Green IslandHey, Mr. Dealer
May 15th 2010 07:07
tarred and feathered drug dealer
Epigraph1:
It’s the tripped out future.
There’s a knock on the door. A dealer is getting high with a mate. There’s a pile of weed and a pile of oregano on the table. The dealer exhales hurriedly and coughs:
“Quick, hide the oregano.”
Just then there’s a tremendous smashing sound and splinters fly from the door. The lock shudders and gives with the next ram. In bursts detectives Bob and Sam. They point their stunners at Ricky Green and his side smoke, Gozo.
“Spit it out, fuckhead.” Officer Bob said in a flat no-shit voice.
Gozo freezes, mouth open. Sam goes around the sofa and table and smacks the back of Gozo’s head. Oregano and saliva sprays the air.
“What’s this? Mixing ganja with oregano?” Ricky G was about to start a driveling spiel to protest his innocence. Officer Sam shots Ricky’s left foot. He immediately falls from his old vinyl couch to the floor and starts howling.
“I’ve told you mothers before. Cutting weed is a federal offence. This is your third warning. You only get two warnings.” Gozo was about to say something. “Don’t even start you evil adulterating punk. Under the Prevention of Bad Dealers Federal Law Number 2 you are hereby caught and found guilty of mixing ganja, of polluting God’s very own smoke. By the power invested in me by the United States of California, I hereby exile you to Newfoundland. Call it in Sam Man.”
And so the streets of California are safe to score on again.
_____________________________ ________
I wish. This blog is about dealers. Just what is wrong with them? Why are they so often dodgy geezers who try and cheat you? For all those fortunate folk with sweet suppliers who give them good stuff at an exact weight with a bit of something extra to sample, then read this piece to find out how lucky you are. For all those of you out there that have been ripped off – this one goes out for you.
HEY, MR. DEALER
Epigraph2: The law is an ass.
Hey Mr. Dealer: just what the fuck is up with you? Around the world you are giving bad service; you are ripping people off; you are being dodgy; you are not building a client base for your business. Instead, you are behaving poorly, you are betraying confidences, you are cutting your stuff with shit, you are selling light measures, you are sometimes in cahoots with the pigs and you are often doing your best to make your customers paranoid. If this was nearly any other business you would be flat broke with no customers in a matter of days. Only because American Christian fundamentalism with its no-tolerance propaganda has sought to influence governments around the world with the stick and carrot of American power has many drugs become illegal. The power of the IMF, World Bank, trade sanctions and trade deals has forced the rest of the world outside Cheesy-Jesus America to tow the line. The line is bite size, but still hard to swallow: tobacco not weed; guns not ecstasy; war and oil; not psychedelia and acid. These are the paradigms of the Halliburton New World Order. Selling defective products in war zones and upholding the immoral legal rights of pharmaceutical companies is what the American way is about. Any drug that just gives you a pleasant buzz after a day’s toil, and perhaps puts you in a more subtle reflective mood is plain evil. And of course, just so damn lucrative when it comes to rustling up money to fight Marxists in Central America. Ask yourself why has heroin production increased in Afghanistan since the arrival of American troops? Those at the top do not practice what they preach and the unintended consequence of this is that normal trippy folk have to turn to unscrupulous dealers to get their God given high. Or maybe not unintended.
Let's have pure food and drugs
So in the pitiful hope that writing about the subject will change anything, I’m going to lay out some of the scams employed by folks who are often so morally reprehensible in their actions that I wonder if they wouldn’t be more suited as taxi drivers or O.J’s lawyers.
The Scams
Yes, I’m sure all you trippy travellers out there have fallen victim at one time or another to a dealer’s scam. Here are some of the most common ones. Spotting a scam will not only save you money, but also make you feel a hell of a lot better. There are few things worse than getting ripped off. Having to repeat to your mates the story of have you got duped is a lesson in self-abasement that I feel only self-flagellators and fools could possibly enjoy.
