Senor Nice (11 page)

Several months later,
Howard Marks – A Video Diary
hit the
shelves of the audio and video stores. The reviews were favourable, loads of copies sold, and it served to increase the sales of
Mr Nice
, which by now had been translated into Hebrew and German. And then Frank Stefan, a friend of my German publisher, Marcus van der Kolk, telephoned me at my bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush.

‘Howard, we met briefly in Amsterdam last year. You probably do not remember. Anyway, I bought the rights from Justin Rees to make a German version of your video diary, which I released some time ago. What I would like is to film some extra footage of you which would have special interest for the German market.’

‘I’m up for that, Frank.’

‘Good. Could you come next weekend to Castrop-Rauxel and be our guest of honour?’

‘Where the fuck is Castrop-Rauxel and what’s happening there?’

‘The CannaBusiness Exhibition. We have a hundred and fifty exhibitors from fourteen nations and expect more then ten thousand people to attend. It would be interesting for you. There will be all the usual paraphernalia on sale, all the growing equipment and new bongs, and I think Marcus will have a stand selling the German
Mr Nice
book. We will pay for your accommodation, and there will be plenty of traditional cannabis use. We just need an excuse.’

I flew to Frankfurt. Marcus, who lived in nearby Darmstadt, met me at the airport. A couple of hours at breakneck speed on the Autobahn, and we neared Castrop-Rauxel, which seemed an extremely boring place. The exhibition hall was its sole landmark. Clouds of dope smoke filled the interior. Hundreds of people smoking cannabis converged on me.

‘Howard, you must try this. It is a hybrid of Northern Lights and White Rhino, which we have cultivated in Rotterdam. Please to smoke it in our giant bong.’

I sucked in loads of sweet cloudy fumes and began an
upward ascent.

‘This hashish we have made in Germany. Please!’

‘Finally, Howard, we have perfected the vaporiser. Made in Berlin. Try.’

Through the crowd I spotted Scott Blakey, who fought his way towards me and rescued me from the onslaught.

‘Did Ben ever give you a bag of Mr Nice to smoke?’

‘Actually, Scott, he didn’t. I just had a drag. What’s it like?’

‘I’ve got some here; find out for yourself. It’s not too bad.’

I rolled a joint and smoked some. It seemed fine.

‘Yeah, it’s good.’

‘Look, mate, why don’t we bring out a whole range of Mr Nice seeds? I’ve got loads of mind-blowing unreleased strains of dope to run by you. You could sample them slowly and relaxed. We could grade them and name them, then unleash them on the planet.’

‘But where can we do it, Scott? It’s going to be illegal to grow strong weed in Holland soon, isn’t it?’

‘Damn right, mate. What about Wales? You must have some pull there. Green green grass of home and all that.’

‘Easier said than done, Scott, I’m afraid. What about Jamaica or even Switzerland? I saw a very impressive plantation there earlier this year.’

‘The Swiss have clamped down a bit. Certainly in Zurich. No one seems to know what the law actually is there. Apparently, Ticino is OK though. I intend to check it out.’

Frank Stefan suddenly appeared.

‘Sit down, Howard, please. I will just switch my camera on. Howard, I have an enormous surprise for you. This is Mefa.’

A man in lederhosen approached me. ‘Hello, Mr Nice. I am Mefa from Munich. You have been resurrected. I have found your Mr Nice passport after it lay buried in Campione d’Italia for twenty years. It is in this box.’

Sure enough, there was the Mr Nice passport, battered and
expired, but still the real thing. Crowds gathered, video cameras whirred and reporters took out their notebooks and pens. Frank Stefan had done well with his publicity.

‘How did you find it, Mefa?’

‘I saw this programme about you on German television. When I looked at the garden where you were digging, something told me where the passport was, so I caught a train from Munich to Lugano, a boat from Lugano to Campione d’Italia, went to the public gardens, and immediately knew where to start digging.’

‘Are you a diviner, Mefa?’

‘No, I am a construction worker.’

‘When did you go to Campione d’Italia?’

‘It was precisely August the thirteenth. I have the date on the photographs I took. Can you see?’

‘That’s my birthday!’

‘I had no idea. I have still not read your book.’

It turned out that Mefa’s son was called Patrick, as is mine; his mother’s name was Ilse, like my first wife; and his father was called Albi, the nickname I used throughout my fugitive years. This was too much to take. I grabbed a bottle of hemp beer, drank it and felt sick. Scott helped me up.

