“It’s a fact that many of our whanaunga and fellow citizens turn to all sorts of drugs, but not for reasons of pleasure. To survive, they need to blot out their sad and difficult days.” — Tainui Stephens.

After caffeine, alcohol, and tobacco, cannabis is Aotearoa’s most popular recreational drug of choice. Any act of intoxication is either a rest or an escape from reality, writes Tainui Stephens.

There’s a great line from the old TV series Minder that has stuck with me.

Arthur Daley, a dodgy cockney businessman, is telling his dim bodyguard, Terry, about a kleptomaniac mate of his who’d just finished a long lag, and who’d studied for a psychology degree while he was inside. Terry asks: “Has he gone straight, then?” Arthur says: “Nah. He’s still thieving, but now he knows why he’s doing it.”

I recall that gag sometimes when I excuse myself for not going straight and staying a fan of weed. I shouldn’t do it because of the risk of being arrested or addicted. But I enjoy it, and I won’t let it control me.

We live in a culture that celebrates booze: 93 percent of New Zealanders will try alcohol. We also live in a society where half of all adults will try illicit drugs. Such intoxicants are designed to make you feel good, or at least, stop feeling bad. In doing so, they will affect your body and your mind. About one in five drinkers or users will have problems with their stimulant of choice — from hangovers and health issues, to ruined lives and death.

A good number of us who like a drink, or a toke, enjoy it and carry on with few problems. Moderation and accountability for our actions is the only way to travel a highway where the exits lead to getting pissed, plastered, tanked, smashed, stoned or wasted.

Me and weed got off to a rocking start.

Teenage me and my equally introverted mate John Lewis hung out a lot. He was my first brother from another mother. He always had the latest records, and we’d be in his room for hours playing LPs of the Rolling Stones, Little Feat, Lou Reed and any other of the great white recording artists of the ‘70s. Led Zeppelin was a favourite, and when their concert movie The Song Remains the Same came to Christchurch, we just had to go.

We parked up around the corner from the Odeon Theatre in my first car, an old Austin A40. I then rolled my first joint. I’d bought two Buddha sticks from a guy I worked with at the pub. We didn’t know it then, but it was stock from the “Mr Asia” drug syndicate. After we finished our joint, we couldn’t feel any of the expected buzz. Nothing. So we thought we might as well smoke the rest of the Buddha sticks.

And yep. That worked.

I have a very vague recollection of floating through the foyer of the theatre. We somehow found seats. I then pumped my right leg up and down for the whole film. Throughout the hard rock frenzy and thrusting rockstar fantasies on the big screen, the leg kept going. It was a great night. A step in my juvenile exploration of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. I was very happy. Then I got hungry.

In 1984, another favourite band of mine, Deep Purple, had a gig at Western Springs in Auckland. The audience in front of the stage was comprised of two types of people: the pissheads and the potheads.

We potheads, who were all strangers to each other, sat together. Many joints were freely passed around before we got our dose of “Smoke on the Water”. On either side of us, however, were the pissheads and the boofheads. They’d decided to be assholes and started chucking bottles and cans at each other.

We escaped serious damage because we were under the trajectory of the missiles. The police would later tell TVNZ that the crowd was “a who’s who of the criminal fraternity, gang members, and people who were there for other reasons than enjoying a pop concert.”

That violent gig and my years as a barman made me respectful of booze. I’ll down an occasional whisky or cocktail, or a beer on a hot day, but being too pissy-eyed isn’t something I’m keen on. I stay away from bad drunks — unless, of course, they’re a friend or whanaunga and they need a loving intervention.

I’m happy to get high. I decided a long time ago that I would never need weed to be creative or enable me to function. It would be one means of relaxation, among the many I was fortunate to have access to, like music and books. I stuck to it.

Weed, for me, was only a social drug. Something for parties or gatherings. At some point, those who are “holding” would retire to a respectful distance to indulge. It’s still the same today, more for reasons of courtesy and health, rather than the illegality of the act.

There’s an old Bill Cosby routine where he’s stoned and gets the munchies. He goes into a Burger King. After looking at the menu for half an hour, he goes to the counter and says: “I want to see the King.”

I know what he means.

I used to use eyedrops to get rid of the red eyes that you can get after a joint. I remember walking into a chemist once to buy some. I stood at the counter for a while, and then said to a patient woman: “I’d like to get some red eyes, please.” To which she said: “You’ve already got them.” Eek. Sprung. I hurled around and ran straight into a pillar.

For many years, Amsterdam was the popular mecca for marijuana. The coffee shops where weed could be purchased and consumed legally were the stuff of legend.

When I got there, it still seemed too good to be true. I got a whiff of my ignorance when I went to my first coffee shop. I perused the extensive marijuana menu, bought some weed and a Heineken, and went to sit outside. It was a sunny day beside the canal. I lit up and supped my beer, marvelling at the superior progressive thinking of European culture.

Nek minnit. I see a cop walking towards me with intent in his eye. On a reflex, I hide my joint under the table, but it’s too late. He barks at me: “You can’t do that!” Images of being busted flash through my mind. And before I get a word out, he tells me: “You can’t drink beer outside!”

Weed is still illegal in most countries. But the tide for decriminalisation of the drug is insistent. Many regions in Europe and Turtle Island (aka North and Central America) have legalised it. In Aotearoa, medical marijuana is available, and a 2020 referendum on the sale, production and possession of cannabis was close: 48.4 percent said yes, and 50.7 percent said no.

Weed has long been held up as the gateway drug to harder and more serious stuff. Luckily, I’ve never found it so. I’ve tried cocaine. It gave me a numb nose and nothing else. I’ve tried magic mushrooms. They were for sale legally on a small Indonesian tourist island. You knew which bar to go to when the sign hanging outside said: “The Doctor is in.” I got a mild prescription and felt nothing. There was a moment when I thought the outrigger canoe in the bay was a giant spider. But it didn’t come over and eat me, so I guess it wasn’t.

Not every adult responds well to soft drugs — these are substances that alter your state of mind, after all. A colleague once asked to try a joint that was being passed around. He wasn’t a smoker of cigarettes, let alone weed, and we said no. He insisted and soon regretted it. We then had to check into a hotel. Our mate seemed obsessed by the idea that the walls of the building were caving in. He proceeded to strain against each wall in turn to make sure it didn’t fall over. The hotel receptionist was intrigued by our famous friend’s strenuous efforts to stave off the imminent structural collapse of her place of work.

And that’s the thing. It’s easy to laugh at the Cheech and Chong silliness of weed, but it is a drug. Too much of a good thing is always a bad thing. Too much of a bad thing is even worse.

Weed still makes me happy and hungry, but also a lot quieter. And that’s where I need to be careful. Any drug is for personal pleasure. It’s “me time” with an artificial boost. Too much pleasure can become a selfish escape from reality.

It’s a fact that many of our whanaunga and fellow citizens turn to all sorts of drugs, but not for reasons of pleasure. To survive, they need to blot out their sad and difficult days.

For some, a life of illusion is better than reality. In their search for their next high, they need to believe that the grass is greener on the other side.

It’s not.

E-Tangata, 2024