A Pinch of the Real Stuff Scam
In this horns woggle the dodgy geezer approaches you with a lump of weed or resin in his hand. He allows you to inspect it. If it is resin he’ll burn it so you can inhale the heavenly aroma. His products, however, will be wrapped up exceptionally tightly in cling film. If you try to un-wrap a package for inspection he’ll pull the ‘this-is-not-a-safe-place’ routine whereby he’ll look over his shoulder and whisper on about cops. He hopes that the paranoia so flusters you that you won’t bite your way through the mega efficient packaging and discover that he is selling bark or fir tree. At the last throw of the dice he’ll often take the package from you and open it but through a sleight of hand he’ll present the pinch of the good stuff he has to you instead of the dud wares you are trying to inspect. Obviously, two rules apply here. Stop to really check and don’t give your money over until you are certain of the kosher nature of the transaction. Once you have handed over the money there is often no going back. They will vanish with your money like a snake down a drain. The most irritating thing about this chisel is that the buggers are clean. If they get pulled by the pigs they will only have some facsimile, zero THC product to show the officers of the law. This is totally wrong – it is these dudes that the pigs should be busting.
Cut Gear and the Light Measure
Weed, as with nearly every recreational substance, can be cut. There is an extensive lore of recipes to make that stuff stretch further from the retailing point of view. Resin can be soaked in water and dried in a microwave. Soft squidgy stuff can be torn open and bits of plastic or small bits of grit can be lodged into the heart of the serving to pad the weight. Obviously with powders it is a simple matter to add glucose or scouring powder (extra nasty buzz) to eke out extra profit from a stash. Adulteration is a minor art form in itself. Sadly, with class A’s it seems to be so standard that many customers have no idea what a clean high feels like. One thing can be certain, and it is that they are not cutting it with something else of value. Thus, the notion of a smacky this or that is daft. More likely your synapses are firing away from the toxic overload created by cleaning products. And what are cleaning products made from? Petroleum.
By the way, Trippy Traveller in no way condones smack, ice or crack. These are all unmitigated social evils that break up communities and ruin lives. If I had my way all those who persist in these dirty habits would be sent to Newfoundland with Ricky Green and Gozo to spend the rest of their days eating cod and freezing their genitals off.
You might be able to spot a short measure by eye and complain your way into a discount. Often at this point they pull the ‘confuse-with-different-syste m-of-measurements’ ploy, whereby they say it isn’t an eighth but 2 grams. Switching between metric and imperial is a tricksy maneuver designed to get your mental arithmetic in a twist.
The Fake Copper Scam
This is a really shitty scam. The dude sells you the gear and around the corner his mate appears flashing a dubious Police ID. Whatever you do, don’t give up your passport and don’t get in a vehicle. Either course of action spells trouble for you. If the supposed cop is wearing plain clothes it is more likely than not a con. Stick to your guns and refuse to follow the bloke anywhere or to give him anything. If you can make it into a tourist guest house or restaurant they will normally be shooed off by the proprietor who probably knows their kind only too well. If you are clean then you should insist on walking to the nearest cop shop. That is one sure fire way to determine the legitimacy of the bloke hassling you. Remember, that in the developing world they have very few undercover police. And those they do have are employed doing work far more important and dirty than busting hippies. No uniform, no way.
If a uniform does stop you and you have the strong notion that the dealer is in cahoots with the law officer then play it cool. Don’t get dragged somewhere. Try to settle on a cheap bribe as soon as possible. The more cops get involved the more money you will have to dole out to buy your freedom. If you are a good runner and conscientious shepherd then now is the time to get the flock out of there.
That’s why it is so so important to NEVER TELL THE DEALER WHERE YOU ARE STAYING. Just lie, you know he would.
I’ll Be Back With Your Gear Scam
This is probably the best of all hoodwinks from the hoodwinkers point of view. You don’t even need a pinch of the real stuff to make this little confidence trick work. All it needs is some persuasive gob work and perhaps a fake Rolex. In this tried and tested number the dodgy dealer simply claims poverty. I can get you gear but you have to pay me in advance to go and get it. The way they spin it you are drawn to the conclusion that it is not strange that they are dealing without stock; and as a favour to you they will take your money to get you some fine weed while you hang around with nothing to do like a minging wife at a swingers’ party. Sure enough the bloke takes your money and never shows up again.
That is where the Rolex comes in. The really sophisticated scamster will offer to let you hold something of equal or greater value to incentivize and guarantee his return. Only what he offers is not worth shit, like for example a fake Rolex watch.
The funny thing about this scam is that sometimes if you pick your person correctly it is a good way of procuring gear. The secret is to pick somebody who is obviously not a P.T.Barnum. Go to them, don’t let them come to you. Choose someone who has a job of sorts and make it clear that they will be rewarded for their efforts. This way a local dude can get you a full bag of the right stuff at local prices. In return for the good deed you buy a batik or beach bum bracelet for a few bucks. The waiting is never fun but I’m usually confident the bloke will show. After all you are normally interrupting his day or night job. It also leads to some trippy situations. In one such deal I was given the keys to a bicycle rickshaw in Pondicherry in India. I parked it up outside a wood-shack bar while the rickshaw wallah, an unfeasibly skinny old dude, vanished into the night with 20 bucks of my cash. He came back.