‘Well, mate, we can’t ignore a sign like that, particularly about burying and regeneration. I’m going to Ticino tomorrow. Coming?’

‘I can’t, Scott. I’ll be in Barcelona. Cañamo have just published my book in Spanish, and I’m going out to promote it.’

A week later I was back in London after completing the Barcelona promotion and Scott called.

‘What was the name of the place you used to live in Ticino?’

‘Campione d’Italia.’

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’

‘I think the same. You spent a couple of days there, yeah?’

‘Not only that, I’ve rented a flat here. I’m still waiting to sign the lease. And I’ve had a look at the mountains. It’s perfect for what we want to do. We’re opening Mr Nice Seedbank right here, right where he was buried all those years ago. You’re the seed, mate. Neville Schoenmaker wants to join us. Between Neville and me, we have produced almost all the winning entries in the
High Times
Cannabis Cup since 1990. There’s no stopping us now.’

Mr Nice Seedbank began producing and selling seeds during 2000. Everything was done legally and with the full knowledge of the Ticino cantonal authorities, who sent round teams of inspectors at regular intervals. Meanwhile, home-grown marijuana production in Europe soared to unprecedented levels. By 2001, in the United Kingdom more than half the marijuana consumed resulted from the efforts of home growers using seeds produced by Mr Nice Seedbank and several other seed companies which had followed its lead and set up in Ticino. It seemed too good to be true.

‘Which weed a di best, mon?’

The images dancing in front of my eyes changed from marijuana plants on the Alps to marijuana plants on the Caribbean hills.

‘Yo a sleep, mon. Must be di jet lag. Yo neva try di Jamaican gum?’ asked Shortcut.

I knew that ‘gum’ was the Jamaican word for locally produced hashish, but I had never tried it and was certainly interested in doing so.

‘No, I haven’t, Shortcut. Have you got any here?’

‘Next time wen yo come back, mi wi mek sure yo get some.’

As I had been daydreaming of Swiss mountains, even Jamaican time had marched on. I had to think about my plans. I was leaving for Panama in a few hours, flying first from Montego Bay to Kingston’s Norman Manley International Airport, the other side of Jamaica, then after a few hours
stopover catching another plane to Panama City. I did not intend to leave Jamaica without paying my respects to Henry Morgan.

The driver took me back to Jake’s Hotel. During the short trip we arranged that for fifty dollars he would drive me to Montego Bay, making small detours on the way to see what my guidebook said were former hang-outs of Henry Morgan. We left Treasure Beach after a late and nourishing breakfast of salt fish, ackee – a fruit, most of which is poisonous but the rest of which is a delicacy – and various members of the banana family. In less than an hour we had arrived at Black River; we then hugged the coast west until we came to Belmont, the birth and burial place of Peter Tosh. Ironically, his success in depicting truth from a ghetto perspective had led to a barrage of demands from old friends, needy causes and shady characters. Tosh began to display signs of paranoia, believing himself both to be the victim of an establishment plot and haunted by ghosts. In 1987, on 11 September, Tosh’s fears were realised when hired killers opened fire in his living room, killing him and two of his friends. We drew up alongside a small red, gold and green mausoleum, decorated with cobwebs, stained glass, and press cuttings. A fine old lady, Peter Tosh’s mother, stood outside.

‘Were you a friend of Peter?’

‘No ma’am, I wasn’t. Unfortunately, I never even met your son. However, I am a strong admirer and champion his cause. Legalise it.’

‘God bless you, my dear.’

Belmont merges subtly into Bluefields, where Henry Morgan thought of the brilliant idea of invading Panama, and from where he and his men set sail to fulfil his idea.

Whoever transported Henry Morgan from Bristol dropped him at Barbados and put him to work on a sugar plantation. He led a revolt, escaped, captured a boat and became a pirate, a tough and dangerous career. Disease was rife, and a hacksaw
the only surgical instrument available. Psychologically, Morgan displayed most symptoms of bipolarity and managed his oscillations of temperament with ample quantities of rum. His sailors, a gang of sea thieves, rogues and vagabonds, were also dependent on rum to function in conditions of peril, fearful storms, poisonous insects, deadly diseases and unexplored hostile territory.

