How old rastaman hitch-hiked to Africa
Here is one more story about old rastaman from Ukraine. He was already tired of pothead life, married, spawned some brats, landed a white-collar job, started to enjoy TV and so on... It is a spring again, he's vegetating at a couch, browsing thru a newspaper and frustrating on what's wrong in his life. The wife approached, pulled out the paper and told: "Hey you, lazy butt! I'm working hard all day running this household and you are doing nothing?" He replied: "Honey, keep it calm, okay? I do have a job and providing you money. Don't I have a right to rest?" The wife yelled back: "You consider yourself a local hero just for having a damn job? We both know you are doing nothing but slacking there or even partying with coworkers during business hours instead... And after that you are coming home just to lay around as a bag of shit? No way! Take a bag and go buy some bread!" So he takes his old canvas bag, wears Birkenstocks and, sighing heavily, heads to a nearest corner-store.
It is already a spring indeed, almost a summer - warm and funny, it feels just happy! The rastaman entered the store, bought some bread, counted the change... Alas! It's not enough money left to hit the bar. Ain't the life is shit, man? The life will fade away as a mirage and you can't even afford a beer? At this time, a girl approaching him and asking: "We're so solly, we're hitchhiking from coast to coast" and so on... He's listening her and thinking: "I've heard it somewhere, maybe in some old movie... Which one?" The girl is coming to conclusion: "Can you spare a buck, man?" And he is asking, just automatically: "Irie, sister! Where are you from?"
The girl answers: "My name is Kaya. I'm from Jamaica." The rastaman thinks: "Jamaica... Kaya... I think I heard these words somewhere..." She tells: "Of course! You are an old Rasta, man! You didn't grow your own for already five years! Buying stuff from greasy-hand dealers! Smoking discreetly in washrooms! Washing it down with vodka! Polishing it up with NyQuil! Isn't it a shame?"
The rastaman looked at himself - yes, it is a shame. It's so embarrassing to live like a pig in a pen. The tells the girl: "Well, you see... Wife, kids, job, mortgage... I'm surrounded! What can I do?" The girl answers: "Go to Africa! Today Jah opened you a green corridor - and until you are going, you will pass all obstacles. When you stop - you'll lose." The rastaman asks her: "Will you go with me?" She replies: "Only to Amsterdam; I have tons of people like you, I have to gather all of them home before the summer is over."
So they go to the nearest highway exit and in five minutes stopped a truck going to Kiev. The trucker is so happy to see them: "Wow! Hippies are hitting the road - the summer is started indeed!" He stops at the first truck stop, buys each of them a steak and a bottle of sherry and, singing and partying on the way, they are approaching Kiev.
In the Kiev, there is a mess. Some Al-Qaeda posers took over the parliament building, arrested senators, and demand: "Legalize it, don't criticize it and give us a huge bag of weed each, otherwise we'll shoot every second hostage." The people of Ukraine surrounded the building shouting: "Dear friends, please shoot all those biatches ASAP - and we will give all legalize you want!" The Al-Qaeda posers are in shock - they didn't want to actually hurt anybody, just to make a statement. They even do not have enough ammo for all senators, probably just for five or so, considering they won't miss. But the people are angry, they want some blood - it is a new revolution, man! Local rastamans and other freaks are partying around, they are staring what gonna happen - it's funny! Scared cops are running in circles, burly gangsters are staying away from it because they don't understand what happens. All stores sell LSD packed by kilos two bucks a pack. And nobody is buying it, because everybody already had enough.
So the time is passes, and the night is coming. All hippies went back to their squats, burly gangsters to the night clubs, drunken cops to their police stations, national guards are drinking vodka behind the corner... and Al-Qaeda posers decided to escape before it's too late. Only senators are sitting wasted since the early morning and entertaining themselves voting on some weird bills. Well, well, everybody is already chosen their poison!
