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For the full story, read Part 1: Border Fuzz first.

Matt kept repeating it on the way to Bonnaroo. “This is Hamsterdam.” He said it when we stopped for gas and greasy food at a truck stop in southern Ohio, he said it while we sat on the balcony of a motel two hours from Manchester, Tenn., and watched rain so heavy it turned the canopy into a waterfall, and he said it while we idled in a 6-mile line of cars on the interstate shoulder, waiting to finally enter the festival grounds.

I put the car in park and took my foot off the brake. The line wasn’t going anywhere. Another state trooper on motorcycle appeared in the side mirror, approaching quickly on the left. Up ahead, an off-ramp was blocked by two cruisers with more troopers beside them, watching our snail-flattering progression.

Matt stared back. “Heavy police presence. You’d think we were being herded off to some prison camp.”

“Hey, Matt, pass the pipe.” Heather’s hand reached out from the back seat.

Matt turned around. “No, you’re not serious. Now of all times?”

“Just one more bowl. Why not?”

The bike trooper rumbled past.

“That guy.” Matt pointed at the bike trooper. “Him. That’s why. We already smoked once here and got away with it. I don’t want to tempt fate.”

“Those guys aren’t looking for drugs. They’re here to make sure nobody cuts out onto the highway trying to get ahead and causes a pile-up.”

“It doesn’t matter what they’re here for, I don’t feel comfortable smoking around all these Tennessee state troopers. We’re not in Toronto. Pot’s a serious thing here. And even if we were in Toronto, this would still be too many cops. Why can’t you just wait until we get inside? It can’t be that much longer.”

And once we were inside Bonnaroo, every recreational drug imaginable would be essentially legal for the next four days.

This wasn’t the first time these troopers had escorted tens of thousands of hippies, hipsters and frat boys into the Bonnaroo grounds. They knew by now what goes on inside and how much contraband they would find if they searched a few cars at random, yet they didn’t seem to care about any of that. They were strictly on traffic duty, tasked with ensuring the stoners enter the designated drug-use area in an orderly fashion.

We didn’t smoke another bowl until we were parked. As we unpacked the van, people were already walking around looking to buy weed. There was no way we were selling what we had. We were nearly extradited to Syria for bringing that pot across the border. You can’t put a price-tag on that.

We dropped MDMA as the sun set, the storm clouds turning its yellow light a bluish grey as they slowly converged overhead.

“How many do you want? Two?” Greg asked.

I shrugged, “one should be fine.” I had never done MDMA before. The myths about it creating pinholes in your brain matter and the association with glow-stick waving, pacifier-sucking ravers kept me far away from it in high school. All I really knew was proper MDMA worked like a filter on your brain that makes everything wonderful for around three to four hours.

“Trust me, you’ll need two,” said Matt, grabbing an extra one from Greg. “You’ll want a re-up.”

The lightning struck with the MDMA. Jagged stabs of white illuminated the sky with a light that echoed off the clouds. Big, thick raindrops fell fast and relentless, drumming on the canopy beside a neighbouring tent while we sat underneath, waiting for the downpour to end. The drumming was so loud it drowned out everything else. Its rhythmic constancy calmed, soothed, made everything okay. It was almost wonderful.

Everyone sounded slightly distant, as though they were talking through tin cans attached with string. I took a deep breath and listened to the sound of the storm, now louder than ever.

“It feels really good to breathe,” I said to no one in particular, discovering that MDMA also removes any ability to think before you speak.

As soon as the rain let up Matt took off, anxious to explore Centeroo, “get a feel for the place,” he said. I tried waiting for everyone else, but after a while I couldn’t resist the inviting smile of the shimmering lights on the other side of the wall.

Centeroo was separated from the campgrounds by a large yellow wall. There were only two known points of entry, both called Shakedown, because Centeroo was a drug-free zone, technically. Shakedown wasn’t air-tight. A little weed in a shoe or a tab in a wallet would make it through unharmed — assuming the weed doesn’t reek of foot — but you had to take the effort to conceal it.

I found Shakedown and headed into Centeroo. After driving 1,400 kilometres to get here, I still wasn’t sure what Bonnaroo was. I knew there would be a lot of music, but that was about it. I wasn’t prepared for the incredible nocturnal carnival that surrounded me. A ferris wheel rotated slowly in the distance, bulbs flashing. Lights were everywhere, colours of every hue, backlighting silhouettes of people casting long shadows on well-worn dirt paths as they wandered between one attraction and another.

Matt appeared beside me as I walked.

“So yeah, this is a pretty cool place,” I said.

Matt smiled, “this is Hamsterdam.”

I finally understood.

(click here for more of “This is Hamsterdam”)