Senor Nice

  ‘If being paid for writing books makes me partly capitalist, so be it. Incidentally, copies are being offered for sale here and I’ll happily sign them afterwards. Goodnight and thank you.’

  Heated but good-natured arguments were taking place throughout the auditorium as Alberto escorted me off the stage. Outside, people had set up stalls. Sound checks were taking place and bars beginning to open. Roughly 10,000 people swarmed in, mainly young local people coming to dance to European DJs playing in the room I had just left. Other bars hosted rappers and samba drumming. The canteen and art gallery were full of people. There was no security, no bouncers, no dress control and no hostility.

  The party continued all night. It was pointless checking into a hotel for a couple of hours sleep, so I decided to keep moving. Alberto and his dog kindly drove me to Milan station, where I took an old-fashioned train for Lugano and sat in an otherwise empty compartment with bench seats and pictures of the Italian lakes. At the Swiss border town of Chiasso two Italian customs officers, uniformed, heavily armed and with a large Alsatian, boarded the train and made a beeline for my compartment. On entering, the dog went instantly berserk, displaying symptoms of both St Vitus’s dance and epilepsy. It repeatedly jumped on and off my holdall and bit random parts of it, slobbering and barking as if the bag were full of cats. My now smaller piece of hashish was still hidden in the toothpaste tube; surely the dog couldn’t smell that? The officers asked me to wait outside the compartment while they continued the search.

  Although the train was stationary, I dismissed thoughts of doing a runner. I imagined the Alsatian bringing me down and going for my throat. I had seen more than enough of that in prison. One of the customs officers stepped out of the compartment and waved me towards him. I was dreading the sight of the dog chewing away at my toothpaste tube, but it was obvious nothing had been found. Clearly, the holdall had merely absorbed a few whiffs of marijuana smoke while being stored at Leoncavallo. The two men and the dog left.

  I needed a drink so I decided to leave the train and take the next one on to Lugano. The Swiss border guards politely waved me through without even examining my passport. The first shop I saw outside Chiasso station was a grow shop. Inside were marijuana magazines, pipes, bongs, large rolling papers, herb grinders, nutrient solutions and indoor growing lights. The staff were smoking joints and offered me one as soon as I entered. I bought a small bag of skunk. Had Switzerland finally legalised cannabis? Passing another three grow shops, I went into a bar, drank a large grappa, and telephoned Scott Blakey to advise him I would be in Lugano station within the hour. He met me off the train.

  ‘All right, mate?’ I hadn’t seen Scott for well over a year. He looked fit with his suntan and waist-length hair.

  ‘Fine thanks, Scott. What’s been happening here? I must have seen at least ten grow shops in Chiasso.’

  ‘There’s that many in Lugano,’ said Scott. ‘Chiasso must have more than twenty. You’ve seen nothing yet, mate. Come with me – I’ll show you something special.’

  We drove towards Bellinzona, the provincial capital of Ticino, and stopped outside a three- or four-storey building. Scott led the way inside into a maze of rooms in which marijuana was growing under strong lights. In other rooms people were cutting and cleaning buds. Several offices rang, buzzed and whirred with telephones, computer printers and faxes. Laboratories tested samples of weed. Two local government officials were wandering around the building ensuring that fire regulations, hygiene standards and employee conditions conformed to legal requirements. Beautiful women were placing seeds in packets with my face on the front. Mr Nice Seedbank catalogues proclaiming twelve new Mr Nice strains were piled up ready for mailing.

  ‘This is amazing, Scott, absolutely amazing. And this is all legal?’

  ‘Obviously, mate. But you’ve still seen nothing yet.’

  We left the extraordinary building and drove a few miles up a mountain to a large area cordoned off by high electronic fences festooned with sophisticated security devices. Scott pressed a few buttons on his zapper, a section of fence opened, and we drove in.

  ‘Take a look.’

  Spread in front of us were several acres of almost fully grown marijuana plants.

  ‘Jesus!’ I could say nothing else; I was speechless. For several seconds both of us gazed at this wonderful sight. I had seen nothing like it since the days I’d spent in the Himalayas in the 1980s.

  ‘You’re telling me this is legal, too, Scott?’

