I push open the door to the cubicle and yank down the seat of toilet.  It’s reverberating with the music. My friend pulls a small plastic bag from her clutch.  She taps the powder onto the seat and I cut us 2 lines each with my bod card — how Oxford. Ripping the cardboard off a pack of Rizla, we both take our lines and wipe down the seat, and then we leave the bathroom.

That was 2009 and that drug was mephedrone.  In 2009-2010, it was the fourth most popular street drug, only just behind cannabis, cocaine and ecstasy.  Readily available and with minimal side-effects, mephedrone had one especially great draw: it was completely legal to possess and supply.  In April 2010, following widespread media coverage of deaths linked to the drug, intense pressure was placed on the government (who happened to be campaigning for an upcoming election) to ban mephedrone, and it was quickly reclassified to class B. 

Since the reclassification of mephedrone, there has been a marked increase in the number of legal highs on the market.  Due to the synthetic nature of these drugs and the rate at which new highs are being churned out each year, legal highs have been coined ‘designer drugs’. When one becomes illegal, their chemical composition is tweaked in labs desperate to stay one step ahead of the law and cash in on a lucrative market, and soon students across the country are popping, smoking and snorting the latest legal craze.

It’s pretty easy to see why students might find these highs alluring.  After a long day of lectures and tutorials, a drama rehearsal, a sports game and a music lesson, why wouldn’t you consider a harmless pick-me-up before you head off to Park End and return home in time to do your tute sheet for the next day? Drugs are hardly limited to Oxford students, but in an environment where we’re pushed and pressured as elite and gifted, it seems almost sensible to indulge in a little chemical stimulation, and if you can do it legally, all the better. 

The route to the legal high often starts small. You’re fifteen, you’re stumbling around in the local park on your third Smirnoff ice and someone whips out the poppers. Even now, my local newsagent on St. Clement’s has a stash of ‘room odouriser’ nestled in amongst the mars bars and twixes, perfect for a little teenage reminiscence.  About sixteen you move onto the nitrous canisters, concealing the bulky equipment needed to fill your balloons before you headed to a club, fake ID in hand, as a penchant for whipped cream to unsuspecting parents.  To be honest, at that point you probably moved onto choking on a joint that was largely, if not entirely, dry grass and oregano.  But here you are at Oxford, the world at your feet, and a drug charge on your criminal record no longer seems rebellious and thrilling.

I decided to find out whether legal highs that are fast-saturating the drug market could ever be the best alternative to ‘real drugs’.   All in the name of research I found a ‘head shop’ in Oxford town centre to try out one of the current popular additions to the market. My friend was having a house party the next day – crazy, I know, but if it all went wrong, I figured I wouldn’t be the only person vomiting in the garden. Behind a red barrier in the ‘head shop’, surrounded by signs that state the area is strictly for over-18s only, sits a glass topped cabinet in front of rows of shisha pipes and bongs. The cabinet is stocked with all the latest and most popular legal highs. ‘For smoking, Black Mamba and Vanilla Ice are the most popular among students, and for pills, red rocket,’ the guy behind the counter mutters, pointing them out for me. ‘If you want a pill, then this one’s good,’ he indicates towards a small blue packet. What drug is it similar to, I ask. He draws a line with his finger under a box at the bottom of the packet, ‘NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION’. ‘I can’t really talk about it,’ he shrugs. So I opt for ‘a good, new high on the market’ —AMT.  A quick google search tells me that it’s a psychedelic and a stimulant. Apparently I’m in for a ride somewhere between MDMA and LSD; pretty good for over-the-counter.

Wanting to add some scientific weight to my experiment, I decided not to drink for the duration of the party so, having popped the pill 45 minutes before leaving, I was expecting the effects to hit me soon. They didn’t.

One hour in: I’ve spent an hour listening to drunken slurring, utterly sober, desperate for the toilet after copious amounts of lemonade yet with pupils the size of frisbees, hoping the AMT will hit. Two long, arduous hours in: I’m coming up. Three hours: Spaced out and giggly. I’ve had a lot of conversations about who killed my friends’ fish. It’s difficult to focus but I’ve got a good buzzed feeling.  Four hours: Colours are pulsating, I’m nauseous and I’ve got a headache — this is more like a migraine. Five hours: I’ve gone home — the floor’s moving, my jaw hurts, my head’s pounding and I can’t stop moving my legs. Six hours: I fell asleep. For a long time. I’m really not sure this worked that well as a stimulant. 

So did it live up to its expectations? Despite the psychedelic promises, I didn’t discover the secrets of the universe; I did, however, discover that the fish died because someone put rum in the tank. Mind-opening, I think not.

