HASHEESH TO HASHEESH....

The UK is gearing up for high-street cannabis cafes. But what can we expect?
In the name of research, Sean Vaardal hits the 'coffee shops' of Amsterdam

Out of Amsterdam's Centraal Station they flood in all directions: culture
vultures to the Museum Quarter; packs of men to the red-light district; and
first-time 'pot tourists' round in circles like headless chickens.
With about 400 coffee shops to choose from, it's easy to end up in some
unknown dive, not knowing what you're being offered or if it's going to be
any good. And as the UK prepares for the launch of its own 'cannabis cafes',
based on the Amsterdam model, we look at some of the best in the European
city best-known for coffee shops.

At Grey Area (Oude Leliestraat 2), posters and stickers are the only
concessions to interior design. And if you swung a cat in here, it would hit
all four walls. Although it may never grace the cover of House & Garden , if
you want to buy quality marijuana, put this underground 'hole in the wall'
at the top of your list. The friendly American behind the bar recommends the
Grey Mist (=8015/=A39.20 a gram), a hash so potent it won second place at=
last
year's Cannabis Cup, the pot world's equivalent of the Oscars. It's very
much an aficionado's shop, and my amateur status is confirmed by a bout of
coughing. It's sometimes called 'the Cheers of coffee shops', because Woody
Harrelson, star of the US comedy, makes it his preferred hang-out when in
town. It doesn't sell food or booze, just soft drinks and fruit juices.

The limited space gets crowded but this makes it the ideal quick-stop venue
to start any voyage to oblivion. The 'colonisation of Mars began in 1945'
monologue from the grunge timelord on the next stool is my cue to leave.

De Rokerij (Lange Leidsedwarsstraat 43) is one of the better coffee shop
chains in the city. The flagship - just off Leidseplein - was redesigned six
years ago when the owners successfully created that 'inside of a sultan's
tent' feel.

On the walls, Indian murals are held in mood lighting around a thoughtful
seating plan for communal or private relaxation. Buddhist-type bar music on
a top-notch sound system keeps the ambience flowing, and extractor fans
maintain a fresh atmosphere. Henna tattoo artists and tarot-card readers
come in two nights a week to enhance the ethnic feel.

The pot's pretty good, too; Stardust, Nepalese Cream, AK-47 (about =808/=A34=
.90
a gram), alcohol and snacks are available, plus the shop's own energy drink.

If De Rokerij is the Taj Mahal, then Abraxas (Jonge Roelensteeg 12-14) is
Bilbo Baggins's house: all wood and spiral staircases leading to upper
levels with see-through glass floors. If you want to email anyone and tell
them how stoned you are, they also have internet access.

Not every coffee shop in Amsterdam sells pot - some just sell coffee. The
ones that do sprang up in the mid-Seventies, when the Dutch government first
tried to separate the hard and soft drug markets. Until last year the
drug-selling coffee shops were only tolerated, but now they are legal.

In 1995, a nuisance policy was introduced to focus on controlling problems
associated with coffee shops. This has reduced their number somewhat. Entry
age was increased from 16 to 18, and premises near schools were closed.
Shops require a permit to trade, stricter than any pub licence, and the
police run monthly checks. Patrons are not allowed to have more than five
grams in their possession, and if you are arrested having eaten cannabis, it
is viewed as a category A drug offence because of its more potent effect.

It's also surprising how few coffee shops have wheelchair access. Only
Sheeba (Warmoesstraat 73) and 'T' Nescaf=E9 (Nes 33) have ramps and wide
aisles, but there's no disabled toilet.

Along the Singel Canal, the usual side-effects are occurring: rapid moisture
loss to the mouth, a clicking noise with each swallow. I aim a white foamy
dot of spit at the cobbled street, but it flies upwards. This is all
terrible, but not as bad as the aeon it takes to recognise the
Wittenburgerdwarsstraat on the street sign as the Wittenburgerdwarsstraat on
my map. With relief I find De Dampkring (Handboogstraat 29), which I passed
twice thinking it was a Wheeler's steakhouse. In fact, inside it's more TGI
Fridays - all red and green mosaic lamps and dark varnished wood. No,
actually, it's more like a crowded pub. Damned impaired faculties. In the
corner it smells as if someone's set fire to a Christmas tree. The piney
scent comes from a customer smoking a prop-department spliff of Jack Herer -
a strain of weed named after a chap who did great things with grow lamps.