Although piracy was contrary to the law of all seafaring nations, Britain, when at war against Spain, found it hard to disapprove of Spanish galleons being looted. British Caribbean governors issued letters of marque, which legalised attacks on Spanish galleons provided a percentage went to the crown. Pirates became known by the more respectable name of privateers, and as long as they confined their antics to the sea, were not breaking the law. Henry Morgan seized Spanish galleons, but his real interest lay in the cities that held South American precious metals before they were exported to Spain. His eyes were on Panama, the biggest bank in the world. While swigging rum at his place in Bluefields he reasoned that even if it was illegal to sack Spanish settlements, the British authorities, especially those thousands of miles away, would turn a blind eye to any such attack.

Leaving my driver to have a snooze in his car, I walked around Bluefields looking for traces of Henry Morgan’s abode. The only significant building was the largely derelict Bluefields House, next to the police station. It looked promising at first, but there was no mention of Morgan. I asked the resident caretaker, but he had never heard of him. Instead, he took me through the wild gardens to a breadfruit tree, the first in Jamaica. Captain Bligh had planted it from seedlings brought from Tahiti.

We then headed inland towards Montego Bay, arriving in time for me to catch my flight to Kingston. The plane flew over the spectacular Blue Mountains, source of the world’s best coffee, and landed at Kingston, where I discovered the
flight to Panama had been cancelled; there wouldn’t be another for a couple of days. I was not perturbed; Jamaica had plenty to offer. Reluctantly, the airline provided accommodation at the Pelican Hotel in downtown Kingston. I checked in and telephoned Leroy in London.

‘Leroy, what’s a good nightspot in downtown Kingston?’

‘Yo crazy, mon. Yo stay in a di hotel until sun come up. Yo hear mi.’

‘But I’ve been to all sorts of places today. The people have been really kind and friendly. There’s been no danger of any kind – the opposite, in fact.’

‘Kingston a no place fi play with, mon. Yo stay in a di hotel.’

I was not used to arguing with Leroy. I stayed in the hotel.

I checked my emails. One was from a woman called Tina: ‘Dear Howard, I know this must come as a huge surprise to you, but I am your daughter. My mother is Susan Malone. I’m living near her in Swansea. She told me all about the day in the chapel. I’ve known for ages. I tried to see you in Brixton Prison in 1980, but the guards would have none of it. Since then, I’ve been too shy to approach you. If you were any old Joe Bloggs, I would have. But you’re the local hero down here. I’m happy to have a DNA test if you want.’

I was overwhelmed with both the joy of having another child and the sorrow of not knowing her. I had heard of love children suddenly appearing in people’s lives, but it hadn’t happened to any friends of mine. Henry Morgan and the
Observer
would have to wait; I was flying home to see my new daughter.

Flying from Kingston to Gatwick, I thought of 1963, the year I met Susan Malone, the year when just about everything that could happen did happen. The world’s first disco, Whisky A Go-Go, opened in Los Angeles; satellites and rockets careered through space; the Pope, the most immortal of mortals, died; President Kennedy, the world’s most powerful person, was assassinated; and Martin Luther King voiced his dream of racial harmony. The world was changing faster than ever before. The British Conservative party went as far right as it could by choosing a grouse-killing peer of the realm (Alec Douglas-Hume) as its leader and the Prime Minister but the Tories were on their way out. Hugh Gaitskell, leader of the Labour party, died, leaving the way clear for Harold Wilson to rise to the top, and Labour were on their way in. But most of my memories of that year are of sitting as close as I could to a raging coal fire to protect myself against the coldest winter of my life.

I had a choice of three pastimes – watching television, studying for my A levels or braving the dark, lonely streets to slip into a pub for some serious underage drinking. The most entertaining television programmes of that black-and-white
era were the first weekly broadcasts of
Doctor Who
and
That Was the Week that Was
, an insolent satirical review of everything.
That Was the Week that Was
relied shamelessly on such sagas as the Profumo Scandal, the continuing tale of the penetration of the British elite by the Russian KGB, who used hookers and West Indian playboys as their means of entry. Tabloids carried photographs and cartoons of sexy prostitutes fawning over cabinet ministers and of Caribbean immigrants smoking marijuana in west London’s illegal shebeens.
From Russia with Love
, 1963’s big box-office hit, was happening in London. James Bond was real – and British.