Budding Entrepreneurs

A couple gets a great deal on a former grow-op. Countless inspections later, it turns out not to be such a deal after all.

By Marcie Good; illustration by Taryn Dufault (Published: September 2006)

AS HE FOLLOWED HIS REAL ESTATE AGENT down the steps into the dark basement, Gavin Hadden was recalling the old farmhouse-cum-torture-chamber of Silence of the Lambs. He knew that someone in this house had grown marijuana, and pictured a sinister crop thriving in shin-deep soil and a snake’s nest of wiring lurking behind walls turned to mush from moisture damage.

Hadden and his partner, Mike Cowan, were looking for a fixer-upper in the Main Street area, and the “for builders and investors” billing for this East 22nd Avenue bungalow caught their eyes. They had already lived through some updates and the resale of one house, a project that had gone smoothly. Their combined skills make for a perfect renovation team: Hadden, 25, designs condominium interiors for Polygon, and Cowan, 31, trained as a shop teacher before returning five years ago to full-time residential construction work. The deviant greenhouse’s price tag (about $50,000 less than nearby homes) looked good, but they really just wanted to see a real grow-op.

They were disappointed. Despite the house’s soiled reputation, there was little evidence of misdeeds. They noticed that police had kicked in the front door and the previous tenants had made a hasty exit. But in the basement, by the beam of their agent’s flashlight, all they could see was a bare table spotted with dirt and a small hole in the chimney made for ventilation. Even a city inspector noted the paltry scale of the operation: the cannabis seedlings had required only three light ballasts—just the other day he’d seen a house rigged with 30. The house’s structure was sound and the price was right, so Hadden and Cowan put in an offer the next day; after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, the place was theirs.

Most of what they knew about cleaning up a former grow-op came from a letter to the previous homeowner, from city officials, found discarded in the living room. It stated that no one could live there “until a coordinated Special Inspection has been carried out.” Once repairs had been done to meet each inspector’s approval, a re-occupancy permit could be obtained. The power, shut off when the police raided, would also then be restored. “It sounded like, ‘Come talk to us and we’ll get it done,” recalls Hadden. “You’ll be in your house before you know it.’” He laughs bleakly. “If they’d told us what was really involved, we wouldn’t have bought it.”

The ensuing difficulties, ironically, had little to do with the house’s illicit past and everything to do with the necessary evils of bureaucracy. The rules, drawn up to ensure safety and to protect renters from lazy landlords, must apply to everyone. But the process was so slow, so uncoordinated and so confused, it seemed that whiffs of demon weed were still wafting over everyone connected to the property.

Camped in the basement of Hadden’s parents’ home in Tsawwassen, the two men waited a month before they were allowed to do any work on their new place. First there was the 15-minute Special Inspection (cost: $877.50), during which four different inspectors pointed out what needed fixing. Most of their findings were routine; the electrical and plumbing inspectors wanted the wires and pipes brought up to date, and the building inspector wanted the back stairs replaced. What perplexed the two men was the report of the fourth inspector, whom Hadden dubbed the “Make it Pretty Inspector.” Among her requirements were that they paint all exterior wood surfaces and interior walls and ceilings, repair the front soffit, replace the carpet, recaulk the tub, refinish the floors and replace the front door. All were things they intended to do; now they had to be completed before they could move in. “It just seemed silly,” says Hadden. “I have no idea what outside wood trim has to do with the grow-op.”

Thereafter, an almost constant stream of inspectors came back to approve their work. They estimate there were a dozen in all, each seemingly unfamiliar with what they were there to inspect. One day two plumbing inspectors showed up for the same job at different times. “They were all very nice,” Hadden adds, “but it was a gong show.”

According to city policy, only the terms of a Special Inspection have to be met for re-occcupancy, but various officials told them that all their kitchen and bathroom renovations also had to be done. Every morning they packed up the truck in Tsawwassen, drove to the city and lugged a generator to the garage. Cowan worked all day, and Hadden joined him in the evenings. On weekends, various family members came to help. Things were made easier when a neighbour offered them power; they ran a cord from their backyard gazebo across the lane to their house. Paranoid about random inspections, the pair was careful not to leave so much as a toothbrush in the bathroom.
Finally, they passed each reinspection and triumphantly acquired their Permission to Re-Occupy slip from city hall. “We must have gone out for dinner,” says Hadden. “But I was so delirious and happy and shocked that I don’t think I was conscious.” Now it was time for hydro.

Once again, the repeated phone calls had the air of hallucination. They were told that a technician had come to the address and talked to “somebody in the back lane” who told them not to re-connect the house. Hadden started documenting every conversation. After a week, they were told that their meter location was wrong and they’d have to change it. “Then, mysteriously, I came home for lunch one day and the hydro truck was in our backyard, hooking us up!”

Four months after they bought the house, probation was over. Now boasting a granite-decked, slate-floored, mosaic-backsplashed kitchen, ebonized-hardwood living room and vessel-sinked bathroom, the place bore little resemblance to its old grow-op self. They moved in.

Six months later, they bought Cowan’s grandparents’ home in Tsawwassen, another fixer-upper they couldn’t turn down. They sold the 22nd Avenue house for a bundle, but the profit didn’t mitigate their feelings about leaving. “I felt like someone was stealing my first-born,” says Hadden, remembering how the new owners drove up just as they were taking their last pictures. Now eager to return to the city and even to reno another home of ill repute, Cowan and Hadden comb the listings for the “builders and investors” tipoff.




Read more in the Real Estate Survival series:

Feng Shui Revival: Why Feng Shuiing your house pays big dividends. By Kevin Chong

Strata Hell: Condo owners who threaten murder. Treasurers who steal cash. Welcome to the weird world of strata councils. By Steve Burgess

The Hottest Guy in Town: Reno fever has taken over the city and made contractors like Brad Wurmlinger the hottest guys in town. By Matt O'Grady

Busted: The cautionary tale of a renegade reno. By Guy Saddy