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 ( 15/UKP 9.20 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 8/UKP
4.90 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' Nescafe (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 ( 5.70/UKP 3.50) - 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 ( 7.50/UKP 4.60 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 (
8/UKP 4.90 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.