old polystyrene buoys and leaves. You could crawl underneath it, into a sandy hollow where there was a bit of space and this became our new home. We constructed crude beds from our packs and clothes and hollowed out spaces in the sand and lay back to plot.
We would hole up here and explore the wilderness, spying on the houses maybe doing a bit of Viking style “raiding.” And gathering shellfish to live on, while searching out peoples Marijuana crops to rip out of the ground and smoke.
We plotted into the night. The companion remembered some friends from his childhood who may be into drugs now and we would call on them as soon as he remembered the way there.
We slept in sandy lower level abandoned boatshed darkness.
We woke at the usual time of around three and hiked into the wilderness across the island looking for small trails that would lead us to a huge dope plantation – yet wary of traps that growers use against “Rippers” . . . Traps like fish hooks dangling at eye level from tree branches and hidden boards with rusty six-inch nails – coated with infectious fish guts – sticking out of the ground also razor blades embedded in the plant stems to rip eager ripper hands . . .
We were the lowest SCUM of the NZ 90s druggie world. Right in there with Narcs.
We were rippers. That big tin of weed my friend and I had burned through… all someone’s crop… stolen.
We had only gone for a few hours on the trail when we were confronted by a wild and angry looking beardy man who burst out of the bush and growled at us “What are you doing here!”
My compatriot said” Hi! Your Paul right? I remember you from when I was little, I used to live not far from you . . . I used to play with your kids Jess and Danny… … … you live over the hill there . . . your wife’s name is Sam? . . .
The Wild Hill man’s eyes narrowed, yet he seemed between deep worry – that he had suddenly been hit with so much information about himself (something that only a true surfer of the waves of paranoia can know the terror of) – and slight recognition, of the boy he once know, who had grown into the grizzled hobo he saw before him.
He demanded to know what we were doing. The compatriot told him we were just missioning through the bush on the way to some guy’s house.
He said “THAT’S HOW YOU SEARCH FOR PEOPLES CROPS!.”
We shrugged pretending to look confused.
His eyes narrowed again almost disappearing into his beard.
He told us to follow him and he would lead us there.
He led us there along the trail not allowing any deviation, stops or meanderings and then told us if he found us in the bush again there would be trouble.
I wasn’t scared. I was too dumb to be scared.
Lamentably my myriad addictions had long overridden all sanity in their quest for satiety.
We found the long lost friend in the nice big house and after introductions were made and the required amount of childhood reminiscing attended to the question was asked.
The childhood friend who had grown into a large and healthy candidate for acceptance into middle class New Zealand still was keeping the BAZ dream alive. And when he had been given a huge 20 liter paint container of dope a year ago he had diligently stashed it up in the woods behind his house.
It was there he led us.
It was there we received the PAIL.
It was full and heavy – there was at least 3 pounds of dope in there. Crammed in and solidified.
We fled with it before he could change his mind.
We dashed into the bush and along the path – then down a bank to survey the prize.
Tearing the lid off we were met with a huge cloud of whiteish yellow spores.
Waving away the spore cloud the pail seemed to be filled with large yellowish lumps of mold . . . questing fingers discovered that the dope was hidden INSIDE the mold!
What a score! A huge pail of marijuana with bonus (maybe toxic) mold.
We raced back to our boatshed palace shed to blaze up a storm.
A storm of fungasuarial proportions was blazed and we sat in the shed looking up at the stars rolling fungus joint after fungus joint.
This weed was indeed “different.” As one took a big pull of the filthy stiff stale sock and sporefilled dank bonfire taste, an equally strong pull occasioned from the back on ones head. Pulling it back with a whip snap and a teeth grit . . . followed by a pained silence, then a bout of serious hacking, ( dry at first – but to be a cough of grey, sooty phlegm and later still a greeny black sooty mold smelling festaspaste.
The drugged feeling was like one was encased in stiff hay smelling marshmallow -with all feeling of the body dropping away but for a slight tingling of the extremities. Time and speech seemed to slow down drastically and it took a long time to perform the simplest tasks.
This was to cause problems later on when we attempted to communicate with the world outside our shed where time seemed to move more rapidly.
But for now – No worries.