I asked several of my friends the reason why they take legal highs. Of course, all of them pointed out that they were legal, but the responses from my friends indicated one thing — that there was a wide spread belief that legal highs, simply because they were ‘legal’ meant they were safe.  In fact, in 2008, Richard Brunstrom, chief constable for Northern Wales, said that ecstacy was ‘far safer than aspirin’.  In 2009, Professor David Nutt, ex-head of the Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs, publically stated that ecstasy, cannabis and LSD are far less harmful than legal drugs such as alcohol and tobacco.  Ecstasy is said to be solely responsible for between 10 and 17 deaths a years, not inconsequential but a startlingly low number compared to the statistics for alcohol-related deaths. In recent years there has been a call to downgrade ecstasy from class A to class B, and in the light of the extensive testing and information that is now available, the government are in a much more informed position to make a decision about its classification.  With the rate that legal highs are flooding into shops and online, it’s almost impossible for the government to crack down on their manufacture and sale. 

It’s difficult to argue with Nutt’s logic that properly tested drugs, like ecstasy, whose effects are known and recorded, could possibly be more hazardous than drugs which haven’t been tested, whose short-and long-term side-effects are virtually unknown and which can be purchased by anybody from unknown sources over the internet. The majority of these legal highs are cooked up in factories in China, shipped over in packing baring the infamous ‘not for human consumption’, preventing any need to reveal the real chemical contents of that packet, with no regulations and nobody accountable if it all goes wrong. It could be that ‘legal highs’ are in fact more dangerous than the drugs you’re substituting them for.

Websites offer a vast range of  legal ecstasy, speed, psychedelics and herbal highs.  Salvia, a powerful hallucinogen, has become one of the most popular drugs online, and statistics say that its now being taken twice as much as LSD by teenagers in search of a potent trip. The problem is, these websites run without regulation and the unknown substance you’re gleefully shoving into your body could be lethal.

Oxford is awash with drugs; it’s not an underground subculture; you don’t have to scratch the surface very hard to find a coke-coated key, sock-covered fire alarm or a well-used bottle of Oust desperate to cover up any lingering scents before your scout arrives.  Yet the rate at which the use of legal highs is rising is alarming; there have been no trials, no tests, no risks assessed, and no ideas about addictiveness or bodily harm.  And while students keep taking drugs, legal or otherwise, the market keeps increasing, and one drug banned today only paves the way for a new one tomorrow.  I can be honest about the fact that today I’d choose a round of shots over a line off a dirty toilet seat, but it won’t make any difference.  The market is growing because demand is increasing, and in Oxford, these legal highs might be about to become a big problem.  I’m not a hypocrite. I’m the first to admit that mephedrone was good, really good, and its popularity must have meant a lot of people agreed with me too.  But there’s something behind that carrot of ‘legal’ dangled temptingly in front of your eyes that it can be all too easy to forget that legal doesn’t mean safe.

It seems bizarre that, when food is such an essentially great thing, we are told having less of it will make us happy. The lifestyle obsession with “diets”, and of imposing specific restrictions on our food consumption, is often presented as the only way of improving personal well-being. This is all perfectly acceptable, and sensible dietary practices are to be commended, but it is misguided that such restrictions are the only beneficial possibilities to arise from our relationship with food.

The other common practices are to give recipes, or to promote the value of certain foodstuffs, yet neither of these is obviously related to happiness – they are far too pragmatic for that.There is an unexplored potential in “food therapy”, in embracing food and finding pleasure from it. In such a hectic environment as Oxford, shopping can feel like an aggravating necessity, but if indulged in properly can become a period of relaxation in your day.

Rather than doing a Schumacher with the trolley, a slow perusal of the options can turn a chore into a pleasure, and in buying the occasional top-brand item, nice food becomes satisfying retail therapy. And what to do with these gourmet luxuries? The act of cooking, for all students, is an extension of their usual working practices, but without that key judgmental element. For arts students, it involves that same spontaneous creation as an essay (hopefully) does, and for scientists, a similar evaluation of set elements in order to arrive at a variable outcome.

The pleasure comes from the ability to indulge in the dish, regardless of its objective quality; few people will tell you that your dish is bad, and no-one will be in a position of authority to do so. Even if your soufflé (ambitious) doesn’t rise, you can always try again, but no-one’s going to let you rewrite your essay.

Finally, what is often overlooked by writers is that, for the modest amongst us, indulging in food is a harmless temporary thrill of immorality. There are no painful repercussions in a lemon tiramisu, which seems a pretty great alternative if you don’t fancy drinking vodka out of a sock while getting off with your college brother, or something like that. No-one’s going to be reminding you about dessert the morning after. 