  ‘Of course. I have no interest in breaking any country’s laws. I never have done, other than smoke dope.’

  ‘How much marijuana are we looking at?’

  ‘Once it’s been harvested and cleaned a bit, I would think about five or six tons at least.’

  ‘What’s going to be done with it?’

  ‘We’re going to make oil with our new distillation equipment. We will get about a litre from every ton. Then we’ll take all the THC out of the oil and sell it in America.’

  ‘What! Who the fuck is going to buy THC in America?’

  ‘Nobody. The Americans buy what’s left after the THC has been taken out of it. They use it for making perfume.’

  ‘So what happens to the THC?’

  ‘It doesn’t survive the chemical process of—’ Scott burst out laughing before he could finish the sentence; the look of astonishment on my face was too much for him. One of the reasons Mr Nice had been a successful book was because it was about smuggling good-quality marijuana and hashish that got many people, particularly Americans, stoned. That’s why Scott chose the name for his seeds. Now the same name was also being used for an operation to remove from marijuana the ingredient that got you high. This was irony on a grand scale.

  Cannabis is a dioecious annual herb, that is, it has the male and female reproductive organs in separate plants. The female produces seeds after being pollinated by a male. If the female plant is not pollinated it will produce mature flowers that are seedless (sinsemilla). Such plants have high levels of over 600 identifiable different cannabinoids (psychoactive molecular acids) in their flowers, stems and leaves. The highest concentrations occur in the mature female flower. In mammals psychoactive cannabinoids produce euphoria, enhancement of sensory perception, pain relief and variations in concentration and memory. They also have anti-convulsive, anti-anxiety, anti-psychotic, anti-nausea, anti-rheumatoid-arthritic and pain-relieving properties. Delta9-tetrahydrocannabinol (THC) is the primary active cannabinoid, with cannabidiol (CBD) and cannabigerol (CBG) playing significant roles. The particular effects of any cannabis plant are determined by the varying amounts of different cannabinoids in its composition, rather than merely the percentage of THC present.

  Some countries, including the United States, have made cannabis seeds illegal to possess, import or attempt to acquire. Most other countries, including the United Kingdom, base their drug legislation on the chemicals contained in the substance concerned and treat cannabis seeds as legal because they contain negligible amounts of THC. Collecting cannabis seeds, therefore, is in some countries a legal way of storing the genetic material of various strains. Scott wanted to produce seeds with high-quality, easily identifiable characteristics that were reliable and constant. Mr Nice Seedbank produced genetically identical seeds by keeping and cloning the original male and female parent plants.

  In Switzerland the production of cannabis seeds for non-recreational purposes such as preserving genetic characteristics or cooking or producing birdseed was legal. Scott, as a foreigner, was unable to get a Swiss work permit but could own, invest in or consult for a Swiss company. Accordingly, Ticino business people had incorporated and staffed a Swiss company, Gene Bank Technology, to buy the rights to produce some Mr Nice Seedbank strains and, with the benefit of Scott’s expert consultancy, to grow them. Gene Bank Technology had recently contracted a respected and well-established Ticino firm of flower growers, Martinelli Bros, to produce Mr Nice strains. Several farms interested in cannabis produ
ction had sought advice from Gene Bank Technology, which quickly gained a first-class reputation for honesty, reliability and promptness with delivery of clones. Demand soon exceeded supply. Gene Bank Technology’s operations in Ticino supported otherwise-failing vegetable farmers and enabled them to make their livelihoods from a profitable product easily adapted to the local climate. Italian and Swiss cosmetic firms had contracted Gene Bank Technology to produce high-quality cannabis-flower oil. Accordingly, Gene Bank Technology had set up the marijuana plantation now in front of our eyes. In a few weeks the plantation’s yield of cannabis oil – modified so it couldn’t get anyone high – would be exported to the United States of America.

