Entry #3 or How I Found Out The Chef Was A Canadian Druglord

I wanted to write a book once. I failed.

I never actually wrote it. That's why I failed. I had chapter outlines ready, concepts I wanted to work on, a list of names I wanted to thank, and a moodboard for the cover saved on my Pinterest. Everything you'd need for the book, really. Except the actual book.

The biggest issue was that my ideas for the story were always changing, and I struggled to commit to one. What also didn't help was that I was more busy living those ideas than actually writing them. Isn't that the goal, though?

Maybe I'll finish it someday (I won't). For now, I keep to writing little bits of it here for you only.

So this one goes back. Way back. To when I lived in the Outback. And let me tell you this: if you saw me balls-deep in a 9pm dinner res at a place that sells €14 espresso martinis, dolled up, blinged out, kitten heels on and all, you would not be able to tell that I was once a hippie.

No shoes, dumpster-found shirt, and a pair of men's oversized jean shorts. Beach dweller. Van lifer. Full-time trippy hippie for the three months that my visa allowed me to. My fellow hippies at the time would most likely say that I was the least drippy hippie of them all. They might even go as far as to say that my hippiedom was more in my head than anything else. But for the purpose of contextualising you in this story, I was living a stick-it-to-the-Man lifestyle.

I lived on a beach campground. Me and all my hippie friends did. And all the hippies had hippie jobs at our hippie camp. I was a receptionist, taking care of the front office, greeting guests, managing bookings, and colour-coding our email inbox. Some of my hippie mates were groundskeepers, taking care of the many grounds, cleaning the bathrooms, raking spiders, killing snakes and colour-coding the trash. Finally, we had our beloved hippie team chef. And if you read the title of this entry, you've probably already guessed that this one is about him.

Let's call him Noah. His real name is not Noah, though. If you twist my arm, I might just tell you the real one. But that's not the point!

Noah was an interesting character, even without any drug affiliations. Noah was tall, with dark, dirty hair and even darker, dirtier eyes. He had the sway of a witch who knows what the moon is up to at any given night. He seemed like he could talk to the foamy part of monstrous ocean waves. One time, he even appeared at dinner covered in ash, which he explained was the result of a ritual cleanse he had been performing down at the beach that afternoon.

I named him Noah for this story because, when I met him, he wanted to buy a boat. He was Canadian and had come to Australia in search of sun, sea, and a good time. Maybe some light introspection too. Like we all do.

When we met, Noah told me he felt a bit out of place back in Canada, somewhat distant from his friends and family. He was vague about it, but I knew what he meant. I felt like that too. Sometimes, I still do.

Noah was a shapeshifter. As I observed him more and more, I could tell he was an expert in becoming who you needed him to be at that moment, for a particular conversation or context. Noah would play the role, put on the face, and become the character that was needed within our group at any given time. He could be an entertainer, a host, a shy guy, a guide, a bro, a bestie and a boss. He was a piece of clay, moulding himself, bending and stretching his body, his soul, and his mind to fill the empty spaces between everyone else. He seemed to be everything except himself.

For the most part, he was just our chef. He cooked every meal for our hippie team and he was good at it. He chose that job because he liked making everyone happy. Although, I believe it was mainly because he could be alone most of the day, left to his own sidequests. Everyone loved Noah but no one really knew Noah. By being whatever you needed him to be, he could keep you at arm's length while he burrowed himself deeper, to hide from you, me and the world.

The thing with Noah, and other people like Noah, is that I have made it my life's unofficial mission to uncover all their darkest deepest secrets. I don't know why it makes me feel so good to know things other people don't know about people. Maybe because it makes me feel like I have privileged knowledge? Maybe because it gives me access to parts of them no one else has? Maybe because by knowing their past, I can predict their patterns and avoid the parts I don't know how to deal with yet? Next question.

So I wanted to know Noah's insides. I craved his secrets, his past, his villain origin story. Why were his eyes dark and dirty? The fact that no one else seemed to know much about him drew me in. His mysterious energy trapped me and I wanted to know it ALL.

And remember that book I was writing? Well, I was sure that Noah had a story I could write about. I felt it in my bones. It was selfish. I was hungry like a rat, but no surprise there. I started stopping by Noah's room and sitting with him. He showed me his projects, his purchases and sometimes his body too. We talked. He started to tell me about his parents but he always kept it vague. So I knew there was more there. I didn't focus much on what he spoke about but rather on the way he spoke about it. And that's how I knew where to cut. He was in my trap now.

Noah's mother and father had met in Mexico, and dark magic quickly got involved in their love story. They were both Canadian, in Mexico on their own private endeavours. They often consulted with a witch and bonded over their mutual beliefs. It was a rocky start to their relationship, as his mother was under another man's spell. Literally. Sometime after meeting Noah's father, she had been gifted a shark's tooth necklace by this other man, bewitched with the power to make her only have eyes for him. Noah's father did not know how to get his lady back, so he went to their witch, and she told him to keep that necklace away from Noah's mother. After his father did so, little by little, his mother slowly came out of the love haze she had for this other man and quickly went back to focusing only on Noah's father.

They went back to Canada, together now, and had Noah and Noah's brother. And kept running their family business. What line of work did they do, you ask? Well, Noah's father comes from a long line of Canadian drug lords. Yes, those who produce and sell drugs. Yes, like Escobar. Less Latino. During his time, Noah's grandfather had actually been the one to introduce marijuana into circulation in the country. Later, Noah's father was responsible for bringing in hash.

They weren't just some common dealers. They had full setups, plantations, kitchens, trusting employees, front businesses for money laundering, corrupt servicemen on their side, and a really nice mansion. Their business was run like any other business. Accountants. Stock managers. Logistics people. A COO. Probably even a janitor who came late at night and mopped the halls squeaky clean.

There was one particularity in this business though: they had their own resident witch. Noah's mother came into play in this department, as she had always been interested in alternative medicine practices and contact with the dead. She convened with their witch advisor for news on the market, the underworld and emotional management. This business was all about egos. When advice was needed, she provided a helping word. Or two.

Noah grew up telling everyone his father was a consultant. He learnt his lesson when he was very young and got into trouble at school for telling the teacher his father sold drugs. His biggest concern growing up was how he was going to be able to generate groundbreaking innovation in the family business, as his grandfather and his father had done before him. Like all generational criminals do, Noah led a life of petty crime, break-ins, and the occasional shoplift. He graduated to dealing and working on his father's behalf. He was next in line for the throne.

But he wasn't so sure if he wanted that anymore. And now he found himself in Australia. Telling me all this. My jaw was on the floor by the end of it.

I still lived another month alongside Noah after he told me about his past. He asked me not tell anyone, and I never did. I was fascinated and wanted to know more. Sometimes Noah would slip out a few things. Sometimes he would look at me funny, as if he didn't know what I was referring to.

I will never know if Noah's story is true. I mean, he did perform ash cleansing rituals on the beach like I told you earlier. I later realized that maybe his shapeshifting abilities were not meant to keep people far, but instead to guarantee that he was always loved.

He knew about my desire to write a book. Maybe he just wanted me to love him at that moment, and he gave me the Noah I needed to do so. He gave me this little story.

Noah, if you're reading this, you were a fucking blast.