This is another New Yorker thing: pizza. Ok, it’s technically an Italian thing, and technically you guys are closer to Italy, but we aren’t living in a scene from Under the Tuscan Sun and New York slices are legendary. Oxford pizza, maybe less so.

Let’s start with the lower end of the scale, shall we? There’s always Dominos. I won’t lie, I’ve ordered it in times of need; the place is open until five in the morning.  No one has that much willpower. However, I also can’t hide the fact that Domino’s pizza is a culinary plague upon this earth. Plus they won’t deliver for less than £11 which still will only buy you a medium pie with burnt pepperoni. Pizza Hut is, in my opinion, no better and yet I have never seen swankier Pizza Huts in my life. At least they have the good sense to pretend they’re better. 

A similarly speedy though considerably less shameful option is Pizza Artisan on St. Aldates. People scream in the streets about these pies. Let me tell you, it was just ok. As my friend Jason put it, Pizza Artisan is ‘overhyped pizza with cult following’ and the owner ‘has an uncanny resemblance to Russell Crowe’s loyal slave in Gladiator.’ The second half is less relevant, but you’ve got to watch out for him; he will try to pressure you into adding garlic to your six pound truck pizza. The crust is not nearly crusty enough but eating your drooping slice on the curb by Christ Church makes you feel inexplicably cool. 

As for the actual restaurants, these too leave much to be desired. I’m a pizza purist and as such Fire and Stone freaks me out. If you go with a big group of students on a Thursday, however, you can get a descent four-pound pizza and several bottles of house wine. I know ASK Italian is hardly the crème de la crème of Oxford dining, but it’s where I’ve had my favourite pizza. The Gamberetti. It’s hardly a ‘pure’ kind of pizza, involving prawns, crème fraiche and courgettes, but technically my friend ordered it and I was just along for the ride.      

The journey from Cape Town airport into the main city gives you a sense of what’s in store for the visitor to South Africa – even this short trip is enough to show the breathtaking variety in the country that Nelson Mandela famously described as ‘a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world.’ The taxi followed a road between the greenery of the iconic Table Mountain and the vivid blue coast as we passed by baboons and were overtaken by BMWs. More discomfiting contrasts also become obvious on this journey: while the city skyline is dominated by hotels and office blocks, and the streets there are lined with bars, restaurants and shops, on the outskirts of the city the Nyanga township stretches for miles along the side of the motorway. Around 23 000 people live in this colorful, crowded, ramshackle settlement and unemployment is close to 50%. The townships, formed under the notorious Group Areas Act, are a potent reminder that South Africa’s troubled history still very much affects people today. 

That history is perhaps nowhere so palpable as on Robben Island-the location of the infamous prison which housed political prisoners during the apartheid period, including Nelson Mandela himself. Today the island is a National Heritage Centre and has been preserved as it was then, although it is now populated by guides and tourists rather than prison wardens and their charges. On the ferry journey across from Cape Town Waterfront what strikes you is the island’s proximity to the shore, its hard to imagine how it would have felt to be so effectively isolated though the mainland was so tantalizingly close. The island lies less than 7km out in Table Bay and is only 3km long, yet Mandela spent eighteen years of his 27 year imprisonment here, along with hundreds of other anti-apartheid activists. You can see the cell where he passed the nights for almost two decades, as well as the quarry where political prisoners were forced to spend their days on hard labour. 

One of the most fascinating things about a visit to the island is that the tours are given by former political prisoners, hammering home how horribly recent apartheid really was. Our guide spoke and answered questions with both equanimity and ironic humour, making the tour by turns heart-breaking and heart-warming. For me, one of the lasting images of Robben Island was the noticeboard that’s still on the wall, detailing food rations according to prisoner bands: political prisoners were entitled to less than other criminals and ‘black’ comes below ‘colored’ and ‘white’ on the chart. It seemed to show how utterly pervasive institutionalised racism was, even determining access to such basic human rights as food and water.

 Sadly, the effects of apartheid are still visible beyond this isolated island; poverty is still a major problem and economic differences tend to fall along similar lines to ethnic ones. Nevertheless, we saw few people begging and the resourcefulness and determination of the people is obvious: there are markets and roadside stalls selling everything from fresh fruit and firewood to paintings and carvings. Buskers and street artists abound in Cape Town and residents from the townships walk for miles every day in search of temporary washing, cleaning and building work. Several entrepreneurial folk have developed a system of watching tourists’ cars for a small fee which operates in the place of pay and display, whilst artists seem to be able to fashion sculptures, jewelry, handbags and decorations from pretty much anything-I came home with a picture frame that was formerly newspaper and an ostrich that started life as a coke can. We also saw very few signs of crime itself, although the signs of its prevention are more prominent than anywhere else I’ve been. Properties are surrounded by eight foot walls with electric gates and plastered with signs advertising the particular armed guard company that covers them.  The people I met-almost without exception-were extremely friendly and charming, the street-vendors were particularly persuasive and I left with my suitcase considerably fuller than when I arrived. 