  Trading cannabis seeds within Switzerland, however, was illegal unless one could prove the seeds had been bought from non-recreationally motivated producers and could further prove they would not be sold to companies that might resell them for recreational use – an impossible task. In Holland the production of cannabis seeds, although previously legal, was now illegal. Importing or trading cannabis seeds within the country, however, was legal, wherever they were produced. This apparent inconsistency is a result of the peculiarly Dutch concept of gedogen, which roughly translates as ‘toleration’. This is not passive toleration – turning a blind eye – it’s an active and open-eyed government policy that officially tolerates what is officially prohibited. If there is a social problem that does not have a straightforward solution, the Dutch will gedogen it. Typical examples are prostitution and the use of soft drugs. The Dutch know these are never going to go away so eradication is not the goal. In response to these two national approaches Mr Nice Seedbank had evolved its strategy: the seeds were produced in Switzerland and imported into Holland from where it was sold worldwide.

  Scott and I drove away from the marijuana plantation to eat and get drunk at what is still my favourite restaurant after all these years, Campione d’Italia’s Taverna.

  On returning the next day to my bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush I was greeted by an invitation to speak at the Hay-on-Wye book festival. The fee, a case of champagne and free accommodation, was acceptable. I telephoned Tina and asked if she wanted to attend the festival and meet me there. She was delighted.

  After arranging to fly to Panama in a few days, I caught an early-afternoon train from London to Hereford, where I met Tina. We took a cab together to Hay. Literati superstars and culture seekers sauntered through the small town’s guest houses, bars, bookshops and restaurants. We saw politicians Mo Mowlam and Roy Hattersley talking to media heavyweights Harold Evans and Rosie Boycott. We had a drink at the Old Black Lion, where poets Roger McGough and James Fenton were sharing jokes with writers Louis de Bernières and Edna O’Brien.

  At 9 o’clock at the Gerrard Marquee I did a half-hour extract from my regular show to a packed auditorium. Tina was suitably impressed. The Guardian had invited me to their festival party later that evening, so we went along. I was introduced to a bearded man about my age. He was dressed all in black including his boots and a cowboy hat. His name was Paulo Coelho. It was obvious that neither of us had heard of the other. We had a few seconds chat about something instantly forgotten, and then he excused himself to go out to the garden for a smoke. Tina and I circulated. I introduced her to Ian McEwan, Christopher Hitchens and some other authors I knew. After a while we too went out for a smoke. Paulo Coelho was still there, alone and sitting at a trestle table. A copy of his book The Alchemist lay on the table. I introduced him to Tina.

  ‘So, Howard, I hear you are a celebrity. I must admit I have not read your latest book. What is it called? Nice Guy or something?’

  ‘Mr Nice, actually. I must confess to not having read yours, The Alchemist.’ I felt pleased at being able to say the name of his book, which was staring right at me, while he had forgotten the name of mine.

  ‘I have,’ said Tina, surprising me rather. ‘It’s bloody great. It’s a bit short, mind. I read it all on the train coming up here from Swansea.’

  ‘That’s the best compliment an author can hope for,’ said Paulo. ‘His book was too short. Would you agree, Howard?’

  ‘In an obvious sense, yes, of course I do. And I think mine was too long—’

  ‘You’re right,’ interrupted Tina. ‘It did go on a bit in parts.’

  ‘Mine was too long,’ I continued, a bit pissed off with Tina, ‘but I suppose the real compliment is the size of the book sales.’

  ‘How many books have you sold, Howard?’

  ‘I suppose about a million,’ I said proudly, ‘if you count the different languages and the sales of my new book, Dope Stories. How about you?’

  ‘Counting all the languages, about sixty-five million.’

  Tina looked at the floor trying not to laugh. Paulo sensed my embarrassment. ‘Howard, please take my card. If you are ever in Brazil, look me up. Have you been there?’

  ‘Thanks. No, I haven’t. I would love to, of course. I’ll be close, Panama, in a few days, then back to Jamaica.’

  ‘A writing trip?’

  ‘Yes, a travel piece for the Observer, and I’m doing some research for my next book.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Another autobiography really, but it will cover Wales and South American connections, such as Henry Morgan, the Welsh colony in Patagonia and the visits to South America made by Welshmen long before other Europeans.’

  ‘Then, Howard, you must definitely come to Brazil as part of your research. I have incomplete but vivid memories of learning as a child about the discovery in the Brazilian forest of a tribe who had remained there isolated for seven hundred years and spoke only ancient Welsh. It was so long ago that I don’t know now if it was a fairy story or history, but it has stayed with me forever.’

  I took his card, and we shook hands.

