Something very important is being emphasized when sleeping, dream
nightmares repeat themselves. Something even more important is being
emphasized when a real, living, waking, nightmare scenario repeats
itself. When you repeatedly find yourself in situations where your
very life and/or physical freedom is in the balance.
This happened to me when I was 17 and busted for cannabis, it
happened in 1997 when I was busted for growing cannabis at the
wildlife refuge of the North American Wildlife Association (see
www.libbyhome.blogspot.com, JahDEP). This happened to me in
September, in Colorado, when I assisted a friend in his cannabis
cultivation. This happened to me in Merida, Venezuela in December,
after I had just arrived in South America, and was seeking cannabis
(see www.libbyhome.blogspot.com 'Narrative of the Voyages of the
Bloody, Snake Chariot'). This just happened to me after I had crossed
into the Southern Hemisphere, for the first time in my life, had just
arrived in Quito, Ecuador, and was again seeking cannabis.
I arrived in Quito after a long, involuntary abstaining from the
yerba. As I walked the Mariscal, the new city, I encountered a
disheveled, down and out, 20-something American dude, Andrew, from Hollywood, California with a not
particularly convincing story about being ripped-off by a taxi cab
driver.
He asked me for money. I reached into my pocket and gave him
a hand-full of change.
I should have walked on. But instead I asked him where I could find
some.
He said that was no problem in Quito. He said the city was awash in
good yerba.
We walked about half a block and encountered a 30-something, mid-
eastern looking dude, Hassan.
As he approached us Andrew told me he had just
bought a good, generous bag of herb from Hassan for $5
(Ecuador uses United States currency). But after he introduced us,
Andrew told the mid-eastern guy that if he ripped me off,
he would kill him. Hassan, then feined kicking
Andrew in the nuts and said he would kill him.
I began walking with Hassan. He spoke good English,
insisted on doing the transaction in English. He asked me how much I
wanted.
I told him $5 worth.
He said he would only do $20 worth.
I began to walk away.
He then said he would do $10 worth.
I agreed.
He then said I was to give it to him, now.
I looked at him. I didn't like what I saw. But I figured the worst
thing that could happen would be the loss of $10.
When I, as covertly as possible, handed him a $10 bill, he
whipped out a big wad of $20 dollar bills, was openly flashing them
on a busy street, patroled by many police.
He said there was at least $300 in the wad. He said
everybody was giving him $20 because they knew he had good
stuff. He again asked for $20.
I again refused.
A flash of anger twisted his face.
He told me to wait at a cafe on the next corner. He said he would be
right back.
I had to wait for about 20 minutes.
He returned. We started walking. We went about fifty feet down the
street, when he openly flashed a large black, plastic bag and put it
in my hand.
I quickly put it in my right pocket. As soon as I did this, someone
grabbed my right arm from behind.
It was a light-skinned Ecuadorian National Policeman. He told me in
Spanish to not make any more trouble for myself.
The cop never attempted to detain Hassan. But he walked with us. He told me to take the bag and throw it.
But this was never possible. Although the cop never specifically told
him to come with us, he walked with us into the police station about
half a block away, past the front desk, into a back room with a bunk
bed.
I was told to empty my pockets. When the cop took hold of the black
bag, He immediately said there was enough there for me to be in
prison for six years.
He left the two of us.
As soon as he was gone Hassan began berating me for not
throwing the bag. He said that I was working with the cops. He
threatened to kill me. He said that if I told the cops that he had
sold the herb to me, he would kill me. He said that he would give the
cops the $300 dollars he had. But if I did not pay him back, that
day, he would kill me.
I began suspecting that it was all acting. This was all a charade. I
had been set-up. It was all about shaking me down for $300. Nobody
was getting an Oscar for their acting.
When the light-skinned cop returned he was with a dark-skinned, very
Indian looking officer. He looked at me and silently, menacingly told
me to make my case.
I began to make my case in Spanish a lot worse then it actually is. I
said I had high blood pressure. I said I had heart problems. I said
the yerba was medicine (there is some truth to this).
The light-skinned cop asked if I had any documents to prove this.
I said I did, but I did not have them with me (a lie).
I looked into the Indian sergeant's eyes. I told him I came in peace.
I told him I did not wish to cause any harm to anyone. I was just
seeking medicine.
Hassan (the scum-bag) interrupted me and said that I
would never find compassion or sympathy with the cops. That I had to
give the cops $300 right now, or the both of us would soon be in
prison, and he would kill me first chance he had when we were in
prison.
But it was another one of his lies. I was finding compassion and
sympathy in the cops' eyes. I wasn't finding any in his.
I began feigning shortness of breath. I told the cops that I was a
very sick man.
The dark-skinned sergeant asked me what I wanted him to do.
I told him, 'Let me back on the street.'
The scum-bag said he was really asking me how much money I could give
right now.
I reached into my pocket and took out $11 dollars, all the money I
had.
The light-skinned cop told me to give him my passport. He asked me
how it was possible for me to have done all my traveling without
money.
