We’d been driving for a long time. Those at the wheel were about to see their third morning in a row without sleep and our minds were beginning to play tricks on us. Strange things start to happen when a group of people are placed in a confined space for long periods of time. Add the constant vibrations of the road and uncomfortable seating arrangements to the equation and the results become truly chaotic. Our motley ensemble rapidly transformed from well mannered gentlemen into perverted truckers who suffered from severe Tourettes- involuntarily screaming at pedestrians and passing vehicles alike. The overall vibe in the van had shifted, without warning, from naïve excitement to road wearied sleaze. We certainly weren’t proud of ourselves but it couldn’t be helped. The mere sight of an attractive woman was enough to spark a fury of shrieks, hollers, moans and gasps as we grappled over one another to get a better look. This was not how we’d hoped to represent ourselves to the people of Europe but it could not be helped. We were possessed, condemned to cruise dark Gallic streets ordering innocent strangers to “Get in the van!” Imagine the sense of rejection as our advances were met by expressions of horror from the locals, who were certain that this was the beginning of David Cameron’s plans to transport dangerous sex fiends to Eastern Europe. Needless to say, nobody ever got in. However, it was in the grips of this animalistic state that we found ourselves facing our first real test of character. The Law.
If you worked as a Customs Officer, patrolling the highways of rural France, it's likely that you would have, sooner or later, devised some kind system for spotting potential criminals. This would, almost certainly, be based on stereotypes and wanton speculation, but- hey- if it works it works. Perhaps you would keep an eye out for tinted windows, loud music or simply nervous behaviour, but- if you know what to look for- travelling drug casualties are pretty easy to spot. As the Mind of Fire van pulled up to a deserted toll booth at 3:00 am on that Tuesday morning, it's pretty safe to say that we ticked all the boxes. The pounding 4/4 Techno beat blasting out the windows, may well have woken them up. If that didn’t get their attention, the frantic shouts of “EUROS! WHO’S GOT THE EUROS?” and the howls of rage as yet another beer spilt across the passenger seats, must have. To be honest, though, even with out these distractions, nine dishevelled English dudes in a fogged out van was always going to raise some eyebrows.
As the first torch glared in our faces, we decided to play it cool. “Guten Tag, Herr Officer!” we called out, before someone remembered that we weren't in Germany yet. We were directed to a lay-by a few metres away, where we were met by several police cars. The cops gathered en mass around the van. “Where are you going?” they demanded.
“Croatia,” we replied, “We're musicians on the way to a festival.”
“Musicians? What kind of music do you play?”
“Umm... Well, reggae... I guess.”
Wrong answer. The female officer raised an eyebrow. “Ahh! Like Bob Marley?” Within seconds, the side door was yanked open, and with it several empty beer cans fell to the ground. The degenerate state of the van's interior can only have confirmed their suspicions, as they shone their flash lights around a dank cavern of cigarette butts, spilled beer and bent playing cards. Six strange men, in various stages of mental decay stared back at them, eyes adjusting to the sudden influx of light. The cops eyed the scene suspiciously. Then they discovered The Smell. Their noses twitched in disgust as the first wave hit them. A Victorian work house for hydrophobic necrophiles would have smelled like the Body Shop in comparison. The questions began. “Do you have hashish, ecstasy or acid?” they asked in chorus. It goes without saying, the Mind on Fire band would never even consider smuggling such dangerous substances across International borders, but they were not having it. One of them, with seemingly no concern at all for due process, attempted a childishly transparent act of entrapment; asking us if we wanted to buy any cocaine.
I decided it was time to create a distraction, so, after making sure there was only a small danger of being shot, I got out of the van and beckoned to the one that seemed to be in charge. We walked to the front of the van. He followed eagerly, perhaps expecting me to reveal a stash of black tar heroin hidden in the wheel well. I didn't. Instead, I began asking a series of questions about the converter stickers that we had placed over the headlights. He stared blankly at me for a moment, so I began gesturing wildly and pointing at the beams. Bemused, he said, “Look, I really don't care. I'm Customs- not some Traffic cop. Are you on drugs?” I replied that I was very concerned that we were breaking his country's laws with misplaced stickers and that I had not taken any drugs. As my attention turned back towards the headlights, he walked away back towards his car. Meanwhile, the interrogation in the back had drawn to an end.
We breathed a collective sigh of relief and set back on our way. The short spell of trying to act like normal people had taken a big toll. It had been the first time in over a day that we had been forced to let the outside world in, and it had raised some serious questions about our sanity. Like I said at the beginning; we'd been for a long time, but there was still a long way to go. The van pulled back onto the highway. After a while, a voice from back seats broke the silence. “That lady cop... She could well have got in the van!” And with that, we were on the road again.
