When I Bought Weed… Legally!
The Background: From the Backwaters to the Big Smoke
One of my earliest childhood memories is of the police dumping a helicopter load of weed in a paddock next door to my house. A giant net of the stuff. They’d collected it from the Kaimai Mamaku ranges where an enterprising grower had hidden his plantation. Before the police sparked the pile up we sauntered over, my dad, my brother, and me. Dad, ever the educator, told us which parts were leaves and which parts were buds. The buds went into his pocket.
New Zealand is no stranger to weed. We grow it and we consume it in large amounts. But despite the massive demand and the size of the industry, which is unlikely to abate anytime soon, weed remains completely illegal in New Zealand.
At 17-years-old, Amsterdam – and Europe in general – seemed to me to be a bastion of common sense and modernity. Exotic, continental, and enlightened, a far cry from the wopwops of New Zealand’s hinterland. I’d heard that Europe had nudie parks in some of her cities, and I knew that weed was legal in Amsterdam. To me at 17, this summed up the very idea of a continental lifestyle, it all seemed so European, so chic.
The first time I stepped foot in the big smoke I was an earnest undergrad. As an international student, the city overwhelmed me both linguistically and directionally. Direct from country New Zealand, my English was as mysterious to the locals as their canal system was to me. In Dutch, I knew how to say ‘delicious’ and ‘hello’. Sometimes I said ‘thanks’ right.
Coffeeshops and the Lay of the Land
In Amsterdam, a straight-laced eatery is called a café. Those cafes that also sell highs are called ‘coffeeshops’. In the 70s the Dutch government made a distinction between soft and hard drugs and coffeeshops have existed in the city since then. Although they fall into a legal grey area, coffeeshops are tolerated and numerous, around 200 are currently operating in the city. Most are situated in the red-light district.
Weed is not fully legal in the Netherlands. Each individual can carry enough weed or hash for personal use, no more than 5 grams. If someone is found to be in possession of 5 grams or less, police will generally just confiscate the drugs. More than 5 grams means that the person may be liable for prosecution.
Contrary to what I had thought, you can’t laze around naked in the parks smoking a joint. Or ride your bike about the city, puffing along as you go. Smoking in open public spaces remains illegal.
The Purchase
Walking through the red-light district for the first time, there was a lot to take in. The women in windows, the touts trying to sell us cocaine on the streets, the groups of leering, drunk English men there for a stag weekend. We’d been out for a couple of drinks, me and my small gang of fellow international students. Most had far more city smarts than I did, they hailed from places like Sydney, Los Angeles, and London. I was convinced that they were all less overwhelmed by the scene than I was. I’ve always had a healthy hedonistic streak, but at the time, this was next level stuff.
It was with some trepidation that I stepped into the coffeeshop that we came across. The heavy front door closed behind us and led us straight down a spiraling staircase that led to the ‘bar’. Although I was a few glasses of wine into the evening I wasn’t feeling any ‘Dutch courage’. Instead I felt like what we were doing was illicit, naughty, like I was going to be caught in the act at any moment. Like I was creeping.
Social conditioning trains individuals to behave in a manner which is generally approved by the majority. We collectively view some actions, like drug use, as deviant and as a transgression of the norms. Although marijuana is widely acknowledged to be a soft drug, there is still a stigma attached to its use.
The stigmas sat on my shoulders as we reached the bar. I’d been stoned before, many times. But never in a public place, in a place where anyone could walk in at any time. I felt exposed, deviant almost, like I imagine it must feel like stepping into a brothel for the first time.
The barman with his European education spoke English perfectly, of course. Which was great news for me, because “hello, delicious” wouldn’t get me too far. I was nominated by the group to order while they chose a cosy table scattered with chess pieces. The barman was friendly and open and made this easy for me. A variety of pre-rolled joints were offered along with hash and buds, papers and roaches. He told me a bit about each type and gave me prices and strength ratings. Easy.
I chose a few pre-rolled joints, went back to my friends, and we had a smoke. No one came in to condemn us. I felt at ease surrounded by the fug of smoke and the laughter of other smokers.
The Consequences
This would be a great point to tell you that I got too stoned, freaked out, pulled a whitey, got paranoid. But that didn’t happen to me that night.
I’m reminded of the comedian Bill Hicks who said in his 1989 comedy special “I had a great time doing drugs. Sorry!” He continues, “never lost a job, a car, a house, a wife or kids, laughed my ass off, and went about my day…” This is not to minimise the very real effects of drug use, but that night I laughed my ass off with my friends in the coffeeshop. And when we exited to the street a few hours later. We also laughed through a late-night kebab and we laughed when we got the canals mixed up, again.
Over the course of my year in Amsterdam the trepidation on opening coffeeshop doors went away gradually. It was replaced by a sense of belonging, a knowledge that any stigmas surrounding weed were gone as soon as those heavy doors closed behind me.
- Stoned in the City.
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