Journal of the North Coasts’ longest serving covert.
I’ve been so far Unda I lost time, a whole month just disappeared. It used to be that when I got busted, which happened regularly as part of the trade, I would be back at work within the day. Not any more, I spent three weeks in the lockup and absolutely no one would believe me. It’s not so simple, obviously I can’t just announce to everyone, “hey guys, I’m Undacuva, see you later.” As we all now know corruption is as rife as lantana on the north coast, so who do I tell? I had to get seriously sick before they would take me to hospital where there was no option but to kill me off.
It was a good excuse for a holiday because I really was very very sick. Someone suggested a quick rest on a beach at a Thai resort and I landed in Bangkok just as the rioting began. Thin and weak no wonder I was mistaken for a junkie. Mugged and thrown out on the street penniless I had to find every survival instinct I’d ever been taught including putting myself into a state of emptiness for four days on end. I kept thinking of the Dalai Lama. Angels rescued me as they always do and here I am back in the land of plenty doing nothing worthwhile, or so it feels.
I’ve been pulled back in for the Obama visit as we did all the footwork for the last visit which was delayed. Turns out the Pres and the Rudder did broach the subject with Obama shocked at our PM’s almost total ignorance. Embarrassing too because the Abbott ego was there and carried on like he wrote the bong etiquette book himself showing off in front of the yanks and his liberal mates as he chopped up. Turns out the boxer pulled more than a few cones at uni and used the weed to dull the pain in the ring. The only time he ever got knocked out was when he was too spaced out and momentarily forgot where he was.
Back in the home town it’s all depressing news. The Big Bosses in Sydney cannot work out how 9 permanent police with CCTV can’t eliminate the pot dealing in a one street one pub town. On paper and in the computer it’s all so simple. So why not in real life? They were still trying to work it out when I left, my report unopened on the table.
They plough on. New tactics include every member of the community is now unda new surveillance, no one is free of suspicion. “Unless there is evidence based truth a member of Nimbin’s community is not dealing drugs, they are under suspicion.” Those are the exact words.
Uncas and overs, informers and uniformers, all to watch each other logging in every detail daily. I’m now spending most of the days on the computer and deciphering and collating all the info means pulling a dozen more of us off street patrol. In fact so long as the cameras are working I can just sit on the ‘puter in the warm office and I’m scratching to get it all down in time as I watch the live action on Cullen street play out on the screen before me.
And we’ve got a time limit. Twelve months. If we can’t stop the drug dealing in the tiny weed capital in twelve months we pull out. Or so the official word is. Apparently the cost of finding an ounce of weed in Nimbin has gone from 2 cops in the village a decade ago scoring at approx $500 a deal, to well over $4000 spent finding each ounce last financial year.
(And the plot for the hippies to steal the lantern parades thunder on the solstice in Lismore with a giant bud lantern is now officially exposed.)