In September 1971 a group of Danes broke into a disused military barracks on the island of Christianshavn and started a squat. It's still there, still running things its own way, and has unintentionally become one of the mostvisited 'attractions' in Copenhagen.
Christiania covers 20 acres on and around the eastern ramparts (which once formed part of the city's 17th century defences). Surrounding neighbourhoods are respectably desirable, then suddenly you cross a street and enter a state-sanctioned independent commune. Only a limited number of accesspoints exist, the main one being on Prinsessegade, beyond which very different rules apply. One of these is zero violence, another is no hard drugs, and a third is not to run lest it attract unwarranted attention. A further rule is no photography, particularly within the central 'business' district, but far better not to photograph anything or anyone at all. I chose to follow the rules. Here instead is an exterior photograph which conveys nothing of the ambience within.
Many of the old military buildings survive, repurposed as workshops, galleries and market spaces. Other buildings have popped up over the years, occasionally on the ramshackle side and providing somewhere for Christiania's 1000-strong population to live. Wandering around can be very pleasant, a row of eco-sculptures here, a graffitied artwork there, plus various vegan cafes and a skatepark where the 1970s linger on. Cars are not allowed, which helps maintain the vibe of a brightly-painted shantytown where creativity rules. But head towards the centre of the enclave beneath the Chinese lanterns and... blimey, they're selling hash everywhere.
Pusher Street, as it's known, is where the drug dealers congregate. They stand behind tiny stalls laid out with ready-rolled reefers and chunks of cannabis, and are equipped with electronic scales in case you want to break the larger lumps down in size. I counted well over two dozen stalls altogether along the main path and surrounding courtyards, each essentially identical, so more like separate checkouts than individual brands. But all's not quite as cosy as it seems. A criminal cartel controls every level of operations, with cash payments instantly whisked off to a shadowy central figure, and spotters within the crowd who appear perfectly capable of imposing their own justice. The following photo also conveys nothing of what I've just described.
Taking cannabis out of Christiania isn't recommended, the police only tolerate it within, so best find a seat outside one of the bars and light up... or wander off along the bastions for a solo puff. The crowds that stop to smoke are surprisingly mixed: young couples, obvious tourists, tattooed throwbacks, grateful office workers, middle-aged stoners and clusters of slouched youth in anonymous hoodies. I was surprised how many Danish fathers were present with their teenage sons, enjoying a generational bonding experience, and less surprised when a toothless long-term user in a grubby rainbow cardigan slumped down and lit up.
Christiania's future isn't clear, but generally Copenhageners have been supportive, in 2012 even contributing to help residents 'officially' purchase the land. Random acts of violence have also seen the cannabis trade shut down for months or even years, and redevelopment pressures can only increase. But as its 50th anniversary approaches Christiania retains an attractive unmanufactured authenticity - a seemingly successful social experiment that hasn't yet run out of puff.
