Copenhagen's independent state, Christiania

Steffen Hillebrand

ANOTHER STATE OF MIND: Christiania is technically part of the Danish capital but lauds itself as a self-governing enclave.

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As I enter Christiania, arguably Europe's most Bohemian, colourful and rebellious village, the message on the sign in front of me is loud and clear: Do Not Even Think Of Taking Photographs Here.

Alongside it is a further warning: although visitors are welcome, they must "respect" the rules.

The irony isn't lost on me, as abiding by rules isn't exactly the strong point of people here.

Spread across former navy barracks on the riverside about 15 minutes' walk from Copenhagen's centre, Christiania is technically part of the Danish capital but lauds itself as a self-governing enclave.

It has been a thorn in the side of authorities since it was formed in 1971 by yoga-loving hippie squatters who yearned for a society free of the shackles of government.

Not only did residents refuse to pay taxes, they also adopted a carefree drugs policy. Hash and cannabis were sold openly on the aptly named Pusher Street and unruly dealers hawked the harder stuff about, despite cocaine and heroin being against the Christiania "code of conduct".

Inevitably, turf wars occasionally ripped through this usually peaceful part of the city and Danish police started raiding Christiania.

Although things have quietened down, police still pay regular visits and, as I walk through the streets, I see five officers casting suspicious glances at a smoking bonfire.

Despite the increase in a police presence, which has occasionally met with Molotov cocktail-fuelled resistance from some gangs, about 1000 people live here. Many have built their own houses and, until the government decides otherwise, Christiania is here to stay.

In recent years it has become a popular tourist destination and, with my camera tucked firmly in my pocket, I stroll freely among the old barracks. Technicolour-shaded buildings, crusty shops and grungy cafes caked in a kaleidoscope of graffiti are par for the course here. So, too, are quirky locals. Although youngsters with green hair and multiple body piercings roam the streets, I'm more intrigued by the elderly residents.

Accompanied by growling dogs, they have shaved heads and swathes of tattoos and are puffing away on something that smells distinctly illegal. And that's just the women.

Tempting though it is to take some photos of these unconventional souls, I'm faced with another of those signs urging me to "respect" the rules.

Christiania was named after one of Denmark's kings, Christian IV. Much of Copenhagen's gorgeous architecture – opulent churches, striking clock towers and piercing, fairytale green spires – was built during his reign, from 1588 to 1648.

I can only speculate how the late king would react if he saw this scrappy place, because although it's an interesting slice of Copenhagen, it's certainly not a good advertisement for the city. After an hour here, I'm glad to see the exit. Above it is another, more welcoming, sign: “You are now entering the EU.”

- © Fairfax NZ News