...is annoying us again, having ripped his little neon-yellow squirt gun off its 'holster' on the chest of his bright orange, way-too-tight-for-his-skinny-body tee-shirt. He keeps squirting at random strangers. He makes the mistake of taking target practice at the Pamela Anderson Lee wannabe, hitting her in her overly mascaraed eyes, and she starts screaming at him about how she's gonna kill him and "kick his skinny ass." Hasn't he watched VIP? He should be real scared...

On my right lies an 18-year-old Scottish boy, adding to the stains on the Turkish carpet with the drool coming out of his mouth. For the last seven days he apparently has not moved from his corner perch except to feed his munchies and use the bathroom. He's currently sporting a bottle-bottom sized, blood red hickey that would make a vampire envious. The rumor is he passed out from smoking too much and some other wasted girl, who he didn't know, sucked on his neck. He was so out of it, she managed to give him a matched set – one for each side.

Under the "NO Sleeping" sign is a girl, mouth wide open – sleeping. And then there's a couple just begging to have someone yell out "get a room already!"

To my left is a 32-year-old New Yorker. He's all glassy unfocused eyes and silly grin, and he's hugging a pillow like a toddler with a teddy bear, but he's proclaiming that he's "just one of those people who doesn't get high," no matter how much he smokes. He's been babbling on for the last half hour about things that make no sense. He's oblivious that I'm sitting here with my journal open, pen in hand writing about his silly antics.

I chose this Turkish-carpeted, pillow-strewn spot in the lounge hoping that all the atmosphere in this place would help me break my writer's block. I wasn't to be disappointed. Of course, the haze from all the smoke is blocking the sunlight from the windows, making it a little hard to write. There are spliffs being passed around non-stop. About 20 minutes ago, most people started waving off the eight or so joints currently circulating. But one guy, called "Colorado" because no can remember his name, has yet to turn down a hit. He's even had three joints in his hand at once. I'm wondering how long it'll be before he'll pass out from lack of oxygen.

This is the famous (infamous?) Flying Pig Hostel, with a sign above reception that says "no mushrooms, no hard drugs", not that anyone who's sitting in this lounge could possibly get motivated to do either of them.

The Dutch used to be world conquerors, submitting much of Africa and other far-off places to their rule. Now they're known for keeping afloat, tulips and Heineken, and they're famous for their tolerance. See what happens when you do drugs...

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