I wonder whether they picked up Nanny??
From Cockles to cookies.. I bet her name was Molly
Oh well there is always Celebrex to help with her arthritic pain
It's Saturday morning on the main street of Nimbin and the footpath is alive with stalls of clothes, jewellery, jams and floppy hats. Buskers play raucous trombones and drums, barefoot toddlers run around and dogs wander in and out of cafes, nosing for scraps of food.
Everyone, it seems, wants to sell you something, whether it's the skinny man flogging clay ocarinas or the young "Laneway Boys" hawking weed to tourists who arrive on buses several times a day.
As I walk beneath the awnings, I hear a high-pitched voice crying, "Cookies! Cookies!" and notice a plump older woman waving a small plastic bag in the air like a miniature flag.
Her face is deeply lined, her grey hair is swept up into a roll, and she's wearing a loose orange-and-black caftan and a pair of rubber thongs. Her bag contains three round biscuits.
"How much?" I ask.
"Three for 20, or six for 30."
We sit down on some nearby milk crates. Nanna*, now in her late 60s, worked full-time as a nurse in Sydney before retiring to northern NSW. Seven years ago, in order to supplement her pension, she began baking marijuana cookies and selling them two days a week to day-tripping tourists.
"Why only two days a week?" I ask her. "Is it because you get tired?"
She shakes her head. "It's not that. The Laneway Boys get the shaaats. They don't like me moving in on their territory."
A group of young Asian men shuffles past. Nanna jumps to her feet and waves the bag again. "Cookies!" she trumpets, in a voice so warm and maternal that they stop and enquire about her prices.
As she quietly negotiates, I can see why the Laneway Boys feel so threatened by Nanna. Scoring from the Laneways requires handing cash to a paranoid and pimple-faced teenager, then following him down several back lanes, where the cash is handed over to yet another paranoid and pimple-faced teenager, who disappears beneath a house or onto the roof of a cafe and returns with your marijuana in a paper bag.
Buying home-baked cookies on the main street from a woman who looks as harmless and gentle as your grandmother is an appealing alternative. It obviously works: a few moments later one Asian man is giving Nanna his money and she is whispering to him to hide the purchase in his jacket pocket before the coppers spot them.
As she sits back down I ask her if she's ever been arrested. She brushes a stray grey tendril away from her face and nods. "I've been raided three times and busted twice." Most recently, in 2011, she was fined $365 and given a two-year good-behaviour bond.
"But that still hasn't stopped you?"
She smiles and shouts, "Cookies!" to three passing people so pale I wonder if they are albinos. Nanna says she doesn't grow the cannabis, but sources it through a local grower. She's never been a recreational user.
("Oh, I had a toke or two when I was 19, but didn't everybody?") Instead, she eats half of one of her own cookies every night - and has done so for the past seven years - for relief from arthritic pain and to help her sleep.
The albinos are now in a huddle nearby and are glancing back at Nanna. I ask her how much money she makes in a week and she replies, "Depends on the weather and the time of year." As I watch $10 notes flutter between pale hands, she adds, "Roughly between $100 and $600 for the weekend."
The albinos approach and a discreet deal is done in a matter of seconds. The cash disappears into Nanna's bra and the cookies are sequestered in a buyer's bumbag.
As the albinos leave, Nanna warns them, in a voice reminiscent of the caring nurse she once was, "Remember, it takes an hour to kick in. And don't drive a car, all right? It's far too dangerous!"
atheism is a non prophet organization
