WHEN I was a much younger man, much sillier and carefree, my head was often wrapped in a bandana with folk tunes screaming from the wireless of my friend’s Kombi van.
It was the 70s, a time inspired by Woodstock and the end of the Vietnam war. People like me were at school, and had missed out on all the fun of the 60s, so we were desperate to re-live it in the 70s.
I suspect some of those who’d lived it in the 60s never really left it. If you’re going to play the tie-dyed hippy role, it’s always good to have an experienced hand to look up to, and they were the ones who’d ditched their shoes for sandals 10 years before I was eligible for a driver’s license.
This week’s rant was partly prompted by the high number of tie-dyed shirts floating around the shopping mall of a weekend lately. Not so many during the week – it’s a different crowd.
It was also motivated by the gentleman in front of me in the queue of the chemist, a man whose gout seemed to be getting the better of him, and if the 4-5 boxes of pills were any indication, had a few other ailments to manage while he took a puff of his next cigarette and popped the top off another beer.
I understand it’s rude to judge a book by its cover, particularly in a modern world where not all is as it seems. But I write a column, and my confidence is riding high that this gentleman was happily tucked away in his pigeon hole. Self imposed, if you like.
Hats off to him. The tattoos told me he’d fought in Vietnam. The rat’s tail and motorbike helmet told me he’d never totally departed the lifestyle that as teenagers we all aspired to enjoy.
It got me thinking to our days of Kombi living. I smoked a little weed, which was pretty much the limit of recreational drug choices in our circles.
That said, I inhaled as hard as I possibly could while trying to retain an element of cool, before launching into a spluttering coughing fit.
The fad didn’t last long. I got a job, and met Wanda.
At which point I was introduced to paracetamol and other functional drugs which warded off colds and flu-like symptoms.
When Wanda had our children, the drugs got stronger. Some of that pain-relief stuff was fantastic. Let’s just say I might on at least one occasion have taken a valium, thinking it was for headaches.
The headache disappeared, and a whole new sensation kicked in.
Now, some decades later, I stand in the chemist queue thinking about the drugs I’m about to purchase from behind the counter. I’m glad they exist, but wishing quietly I didn’t need them.
We’ve all got our ailments as our bodies start to break down. It’s part of ageing, and I’ve grown comfortable with it.
As for the drugs these days, I’m left wondering whether the purpose is all that different from the days in the Kombi. As a blooming young man exiting my teens, it was about escapism, living the way I truly wanted to live. The battles were psychological, not physical.
“The answer my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,” sang Bob Dylan. Whatever that meant, we didn’t really care. Some called it rebellion. In hindsight, there might have been a little bit of that, but there wasn’t all that much science to it. It was about feeling good.
Now, it’s also about feeling good, getting my body into a shape it can walk the shops, tackle the garden, travel a cruise.
When the ailments tell me it’s time to stop, I pop a pill and go. It’s exactly what I’m planning to do until the next batch of pills is required – the ones that keep you awake enough to enjoy the day.
Hey Wanda, where’s that brochure for the Bahamas?