I said I was waiting for money to arrive in Quito, in the meantime a
friend was helping me (some truth to this).
He asked where we were staying.
I reluctantly gave him the name of our hostal.
He asked me if my friend was at the hostal, right now.
I said I didn't know.
I was, in not an entirely feigned state of physical agitation. When
the cops had emptied my pockets they had taken these over-the-counter
pain killers, and ibuprofens that I was taking for a tooth ache,
which had kept me awake the previous night.
I asked for the pills back. I took an ibuprofen
The dark skinned sergeant again asked me what I wanted him to do for
me (what I could do for him).
I told him that I could not speak for my friend and his money, that I
did not have anything more than the $11 dollars.
He said that I was acting. He said that if I was sick, they would
have medicine in the prison.
I told him to look into my eyes. And as we stared in each others eyes
I told him, I was telling the truth. The only money I had was the
money in my pocket (it was the truth).
Nobody blinked.
He said I had five minutes to make my decision.
As soon as the cops left the room, the scum-bag was screaming at me.
He said this was the last chance for both of us. He again accused me
of working with the cops to get his $300.
I looked into his eyes and told him I knew he was working with the
cops. I told him that I could not speak for my friend and his money.
I said that if he was really under threat of being sent to prison,
why didn't he just give the $300. Why was it about me paying $300.
He said it was ridiculous, him working with the police. He told me he
was Lebanese. He showed me his tattoos with Arabic writing. 'I am
Arabic,' he said. I have nothing in common with these people (meaning
ecuadoreans in general, the police in particular).
I then began to suspect that the reason I was there was because the
scum-bag had recognized that I am a Jew.
I told him that I only had $11 dollars to give.
He told me to give him the $11 dollars.
He took it, and left the room.
He came back with the police. He said he had given the police all the
money, and again he said that if I didn't give him $300 that day, he
would kill me.
I again told him, I could not do that.
When the Indian sergeant came back he was holding the wad of $20's,
and holding my $11 that was folded in a seperate wad. The light-
skinned cop told me that it was illegal to smoke marijuana in
Ecuador, and I better not do it.
I began to hope that I was being set loose.
Then the Indian sergeant told me to get the fuck out of his sight.
I hit the street with the scum-bag in front of me. As soon as he
chose a direction, I went the other way.
I walked about a block and a half, and then realized my passport was
still at the police station. I turned and started walking back to the
station, and there was the scumbag.
He had taken out a cheap jack knife was fumbling with an about two-
and-a-half inch blade. He again told me to give him $300 or he would
kill me.
I didn't even acknowledge the threat with a 'Bring it on bee-otch.' I
just walked past him.
He yelled at me 'I swear by God, I will kill you. I will stick this
knife in your back.'
I returned to the police station and found the Captain sitting at the
front desk.
During the shake down I was being told by the scum bag that if the
Captain, another very Indian looking dude, got involved, I was
definitely going to prison.
But the Captain seemed to be well aware of what was going on. I had
seen him passing the door when the cops were leaving and coming into
the back room.
I told him that my passport had been checked, but it had not been
returned to me.
He said the cops who had checked my passport were gone, but they would
return in about 15 minutes. He told me to sit in a chair in front of
the desk.
I did. We closely observed each other. There was at least five minutes
of silence.
Then he asked why my passport had been checked.
I told him I did not know.
'It was about marijuana, wasn't it,' he asked.
I agreed that it was. I told him that it was the only medicine that
helped my high blood pressure, and heart.
He continued to observe me and then gave a sympathic smile. We
continued to sit in silence for another 10 minutes.
I began to suspect that the police had gone to my hostal. I asked the
Captain if it would be all right if I left and returned.
He said, 'of course.'
I went back to the hostal. All was well.
I returned to the police station about an hour later. There was no
one at the front desk. I sat in the chair in front of the desk. About
five minutes later the light-skinned cop saw me. Both cops came to
the front desk. As the Indian sergeant approached I could tell he had
already come to regret his mercy.
He asked me what I wanted.
'My passport.'
The light-skinned cop began going through the desk to find it. The
Indian sergeant asked if I had money to get my passport back.
I stood up and turned my pockets inside out. I had no money.
The light-skinned cop handed me my passport.
The Indian sergeant again told me to get the fuck out of his sight.
The light skinned cop told me again, I better not smoke marijuana in
Ecuador.
I again thanked them for their mercy.
Next morning I turned a corner and almost walked into the scumbag. I
acknowledged his existence with a nod of my head and walked on.
'I swear,' he yelled at me.
I have claimed that when I run-out of herb, I quit, you gotz some? I
have claimed that I do not go out of my way to find some, and I wait
for providential encounters with the yerba.
I lie.
That is what the repetition of this nightmare scenario is trying to
tell me.
It would be good posture if I, in fact, did what I claimed.
But I must now acknowledge, in this new hemisphere (at least for me)
that the yerba is, for me, a thing of stagnant, static repetition, a
thing of bad posture in the face of the mystery, in the face of the
great adventure of consciousness.
So I quit...
Ya gotz some?