Okay with those senators... Our rastaman and the girl already sneaked up to the train slowly going to Berdichev. The wheels are clanking; the wind is whistling... the night Ukraine is flying past - lanterns, lights, groves, dark fields full of crops. So they arrive to Ternopol and everything is quiet there, as usually. Poppies didn't ripe yet, the meth considered so passé for the last two years. What a nice place! The spring is came so local scene kids making their first outings - all in appropriate uniforms... hippies wore their bead jewelry, punks combed up their Mohawk dos, and rastamans are already tomato-eyed. A black limo drives up to our heroes; some preppie gets out of it and asks: "Young man, do you smoke marijuana, by the chance?" The rastaman replies: "What can I say? Sure I do." The preppie gets a huge bag of pot from the glove compartment and tells: "Here it is. Take it and say no thanks." Then he rides away.
"Holy shit!" - the rastaman thinks, following the limo with a look. Two cops approached him and told: "What it is? In your hands?" the rastaman pondered over it and responded: "Marijuana, probably." Then, cops warned: "Listen up, wise guy. Don't even try to do funny stuff; we are tough here on it! If by tomorrow even a dime bag will be left - we swear to put your and your chick's sorry asses in the can and charge for possessing, hint, hint! He tried to offer them some pot, but they politely refused, because they are on duty, you know. And they went away, wiggling their batons.
So rastaman and the girl brought the whole bag to the scene. They stoned up themselves, all scene kids, even local rednecks which were passing by, curious schoolgirls and old people - just everybody around! Then, a jam-session started, just like in Amsterdam... Local musicians brought their instruments and started to play something so psychedelic you will be stoned just after listening it for few minutes. Everybody is stoned like a hell - some trying to dance, some are staring at store windows, some just sitting and giggling to themselves on how high they are. Even rough cops are joined the wave - they are walking in circles in time with the music and smiling like they mean it. Suddenly the girl tells to the rastaman: "Okay, let's smoke one more reefer, go to the nearest skyway exit and hitchhike a direct flight to Amsterdam. Because I feel if we stay here little longer, we will stop here forever.
Okay. They puffed down one more reefer and went to the skyway. It's so scary and cold there and airplanes don't pick them up at all. All pilots show them a finger and some even flying by pretending they don't see the hitchhikers - their planes have PASSENGERS NOT ALLOWED sign written on the door. And here a flock of white minivans just flies by, and one of them finally stops. The driver asks: "Where are you going?" Rastaman answers: "Actually, we need to go to Amsterdam." The driver replies: "Wow, it is cool! You are flying to Amsterdam, and we are just being downloaded thru the Internet to Crimea." The rastaman tells: "It's okay. We can go to Crimea first as this is the sign the Fortune gives to us. He asks the girl if she wants to go to Crimea. She is standing on the cloud with a frozen blue skin chattering her teeth, already unable to speak, so just nods assertively. Therefore, they board the white minivan and fly to Crimea.
And on the ditch fields of Crimea traveling hippies are already making brownies. Because they are coming here thru Zaporozhye where on the train station such a good ditch grows between tracks that it would be a shame to do not harvest those gifts of Jah. Everyday somebody arrives with a full backpack of this stuff. There are also some Germans arrived with a humanitarian mission, they are cooking charitable soup for flower childs and giving away free condensed milk and Christian books for personal hygiene. There are also local cops are on strike. They stopped to enforce anti-drug laws because they didn't get their salaries for already three months. All gangsters went away to the mountains to fight with native people. So, everything is cool. Even Paul McCartney when heard about this paradise decided to come to Koktebel to join the groove. Like a regular hippie, he wanders around, parties and plays his guitar about some girl named Michelle. Local chavs approached him and demanded to play something from Sex Pistols. And Sir Paul, sighing heavily, painted his KISS-style face with a chalk and started to flog the strings and yell the "Anarchy in the UK". Chavs were filled with such a respect that they not only called him a cool punk but even tipped him with a can of imported beer.