On another occasion in Dar es Salaam in Tanzania I became a sidewalk shop owner for 20 minutes while a teenager went off into a maze of crumbling tenements to score for us. He came back. We bought two beautiful batiks from him for his efforts.
On a small island off the coast of Brazil called Algodoal where the main beach stretches for miles and there’s no motorized transport or even roads we entrusted 30 dollars to a young man with the sweetest demeanour who worked the 50 cents ferry journey connecting 2 beaches on the island during high tide. He had nothing to give us as surety except for his shinning honesty. He ran off down the massive beach and returned 30 minutes later on a horse and buggy. The score was awesome so we gave him $10 for his efforts.
Do you see where I’m going with this? Dealing with someone who isn’t a dealer is one of the best ways to score when travelling. The risk of having to outlay the dineros before always remains a risk, but the potential rewards in gear and feeling benevolent to the honest poor of the world make it a noble horse to back. There are no home bankers in life except for the certainty that the dude with the Rolex watch and big car offering to take your money and leave his watch as insurance will never be seen again by you. If he can afford such things as a car and a designer watch he can obviously invest in buying some product to sell if that really is his line of work. It remains one of the saddest ironies in life that it is not the poor who are likely to cheat and steal from you. It is the rich, Malthusian motherfuckers who will gladly shaft their own grandmother to get ahead, to make that day’s score. These people will have no qualms about ripping you off. Funnily enough I’m reminded of bankers while I write this. Or taxi drivers. Never get a taxi driver to score for you, or a banker for that matter.
The Argentine Note Switch
This is a very irritating scam that coke dealers in Buenos Aires in particular seem to be well versed in. Maybe they all graduate from the same Fagan school of doing business. Always at night on some busy street they’ll hand over the wraps and demand their payment. In good faith you’ll hand over a bunch of 100 peso notes and in a flash of prestidigitation the dude will change one or two of your notes for fake notes. He’ll then get all Latin and upset about you trying to palm off counterfeit notes on him. If you are new to the scam you’ll immediately have your doubts. Shit perhaps I did inadvertently give the bloke some dodgy bills. That’s how he gets you. You willing take the duds and reach into your wallet to take out more legal tender to give to the bloke. He’ll then vanish like a kidnapped Irish race horse. Only when you get back to the hostel do you realize that the bloke has just managed to up his payment by 200 pesos by switching two of your good notes for two of his bad notes. Those counterfeit notes feel too thick and the ink looks all wrong. How could you possibly not notice before? Simple. You didn’t have those notes before.
So there are some of the confidence tricks you can expect to encounter if you are brave (or foolhardy enough) to try and score on the streets from strangers. Good and honest dealers don’t work the pavements. That is the riskiest business. Holding in public, risking trying to sell to anyone has an inbuilt short life expectancy. The bigger the amounts and the fewer people you deal to, the safer you become. But of course the more time you are liable to do if caught. Which is sad. I feel that all honest dealers who give good measures at reasonable prices with no fucking around should be feted by society. Like in Japan where old codgers that do kabuki and puppet theatre become ‘national treasures’ so good dealers should be officially recognized for the sterling contributions they make to improving the quality of life for their constituents. Perhaps the very best dealers should run for political office. Pablo Escobar made the city of Medellin in Columbia one of the most developed and beautiful cities in South America with unemployment benefits, modern public transportation, good teachers and good hospitals for the struggling masses of the non-wealthy. To this day they still speak fondly of the man in his hometown of Medellin despite the fact that he murdered judges, Presidential Candidates and anyone else who wouldn’t take his bribes. On second thoughts maybe he doesn’t quite fit the bill of benevolent and honest dealer.
Pablo Escobar
The Dutch experiment with coffee shops and the Californian experiment with medical marijuana are laudable steps in the right direction. There is no fun to be had in snatching weed from the jaws of a con. It is so much better to go into a shop and get some chilled out youngster to present you with a menu of goodies at fixed prices and measures. It is the height of civilization to be able to have a good cup of coffee while you make your choice. Fuck Ankor Wat and The Angel Falls Amsterdam coffee shops should be top of the list for the 7 New Wonders of the World.