Behind the dealer's bar are bell jars of green bracts up to the ceiling; 23
different grasses, 18 hashes and 10 types of pre-rolled joints. You can go
'organic' by smoking any variety with the 'Fair Smoke' label. This means
it's been grown only with biological nutrients and without the use of
chemical pesticides. De Dampkring serves alcohol and is another
connoisseurs' venue, judging by the menu categories which state the
cannabis' effect: from 'clear high' and 'heavy stoned' up to 'psychedelic
high'. A conscientious patron steers me clear of the Amsterdam Moonshine,
the equivalent of ordering a phal in an Indian restaurant. I pick instead
one of the house-rolled Tbizla joints (=805.70/=A33.50) - another 'high'=
with
handle bars, and after a few dozen Cokes my cotton-mouth abates.

You won't find many tourists at Katsu (Eerste van der Helststraat 70), as
it's too far off the main drag. Near the Albert Cuypmarkt, it has a discreet
local feel, making it popular with females, the more thoughtful and older
smokers. In fact, one regular is an 87-year-old who doesn't even smoke; he
just comes in with his grandkids. It is here, having just exhaled a bong hit
of Supersage (=807.50/=A34.60 a gram), that I achieve what pot commentator
Professor Horsecollar described as 'that perfect false sense of well-being
we all crave'. Blaring out of the speakers, 'Some Like It Hot' by The Power
Station becomes the soundtrack to my euphoria.

Across Sarphatipark is Greenhouse (Oudezijds Voorburgwal 191) - king of the
Cannabis Cup. In the 15-year history of this event, no other coffee shop has
won more titles for its marijuana, with winning names like King Hassan
Elite, Shanti Baba and Shanti's Holy Balls. All 36 trophies are displayed in
the entrance. The feeling of opulence continues as you move into the
purple-coloured lounge, all spot-lighting, gilt frames and the cool
indifference of the other smokers. In a shadowy corner I merge with the
world's most comfortable leather sofas and prepare a joint of Big Bang
(=808/=A34.90 a gram). Then, as is typical when the moment is perfect,
existential pot psychosis: Am I really a sad writer who's travelled abroad
to take drugs on their own? Why do I hate Guy Ritchie? And, whatever
happened to Howard Jones's gimp, Jed? It's hard work being this high. Like
so many other Englanders, I'm only doing to excess what I don't do at home,
and maybe it's just a coincidence, but the last five people to die by
falling into the Amsterdam canals have all been English.

Up early the next morning to sample the delights of Barney's Breakfast Bar
(Haarlemmerstraat 102). Not strictly a coffee shop, but then again the owner
isn't called Barney. I'm not usually a practitioner of the 'wake 'n' bake',
but the sound of Santana at 8am leaves little option. Here they serve an
all-day breakfast menu for meat eaters, vegetarians and vegans, plus crepes,
truffles and shakes. I order the pancakes - bacon and maple syrup - my
appetite somewhat dented by having woken at 3am in a ravenous sweat to eat
half the mini-bar. Apart from the food there's another reason to visit
Barney's and that's the Sweet Tooth - voted Cannabis Cup 2001's number one
grass for the second year running. Its effects are shocking, like someone
injecting your skull with Botox. The next few hours are spent walking in
rapidly increasing circles, my internal navigation system down.

At Schiphol airport I do a passable impersonation of Dracula checking in for
the easyJet flight back to Luton. I open my bag and, to my horror, it smells
like a Rasta's car. Gathering the various button bags of weed, I put them in
an empty cashew nut jar and chuck them in a skip outside the terminal.

Rusland (Rusland 16) had been my last port of call. It never seems to get
busy at this tucked-away gem set on three levels of dark, creaking wood.
Just find a table, and if the house cat takes a shine it will plonk down
next to you and purr like a chainsaw. It is also the best place to drink tea
(42 varieties).

I play backgammon with an architect who's planning a boat trip this summer.
Up the canals to the shipping lanes of the Rhine, then on to Romania. He
thinks it'll take three months, but he's not taking any pot. 'You don't want
to be high when an oil tanker crosses in front of you,' he says.


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Sunday April 28, 2002
The Observer (Guardian Unlimited)

http://www.observer.co.uk/travel/story/0,6903,706374,00.html