The Ghanaian Journal

David Biggs, Good Taste Magazine

I am often amazed at my own innocence when I read of the dreadful drug-related problems modern parents suffer. I never knew about drugs when I was a teenager in the gentle Karoo.

I have a friend whose son is a tik addict and was offered a good job as an apprentice motor mechanic, but he sat staring at a spark plug for three whole days until the boss asked him not to come back again.

In my own youth the drug of choice was the occasional stolen beer drunk in guilty secrecy behind the woolshed and not enjoyed particularly.

Far removed

As far as we youngsters were concerned, dagga was something that used to be smoked in the Transkei centuries ago. There was a display of dagga-related artefacts in the Albany Museum in Grahamstown where I was sent to boarding school — strangely beautiful animal horns decorated with fine beadwork.

It was only relatively recently, when I was already a seasoned reporter on the Cape Argus — married and with two children — that I encountered the magic weed face to face.

A colleague was about to retire from the world of words and begin a new life as a potter, and he invited a few friends to a farewell drink on the top of Signal Hill during his last working lunchtime.

As we sat there, quaffing cheap wine and wishing him the best of luck, a hand-made cigarette was passed round and I, like the others, took a deep draw at each passing.

The “I love you all” drug

Pretty soon the rest of the group became extremely sentimental and there was a good deal of brotherly hugging and several tearful speeches like: “If I could choose anybody in the world to be my best, best friends, I would choose you lovely chaps. I really, really love you all.”

As a rather dour Karoo Calvinist I found this extremely embarrassing, but gritted my teeth and hugged with the rest.

Good Taste
The herbal cigarette didn’t seem to affect me as deeply as it did the others. My next encounter with the weed was at a Vespa scooter rally in Mooreesburg a few years ago.

Cake anyone?

One of the scooterists had brought a beautiful chocolate cake and presented it to the group as pudding after a very lavish dinner provided by the good folk of Mooreesburg.

After a few slices (I am a chocoholic) I was filled with love for my fellow man, and particularly for my fellow woman, and proposed marriage to the caterer, who was a fine figure of a countrywoman and a divine cook.

Fortunately for me her husband, a robust wine farmer who played front row in the local rugby team, intervened and advised me against pursuing the matter any further. One of the scooterists even gave me a wedding present, which I returned regretfully.

I have vowed never to have anymore to do with the green and meaningful weed. I manage to get into quite enough trouble from the gentle fruit of the vine, thank you.