Christiania

I first came to Copenhagen in 2004. It was then that I learned of Christiania (kris-tain-ya). I learned of its laid-back counter-culture and its dogged resistance to conformity. I learned of its compound, outpost mentality, and how for decades it has had to fend off all sorts of barbarians at its gates, from real estate developers to biker gangs to police enforcers to right wing politicians. For forty years Christiania has fought off all who sought to own it or control it.

Having returned to Copenhagen earlier this week to give a lecture, I also returned to Christiania. I find it immensley interesting.


Christiania, or Freetown Christiania as it's formally known, occupies approximately 85 acres on an isthmus between two of Copenhagen's canals. It is an accidental-turned-intentional community of squatters and others who annexed buildings and barracks left empty there by the closing of the Danish Army base on Christianhavn in 1971. 


In 1971, amidst a housing crisis in Copenhagen, in which the army base squarely sat, hippies, other cultural misfits, and those simply needing shelter, moved into the leafy abandoned area abutting the pristine Stradgraven canal. Many have been here since, still clinging to their hippie and culturally misfit ways. 

Christiania, highlighted in dark green

And since then, Christiania and Christianites have gone through lots and lots of growing pains. Aiming to structure a culture of inclusion and tolerance, Christiania has taken a public stand to remain open to those at society's margins. As a community, whose residents now number around 900, but whose commuter population and yearly visitors number 500 or 600 times that residential number, Christiania seeks not to judge nor to impose. It is a society and a state with few creeds, and fewer strictures.

This becomes apparent physically while walking its windy, narrow, overgrown gravel roads, and looking at the houses close-by on either side. In many instances, they appear designed by Rube Goldberg. To put it bluntly, Christiania's architectural and structural chaos would send any municipal building inspector into fits. There is no code. People simply do what they want, and what they can, regardless of whether they have the requisite trade skill or eye to do it "right." Which is not to say the homes are ugly (though some are) or unsafe (though some seem shaky) but only to say that for the most part, they are consciously unconventional and occasionally appear a little spontaneous and sudden, or perhaps simply tentative.

***

If the houses display an uncertain, informal architecture or design, that is how one might see the politics of Christiania as well. There is no complex structure to its deliberative process -- no hierarchy of governance or procedure. Instead, Christiania operates as a direct, completely horizontal democracy, with each community member holding no more nor no less power than their fellow community members. Each participates to the extent that he or she can, or cares to. 


Proposals for community consideration are presented en masse, in general meetings open to all Christianites. Decisions, however, can be carried by the simplest of majorities. As there is no time limit for pressing one's case, nor no time limit for opposing that case; and as in Christiania, no proposal goes forward in the face of any opposition (even with overwhelming support), stiff standoffs can lead to marathon meetings. For it is not until all opposition has either been persuaded or simply left the meeting room that a proposal carries. A single advocate or opponent willing to stick it out to the bitter end to be the last man or woman standing will win the day (or day turned into night turned into day). It is a democratic process built not on brute force or power blocs but on sheer conviction and stamina. With victory comes the responsibility to turn off the lights and close the door behind you.

***

Christiania does not have its own police force though it does have its own "laws, as you can see from the poster above. Hardly draconian, even if a little baffling: what's the story behind no bullet-proof vests? I do know the history of the ban on hard drugs and biker colors. 


From the beginning, as the Copenhagen and Danish authorities in general have maintained a grudging hands-off policy toward Christiania, Christiania developed an open drug culture. Buying pot, selling pot, and smoking pot were activities carried out in the light of day, no differently than going to the market or sipping a can of beer (legal on the streets of Copenhagen). The cops, under orders, tolerated Christiania from outside its borders. They rarely entered the former military base, but if they did, they observed but did not touch. Obviously, having their hands tied in the face of laws being broken right in front of them did not leave the cops pleased with the arrangement.

Others more scheming were. In time, hard drug peddlers took advantage of Christiania's legal refuge to test whether the sale of hard drugs could be carried out with such impunity, and for a while they were. But, as as hard drug dealers began to infiltrate so too did the problems associated with hard drugs. Heroin use lead to addictions and several overdoses resulting in death. After a failed collaboration with the police to rid Christiania of the hard drug pushers, Christianites took it upon themselves to exile the pushers and offer rehab for their victims. They succeeded, and have banned hard drugs since. 


In the 80's a Danish biker gang called Bullshit invaded to muscle in on the pot market. Their intimidating presence rankled the live and let live Christianites, and the biker gang was tossed out. The effectiveness of their conviction was apparently bolstered by the Hell's Angels, who got into a "war" with Bullshit. The Hell's Angels won. Since the expulsion of Bullshit, Christiania has imposed a no bike colors rule.


