Nimbin aka Simulacrum

Simulacrum (Sim`u*la"crum\, n.; pl. Simulacra. [L. See Simulate.]) A likeness; a semblance; a mock appearance; a sham; -- now usually in a derogatory sense.

Byron Bay is a lovely city that likes to project a "hippie" image. In reality though, it is just a laid back party town. It is also quite popular. After one day here, I knew my three nights would not be enough. Sadly, I could not find accommodation for Wednesday night. Therefore, I booked a night at the nearby community of Nimbin. I didn't realize what I was signing on to.

As much as Byron Bay like to project their hippie image, Nimbin is where the real hippies reside. Most of the tour advertisements use words and phrases like "trippy" and "Best music of any Nimbin tour". After thirty seconds in town, I could see why. Thirty seconds was the total amount of after stepping of the bus to be offered marijuana for sale. The town smelled like pot. People were pulling bongs on the picnic tables. Everyone had a joint in their hand. The street was littered with shops selling patchwork pants, hemp sarongs, and quite delicious looking baked goods. The town hypes itself as a "living museum". Most of the locals were either long-haired, bearded stoners or chilled out aboriginals. The town is one giant flyer for marijuana reform laws. Every year, there is a "mardi-gras" (as you'd expect, it is in may? Eh, let 'em be, any tuesday can be fat tuesday for them.), a giant festival right at "harvest", where all the hippies get together and talk about how stupid it is that pot is illegal. The police make a few token arrests now and then and basically make sure there are no harder drugs going on in town.

The whole things started in 1973, with the Aquarius Festival, a congregation of hippies in the woods. As one would expect when you put a whole bunch of nature loving potheads in one of the most beautiful, lush green places in the whole country, they never left. The hippies started buying all the surrounding lands, using the neverending growing season to become subsistence farmers. They lived by the doctrine, "Peace, love and brown rice." Pot growing and smoking was just a part of their lifestyle. I'm not too sure when the tourists started coming, but now tourism is big business for the town of less than 1,000 people. The biggest industry in town though, is pot selling. Despite the small population, the money generated by the list community is in the high millions. People staying in Byron Bay drive out to Nimbin to buy their weekly supply, then drive back home. As much as the government wants to clean it up, they can't. Nimbin doesn't have much except for gorgeous scenery. You kill the drug sales, then the entire economy of the area falls apart and everyone goes on welfare, costing the government lots of money. It is actually odd that the locals are such advocates of decriminalization, because it would take away most of the towns income. The tourists would stop coming and the most of the disproportionate number of shops and cafes in the small town would go out of business. It is a very surreal place, a simulacrum perhaps.

I stayed in the nearby hostel, a rustic, yet surprisingly nice place. It had a pool, a tepee, and lots of random sitting areas, all of it outside. The majestic Nimbin rocks could be seen anywhere from the hostel. I took one look and decided to stay an extra night. After over a week in cities, I felt a lovely two days in the wilderness would be great. I spend three days with great company, great scenery, and great conversation.

I met an Australian/American woman who was telling me how hard it is to get her American husband moved to Australia. It was a quick eye-opener to the trials I would have had to face with Jess if we stayed together. I actually met quite a few Americans there. We just sat back, talked about good beer, music, and life. For over the last year, I've spent so much time thinking about how I wanted to move here, become an Australian. After spending some time with really cool Americans, I suddenly remembered all the things I do love about American. It is very easy to demonize the United States. Being subtracted from the people and the life there, all I had to look back to was the identical blocks of stores, the urban sprawl, the suburban wasteland, the government. Really though, the live back home is good. As much as I've been living and loving Australia, I've not been living the real Australian life; I've been living in simulacrum, stuck in a life that is too real to be real. The backpacker life is really a joke in a way. Everyone is doing the same things. Everything is staged; you either go North or South, stopping at the same places. You do a little harvest work. You drink a bunch of box wine. You walk around in your aviator style sunglasses. It is so disingenuous. At some point, you have to wake up and real life starts, the simulacrum dies.

I walked to town my second night there, thinking that it much be a really cool place at night. Alas, the streets were deserted. No hippies twirling around, arms outstretched, staring at the moon. No drum circles. Nothing "hippie" at all. Instead it was just a normal small town; well not necessarily normal, it did have a strange vibe to it. The locals were hanging out at the one cafe still open, not clad in brightly colored homemade dresses, but normal clothes. The teenagers were chatting, sitting on their bicycles, doing their teenager thing. The adults were clean-shaven and short-haired. The day was over, the curtain had closed. The simulacrum put on the shelf until another busload of backpackers arrive the next morning. Real life had begun.

On my way home the next afternoon, we passed a few quaint little hippie towns, where the townspeople really did live a communal life. Churning butter to sell at co-ops and living off the land, the people still espoused the true doctrines of the hippie lifestyle. A joint to them was merely a way to unwind in the breathtaking countryside. This is what Nimbin was before it became a simulacrum. I wondered how long it would take for this place to become the new Nimbin, how long before Nimbin gets its first McDonald's, or how long before Byron Bay builds high rises like those of Surfer's Paradise to the North. It was at this moment, in the microscopic town of Uki, New South Wales, that I finally sobered up the idea of moving to Australia. As much as I hate the commercialization of the world, the identical blocks of stores, the urban sprawl, the cookie-cutter suburban wasteland, at least it is honest about its lack of soul. Everywhere suffers from excessive consumerism, it just takes different forms. If the hippies sell out, anybody will sell out. That's real life. Anyone who disagrees is still trapped in their own simulacrum.