We settled into a good solid routine as we always did when we had a large pail of dope.
We would Wake – smoke – eat- do lots of poos in the forest ( Another unfortunate side effect of the moldy dope was that it caused a condition of bowelus uncontrolus ) – smoke – yabber to each other- sleep- wake – smoke and yabber about old times- eat – do lots of poos in the forest- smoke – talk and laugh about days and adventures gone by while lying on the floor of the boat shed all wrapped up warm in sleeping bags and staring upwards at fuzzy stars that slide about the sky- go off to do try to do more poos but discover you cant – smoke – eat -smoke while telling mystical bedtime stories – Fall down into oblivion.
I think that we dazedly wandered about the beach a little – in those six days of complete inactivity , but I cannot be sure. I do remember throwing a soiled pair of underwear into the sea when a moldy marijuana potty emergency got away on me, and spending a lot of time underneath the shed into the cool sandy shade, like some sort of subterranean lizard trying to escape the searing daylight.
We did not explore the wilderness, We did no spying on the houses, We forgot all about our plan of Viking style “raiding.” And gathering shellfish to live on was just not an option- It was all we could do to push dry cabin bread and sardines into our mouths without being killed by the sharp edges of the sardine tin.
Using a plastic grocery bag as a container, we mixed up milk powder and an Earl Grey tea bag with the funny tasting water that dripped from the tap on the side of the Boatshed.
There's no bathroom and there is no sink
The water out of the tap is very
Hard to drink
Very hard to drink.
All thoughts of searching out Marijuana crops to rip and smoke were gone as we were “sorted” and the days blurred into each other with a moldy wet pile of leaves smelling numbness.
We were a few days in planning the big mission-hike up to spy on the uncle and the cabin but as the possibility of our sighting and capture was too much for us to confront we decided it would be best to creep through the woods and across the island to the house of the Wheezer and ask him if he knew of the uncles arrival- first smoking up a storm of our moldy stash with him too damper down any possibility of reproach from the stealing of his cabbage.
Preparations were made which including the hiding and burying of the Pail under 2 feet of sand – with our food and belongings lying about enticingly as distractions from the real treasure to any would be thieves.
We trekked.
We barreled into his cottage with a moldy joint blazed and found him in a secretive discussion with a black coated dark skinned Itallian looking man. He nodded to us and introduced the man as Jaz ( THE Genius/Legend Jaz Coleman ladies and gentlemen, yes google search that now. The stars aligned on that fateful day and Jaz Coleman did indeed stand before the Demented Hobo greatness that was I ).
Hands were shaken and furtive greetings given. We interrupted their talk and pushed the joint at Wheezy asking him if he had any news of the uncle. He wheezed that he knew not of the uncle’s arrival and took a shallow tentative hit on the huge yellowing joint. He then looked at it and us suspiciously. We quickly told him it was pretty rotten stuff and had been buried for a long time – deflecting any thought that we were feeding him back his own stash. He Offered the reeking joint -which was now burning like a torch sending up plumes of superheated greasy brown smoke – to Jaz who swiftly declined the toxic thing, commenting off handedly that smoking moldy dope will make you go mad and then kill you.
When it was handed back to me it was mostly on fire and I took it outside to extinguish on a stone and save for later.
When I reentered the room, I saw Jaz was rolling a big joint from a bag of dope that glowed with magical green light. A scent of thick strong heady demon cleansing perfume filled the air as he shredded the weed, rolled a joint to perfection and then blazed up.
We hovered around like parasitic moths but when Joeb expectantly put his hand out to receive the benediction of the good stuff… Jaz shook his head sadly.
It was not for us.
We cowered back and literally scurried off shamefaced into the gathering darkness.
We crawled into the forest in silence and made our way back to the shed in the gloom of the forest.
We finally staggered, scratched, twisted and bleeding to our sea side shed kingdom. To Blaze up and Black out after unearthing the Pail, so it could be placed in its rightful and protected place between us.
The next afternoon dawned bright and full of hope. After a breakfast of raisins and milky coppery water we buried the pail and in the heat, headed up the hills into the forest along the path, heading toward to the Uncles hut for spying and information gathering purposes.
Tune into Part 3. The Mold Fire Rises.
END
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