Alternatively, if we were just allowed to grow our own then the local gangster and the Third World mafia would be largely cut out of the equation. What would remain is a hippy barter system where one law abiding citizen would be able to swap a dime bag of pokey smokes for a dozen eggs from his neighbour’s chickens. Pensioners could subsidize their meager allowances with a bit of northern light cultivation. The people can reclaim their right to get high and take the power out of the hands of these shit stains on the face of humanity who pull fast ones to make a living. And for those who persist in their irritating misdemeanors banishment to Newfoundland seems a thoroughly reasonable response. And when I write Newfoundland I mean banishment to the island part with no possibility of rehabilitation or return. Perhaps gay rapists could be put on the island too. Then those crooked dealers could experience a biblical form of justice.
Newfoundland
I will finish with one tale of me scoring in Colombia. Mrs. Trippy and I were in the former banana capital of Santa Marta gathering supplies to go camping in Tayrona National Park. We really only wanted to stay a day in the nothing special city before heading off to a Caribbean beach. We’d got tinned food, 5 gallons of water, stacks of fags and a litre of cane alcohol. The only thing we lacked was weed. It was late at night and so I didn’t fancy pounding the streets looking for trouble. Instead I sat in the reception area of the hostel looking at the TV and keeping an eye out on the street. Sure enough a young bloke selling key rings poked his nose and wares through the iron grill of the hostel window. I went outside and asked him if he had some green. He said no but he said he could ask his mate. 10 minutes later he came back with a tall thin bloke wearing a panama hat who looked dodgy as fuck. He must have been dodgy because he spoke good English and stank like a bum. He spun me a line about needing taxi money to go score for me. Why he needed money for a taxi but not for the weed puzzled me, but at this stage I was willing to play along. I gave him about 5 dollars in local currency and went back to the TV in the reception to wait.
Sure enough he re-appeared 20 minutes later. He pulled the paranoia stunt and said he wouldn’t do the deal on the empty street. Instead he started walking me off into the darker depths of the city. I quickly protested and said I would call the whole thing off if he didn’t deal with me there and then. So he stepped into a pool hall nearby. He then jabbered away to the manager of the place who didn’t seem happy about hosting this illegal activity. The tall dude then had words with one of the pool players wearing a white vest like an Italian gangster. This bloke went through a back door and came back an instant later with a bag of weed that he pulled out of his jeans. Obviously that taxi journey never happened because the gear was only 2 blocks down the road all along.
I had insisted on 10 grams worth. At the time of the initial chat about taxi fares and amounts Mr. Panama hat refused to commit to a price. Now I sat around a table with 5 mean looking Colombians crowding my shit and making me feel mucho incomodo. The bag was duly passed to me under the table. I straight away checked to see if it was genuine gear and then considered the weight. Not 10 grams. Of course it was 10 grams said Panama. I could see no point arguing the toss. I opened my wallet and handed over ten or so dollars in pesos. That was not flying with Panama. The Colombians crowded closer. The patron scowled. I then went back to my wallet and pulled out all the small notes I had and threw them on the table. One of my tricks – a wad of ones and fives looks like a lot before you count it. Still it was head shakes all round. Then as a final gesture I pulled out a folded up five dollar bill from a side pouch in my wallet. I then showed them the empty wallet. Panama wanted blood and was all about the ‘no’. So I played my final card. I threw the bag of weed on the table and reached to take back my money. That normally does the trick and luckily it worked on this occasion. They didn’t want to lose the inviting pile of notes local and American on the table and so let me pocket the weed and depart. Since I had an empty wallet the patron couldn’t squeeze any gratuity out of me and let me pass. I legged it back to the room and got high.
It turned out that the weight wasn’t that badly off and I had paid a middling price. And best of all it was really strong smoke. I gave myself a huge pat on the back for emptying out my wallet before heading off to make the deal. Still it was not a nice experience. Intimidation and alienation were the dominant colours of that tableau. I’m a pacifist because I’m a coward and having to play the hard man is a role that drains me of adrenaline. Give me a dealer in India any day of the week. With just a tea towel to cover their bollocks they don’t come across all gangster and potential violence.
I lay in bed that night thinking about camping, golden sand and warm water far, far away from urban opportunists. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” I thought before slipping into ganja tinged slumber.
Tayrona National Park in Colombia
The first image is from barbados freepress saying what happened in Belfast (tarring and feathering drug dealers) should happen to dealers in Barbados. Well only if they are giving bad deals.
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