I was invited for the first time to the annual UNHWMC in Washington, (United Nations Hippy Watch and Monitoring Conference). It’s a fact they are terrified of the hippies who are seen as a real threat to monetary security. They think hippies are the only voice saying ‘do what you want and don’t worry about money’. And now it looks like they are to become the future millionaires with the carbon credit plans. The cows got rid off and the trees set free are the gold of the future.
It infuriates them every future bonus point plan invented has the hippies coming out winners. They worry themselves sick over the solar panels with no power bills, the millionaire forests and home grown vegie swap-meets, but above all it’s the weed which stops you wanting to compete for the stuff they need you to buy. You consume so little it drives them crazy.
“How come this evil weed that leaves you wanting nothing but a mars bar has so much influence still.” Speaker after speaker went on about spending billions on eradication only to see the plant hide indoors, get more potent and grow into the planets favourite medicine after aspirin. Cracks are appearing everywhere in their plans for the future and many blamed Americas current financial dilemma on the ‘devil weed’ itself.
“They don’t respect money like us, if they have weed nothing else seems to matter,” said the World Bank President. “Pharmaceutical sales are already in decline as their medical cannabis dispensaries spread across the country.”
I kept nodding off in the long speeches and twice woke up forgetting where I was automatically slipping into the the dribbling staring Unda Bethany. She’s scarcely noticed on Nimbin streets but in the UN auditorium we got very funny looks. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom staring at the mirror remembering who I was.
Back home the ADHD kid is getting desperate. The WKTA backyard has been a reliable source of primo bunt for months and suddenly the holes are empty, the stash spots are bare. He’s even been heard talking about the lithium program with a week in bed but the Boss wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t look good he said, cops on pot withdrawal programs.
I even got searched the other day on one of his frantic street missions. Staring at him dribbling and filthy he moved on quickly but he did mutter the withdrawal of troops doesn’t mean the war is ending, and yes, the drones have been authorised for my favourite little ganja village I heard.
Not for those pesky youth in Rainbow Lane but for tree counting, monitoring wood fires which are soon to be banned, and of course spotting and poisoning patches.
They had to create safe jobs for so many of the Force on stress relief so now it’s like kids playing computer games all over the office, except it’s for real. And more than forty hours in front of the screen means you take the compulsory Force green pill, as well as the blue and red. The green one is a new one, an experiment in exercise replacement.
Their drone choppers discovered a patch while I was watching. It automatically fired half a dozen PPB’s (pot poison bombs) and the patch disintegrated in a cloud of smoke. The patch spotting is no problem for the Pipe tribe as we live in the forest but the smoke spotting is. Every night we sit around the fire, all cooking is on the fire. The sacred fire where I just had a lifechanging experience initiated by Pipes full moon lentil and mushroom soup. The truth was so obvious I couldn’t stop laughing, and crying, through a very long night.
“Without imagination the truth is hidden, it’s as invisible as the landscape before the sunrise,” I remember Pipe saying, as light began to appear in the eastern sky.
“It’s the leap beyond logical that’s so hard for everyone to make. It comes naturally to the aboriginals, and children, and true hippies,” he grinned lighting his pipe. “That’s why I love the herb”, as he calls it. “It fires my imagination”.
He went on and on. “There’s a fork in the road that keeps appearing. The mainstream is competing against each other for riches or security. The other path is doing what you love and trusting you’ll get what you need. If you’re happy you don’t need stuff.” He grins at me, lighting his pipe again. But I’m thinking how the girls in the Tribe all spend their pension on laptops and mini solar panels for their kids and he only wants me to stay because one Unda cheque buys them six months food.
The kids, as young as four, are all expert hackers. I told them only members of the Force, Centrelink, Immigration or the Tax Office are allowed to hack. They just laughed at me.