Leaving the colour and bustle of Cape Town behind we travelled East down the coast through Hermanus and towards Cape Agulhas, the Southernmost tip of Africa where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet and you can swim between the two (although if you’re there in August I’d recommend you stick to paddling.) On this journey South Africa’s amazing variety really came into its own; I challenge you to find another place where you can see vineyards, beaches and forests; spot whales, buffalo and penguins; try surfing, cage diving with sharks and ostrich riding- all in a few days travelling. And yes I did just say Ostrich riding. At Oudtshoorn they breed, house and race ostriches and if any tourists are willing to humiliate themselves they let you have a go. This was simultaneously one of the most terrifying and hilarious things I have ever done, the basic premise being that you sit on its back and operate the neck like a joystick. It has to be seen to be believed.  

We also took advantage of the opportunity to go sky diving-the operation consisted of an office that was essentially a shed in a field and a tiny plane without seats, piloted by an excitable Aussie. Before take-off the gleeful Yorkshireman manning the desk informed me that, ‘there’s none of that nanny state nonsense over here’ as he passed me my forms. ‘You can sign your life away if you want to-you couldn’t even sue me!’ Words of comfort indeed. Luckily the tandem dive was incredible and I felt no cause for legal action. Free falling is a feeling like nothing else and we even spotted a couple of whales as we floated down over Plettenberg bay, before coming back to earth for an oh-so-graceful landing.

 Another highlight along the route was a trip to an elephant sanctuary offering you the chance to get up close and personal with these gentle giants. At Knysna Elephant Park they take in elephants orphaned or in danger from the poachers that are still are a serious threat on larger game reserves. Part of the trip involves leading them hand-in-trunk in a bizarre sort of conga line on a walk through the forest. Sadly, several of the elephants have had their trunks caught in snare traps so that the tips are cut off, making it hard for them to fend for themselves in the wild. The reserve offers them a safe home and helps them to adapt to life without these very dexterous extremities.  On a less sombre note, it also inhibits their ability to control the flow of mucus from what is –essentially – a giant nose. Something my Dad found out first hand as he paired up for a stroll. 

At Knysna reserve I also met Mashama, a Zimbabwean man who had crossed the South African border fleeing the political, economic and humanitarian crises in his home country. He found work at the sanctuary but he is one of a very lucky minority amongst the millions of his countrymen who have left home in search of a better life in South Africa. When I met him he had been unable to contact his family for several weeks, and actually visiting them seemed out of the question. Zimbabweans without work permits or even identity papers slip through the official immigration channels in their thousands despite the crocodile-infested Limpopo River and the armed border guards. But though they may escape political persecution or economic hardship at home they remain extremely vulnerable members of society in their neighboring country. Mashama was grateful for his good fortune; he said he wished we could visit his country and that it was very beautiful, but that there was no future there whilst Mugabe was still alive.

 Our final days in South Africa were spent on the stunning Amakhala game reserve, where the descendants of colonial settlers have reintroduced African wildlife to lands that they had previously been driven off to make room for sheep farming. The wildlife waits for no man so safari drives start bright and early before the sun comes up.  Watching the sunrise with a group of giraffes and a hot chocolate is definitely worth getting out of bed for, and brunch with the buffalo by the watering hole certainly tops off an amazing morning. 

On our second day there was a real buzz of excitement at the lodge as the elephants were nowhere to be seen. Losing a herd of elephants seemed both unlikely and worrying to me until the situation was explained. One of them was heavily pregnant and these communal creatures retreat into the bush to protect mother and child when she’s about to give birth. We set off in the evening to try and track them down-how hard could it be? You’d be surprised how well elephants can play hide and seek when they want to. Nevertheless our guide David eventually spotted them amongst some trees in the distance and with a lot of help we managed to make them out through the binoculars. It was pitch black when we finally caught up with the herd; we turned off the jeep, turned on the torches and managed to catch a glimpse of the day old baby girl-alive and kicking and 22 months in the making.  I really couldn’t have imagined a better way to spend our last night in Africa.  

A two week trip to South Africa seemed pathetically perfunctory in comparison to what the country has to offer; despite all the experiences I had it still felt like we had barely scratched the surface. It’s a country with a painful history and many challenges still to face, but it is also vibrant, exciting, fascinating and diverse. One thing you can say for certain is that there is never a dull moment in the ‘rainbow nation’.