Christiania is reputed to be Copenhagen's second largest tourist destination, though it is not the kind of place which would be on the itinerary of most bus tours. Instead, it seems, that people go to Christiania for two reasons: to gawk, stealthily and a bit frightfully, as if in a wild animal preserve with the windows partially open, at its freaky-deaky circa 70s culture; and to smoke weed. 

Pusher Street

Because of Christiania's avowed tolerance, the enclave has become an internationally visited haven for pot smokers and pot dealers. On the main thoroughfare known as Pusher Street -- I will have to check if this was the Danish Army's name for it, perhaps named after some famous general, Pusher --, either side will be lined with dealers having set up makeshift stands or booths selling a various types of weed and chunks of hash. 

Buyers participate in the process like connoisseurs, sniffing, fingering, looking for tell-tale signs of this or that. With lots of people selling the same product -- assuming that it doesn't all come from a single source dressed up as choice -- likely there are distinctive characteristics to choose from. In between these stands or stalls, seated on benches with their backs against a building, customers or hangers-around puff away, some clearly having puffed their way into another dimension. 


From what I could tell on my recent visit, all the dealers were male, and seemed to have a coterie of other males hanging around, perhaps for protection, perhaps for crumbs. They didn't strike me as the kind of people who'd live in Christiania. Most of the guys tried to look hard, thuggish, as much of a gangsta as you can be selling pot to a bunch of high school kids and middle-aged, middle-class people who might have swung by Pusher Street during their lunch break or for a quick blast at the end of a long day. Still, the dealers and their crews have watched the movies; they've taken their cues. Despite the fact that they fly against much of what Christiania stands for. 

***

Nemoland

If Pusher Street is the artery of Christiania, Nemoland is its heart. Nemoland is made up of an indoor cafe, outdoor Thai food stand, semi-outdoor bar, and several acres of gravel and path hemmed all around by a natural boundary of berms, trees, and rock outcrops. Scattered in the midst of Nemoland, underneath Denmark's fickle skies, sit fifty or so blue and red painted picnic tables at which, throughout the day and night, people will park themselves in ones, twos, threes, and fours, prepare a spleet, and light up. Some all-weather tables have tent-like awnings. Beyond the tables stands the pretty professional looking Nemoland concert stage, where Cafe Nemoland frequently puts on free shows.


I didn't track anyone, but I suppose that purchases on Pusher Street get consumed in Nemoland. Nemoland, like most of Christiania, is entirely hands-off. As long as one doesn't engage in violence or the use or selling of hard-drugs, no one is going to play the heavy.


In nice weather, Nemoland fills up. The day I was there was warm, but windy. The wind made lighting up a challenge, though all seemed to rise to it. As I don't smoke pot, I stood drinking a Tuborg draft by the open-sided bar and watched those who did (My second beer was a bottle of Christiania, special brewed, vitamin fortified). 


As I panned Nemoland, everyone was, or was in the process of getting, stoned, but I only saw one guy who became unreachable. The rest were generally chatty and happy, even if a little pot-eyed. Most only came for a short while, and then got back to their non-Christiania lives out and about greater Copenhagen. Others with more time checked out backgammon boards from the bartenders, or shot pool inside Cafe Nemoland on the brand new pool table. Music thumped loud and clear and continuously. There was a festive air to Nemoland.


I chatted with the two bartenders who both spoke English pretty well and were quite willing to engage me. Neither was a resident of Christiania but both were long-time affiliates and spoke both knowledgeably and proudly of Christiania. In between pouring beers, selling rolling papers and pink plastic lighters, and taking frequent breaks to come out from behind the bar to enjoy a few tokes of their own, they told me how Christiania is undergoing major change.


Apparently, Denmark's government has had it with Christiania and has essentially made them the ultimatum to give up the land or purchase it. After a general meeting, which purportedly included those who wanted not to recognize the ultimatum, the option of buying the land prevailed. Christiania is now waiting to see what price the government will set, and in the end, whether Chrisitianites will be able to meet that price. As the bartenders told me, there are some very rich people on Christiania, but most are not. It remains to be seen whether the community will pool its resources -- each according their ability -- or whether the disparity in wealth and ability to purchase their homes and land individually will create schisms.


Regardless of what comes next, neither bartender doubted that Christiania would survive in some form, and with it, the free climate that has defined it for 40 years. The government, they told me, will move cautiously. For although only 900 strong within its gates, many Copenhageners and others around the world support the idea of Christiania and the struggle of the Christianite, and any Danish attempt to shutter the community would be met with formidable, perhaps even violent resistance. Christiania, they assured me, has lots of friends.

***

After a few beers I was feeling pretty good, and who knows, with all the smoke blowing past me perhaps I had a bit of a contact high. So maybe my impressions were a bit chemically enhanced, but it seemed to me that on that day, in the sunshine, Nemoland, and by extension, Christiania, succeeded. It gave people a place to come and get happy and feel at ease, and from what I could tell, they did.


Bevar Christiania!