  ‘Sorry for embarrassing you there – I didn’t realise you didn’t recognise him,’ said Tina as we walked away from the party.

  ‘I’d never heard of him before, but I was really interested in what he was saying about that tribe.’

  ‘What! You’re kidding. You’d never heard of Paulo Coelho, one of the world’s biggest-selling authors ever. I don’t believe it. I honestly don’t believe it.’

  ‘Tina, there’s no end of gaps in both my memory and my knowledge. There’s loads of stuff which I’m totally ignorant of.’

  ‘Tell me about it; I was part of that stuff.’

  Tina and I had become friends. We remain friends. We haven’t had a DNA test.

  Five

  PANAMA

  Panama City and its airport lie on the Pacific coast. European explorers were familiar with the Atlantic northern coast long before Balboa discovered the country’s Pacific southern coast and declared all the lands it touched to be the property of Spain. I decided I would get to know the country in the same order.

  The sun dazzled me with its welcome as I got off the plane and walked the few steps to the bright and airy arrivals hall. Invisible speakers emitted Latin American rhythms, increasing the holiday atmosphere. A young clean-shaven immigration officer dealt efficiently with the arriving passengers. He smiled broadly as he stamped each passport after just a cursory glance at the holder. I handed mine to him. He took one look at the name, turned bright red and pressed a button under his desk. Another fresh-faced immigration officer joined us and took my passport.

  ‘Sir, would you come this way, please.’

  Severely brought down, I followed him to a stark windowless office with a metal desk, two upright plastic chairs and a large CCTV camera.

  ‘Wait here, please.’

  He disappeared with my passport and closed the door.

  The usual thoughts raced through my head. I had never been here before. Why were the Panamanian authorities interested in me? Some other country must have advised them I was coming. Was there an international arrest warrant for me, an all-points bulletin to lock me up wherever I was found? Had I inadvertently left something suspicious in my luggage before
I checked it in? Had Panama suddenly become the fifty-first state of America?

  The door opened. In walked someone I first believed to be Craig Lovato, the DEA agent who had arrested me in 1988. My mind disintegrated. No, it wasn’t Lovato, it was the great Brazilian footballer Rivelino. Or was it Cheech, or Chong? He carried an expensive leather briefcase and wore an immaculate grey uniform covered with medals, tassels, stripes and insignia. Was he a Mexican about to bust me for telling an Old Bailey jury in 1981 that I worked for his secret service? He put his briefcase on the desk and opened it. A pair of handcuffs fell out. My heart sank. Then he smiled broadly and pulled out a copy of the Spanish translation of Mr Nice.

  ‘Ah, Señor Nice. We study your book in our police college. Would you be so kind as to sign it for me?’

  ‘Of course. I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Thank you, Señor Nice. I am sorry to have delayed you.’

  ‘It’s no problem at all. I have to wait here at the airport to catch my next flight, so there is no inconvenience whatsoever. In fact, I’m very flattered that you want my autograph.’

  ‘My colleagues and I love your book, Señor Nice. It is very good. To which place are you flying?’

  ‘Bocas del Toro.’

  ‘You will enjoy it there. The flight leaves in about two hours, I believe. Would you like to wait in the VIP lounge? It is very easy for me to arrange.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

  After passing through the friendliest possible immigration and customs checks and downing half a bottle of tequila in the VIP lounge, I caught a domestic flight to Bocas del Toro on the island of Colón, where tales of wrecks and buried treasure are commonplace. As the name suggests, it was a favourite spot of Columbus (Cristóbal Colón), who had tarried there when searching for a sea channel between Cuba – which he thought was eastern Asia – and South America. On the plane I remembered a grey-haired history teacher telling us that Columbus discovered the world to be round and that previously sailors had been paranoid about sailing off the edge. Yet when I was about five years old my father had taken me up to the ‘ton’ of Kenfig Hill and pointed out a ship coming over the horizon. At first we could only see the top of the ship’s mast, and then slowly the rest came into view. My father explained the curvature of the earth made me see the top of the boat first. If the world were flat, we would have seen both top and bottom at the same time. The world could only be round. Many years later I found out that ancient Greek philosopher Eratothsenes had accurately calculated the circumference of the earth as long ago as 600 BC.