At this time the Crimean peninsula slowly tears apart from Ukrainian mainland and drifts to the Turkish coast. It is a big international incident indeed - ruskis accusing ukes, ukes - ruskis, yankees - both of them. Smart Romanians sent some tugboats to quietly pull the Crimea closer to their coast, but Bulgarians are exposed this dirty conspiracy and asking to share this new found land, threatening to blackmail them otherwise. And only Turks are snickering quietly like they don't care at all. It is drifting - let it drift! After all, it is drifting to us, not from us.
So Turks sat on their seacoast puffing up local hash and watching how Crimea slowly comes up. Suddenly they saw some freaks on Crimea's coast - naked, dirty, long-haired, stoned, potty-mouthed, singing indecent songs and hungrily watching the Turkish coast considering where to steal some food or whatever. Then all Turks begged: "Allah the Great! Please save us from those locusts!" They are taking long sticks and pushing Crimea away! At this time, Ukrainian navy arrived and started to tow the peninsula back. The Crimea resists gripping up with all arms and legs and cries: "I want to Africa!" "Suck some bong instead of Africa!" - navy finally brought it back.
Oh, yes. So, the rastaman and the girl. Well, they gathered in Crimea whole bunch of die-hard rastamans, hitchhiked all together a Dutch cargo ship and are sailing to Amsterdam. The ship is full of Rizla, it passes around all customs and ports as a jet-powered flying Dutchman. The sailors rolling and smoking their joints fast as well. The wing is whistling, the waves are rustling, the seagulls are just flashing and disappearing - so fast she goes! Finally, they arrive to Amsterdam. It is the end of the universe. Literally. From the dawn till the dusk you'll be so stoned you'll forget who you are and where are you from. About hundred of Rasta people gathered on Damrak and started to party. They party and party and party and finally realized that it is snowing already. Is it a winter or what? They felt immediately so cold and scared that they just remembered funny and hot Africa. They raised some funds to sent a telegram to Ras Tafari himself begging to bring them to Africa, finished up last roaches and passed away.
They see a dream - they are already in Africa! It is so big and boundless. There is a huge and stout cloud above it. Jah himself is flying high on this cloud. Around him, bananas are growing, monkeys are frolicking, black people with tomato-eyes are sitting and playing some lazy music and socializing quietly and respectfully. Jah tells to Rasta people: "Why the heck did you do that? You reached the Amsterdam and decided you can finally stop? Now go back and wait for the next spring!" They answer: "We are sorry, of course. It was our fault - you told us not to stop but we did. But, see - we think we are already in Africa. And, because we reached Africa, where should we return? Look, we decided we are in Africa and we won't leave it." Jah laughs: "You are smart guys indeed, but in reality you are not in Africa at all, it is just a dream! You will wake up in a half of hour, and will not be in Africa anymore." They objected: "We will not wake up! Why we need to wake up if we have such a beautiful dream? And they started to scatter around the Africa. Jah watched where they are for some time and finally gave up. Especially since after just one month they blackened so much they became indistinguishable from locals.
The Africa is a paradise... lots of warmth, lots of sun, fresh ganja season is from January to December, and native people are so quiet since nobody oppresses and enslaves them and especially since they realized that every rastaman arrived has his own AK-47 or even a bazooka, or at least a large shotgun for hunting elephants. They are so slow and stoned that if somebody attacks, they'll shoot all magazine before realizing what happened. That's why everybody is so mutually polite and nice here... nobody curses each other, nobody behaves annoying, aggressive or just as a plain jerk. The only downside of this situation is that there are no cigarette tubes in stores there. But this is not a big deal, if you have a great bud. You can always stuff the stuff into a regular cigarette. First, you pull the filter with your teeth. Then, you tear off a piece of cardboard from the pack, roll it up into a small tip, put it into the empty tube shaked out the tobacco... then - as usually. By the way, it would be just nice to make a couple of such thingies with a tip. And, of course, to smoke them up ASAP.
English translation: (c) juzy http://juzy.livejournal.com