30th March 1985: Camel Riding Back to Jaiselmer

 Taken from Back to the East, India, Nepal, Kashmir  

March 30th 1985

That morning we started out at 7.30; it was already hot. We stopped at a deserted desert village called Culdrah which had quite a large temple. There were few images here, just some mutilated statues and a few poor ones of monkeys. Salima said, or rather agreed to what I had said, that people left due to lack of water. But later a Canadian guy we met on his own Safari trek said it was because there had been a lot of conflict driven my Moslem invaders from Pakistan against the Hindus about eleven years earlier (1974) .

By 10.30, it was so hot that I was falling asleep on the camel.

We spotted another couple of camels coming towards us and they waved us closer. One had a Japanese girl on top, red faced looking exhausted. Her camel-driver guide said she would not drink the water. I gave her some purifying tablets and told he she must drink – it was even sometimes better to drink dirty water than not to drink at all, but the water from the well was OK, which was why they call it well water. She left happier. Now I thought, maybe I saved her life.

 

Almost suddenly we were on our way back to Jaiselmer. We stopped at a small village called Amar Sagar where a Jain Temple was being restored.

Suddenly we spotted Jaiselmer in the distance.

JAISELMER

(Rajasthan, 1985)

by

Alun Buffry

Jaiselmer, oh Jaiselmer

Not a lot of hassle here.

Just cows walking in the streets,

Adding smells to earthly heat,

Makes us want to drink more chai,

But "No milk!" the people cry.

All those cows yet still no milk,

All those shops that just sell silk,

Desert life's just not the same,

Camels struggling, what a shame,

To let us climb upon their backs

And if they moan they know the crack.

Driver up there perched on top

Passing songs until we stop

At water hole or shady tree

To eat a precious chapati

Made by the men, full of pride,

Over fires with veggies fried,

In spices which do not have names,

But we don't care 'cos we have pains,

In legs and arms and even feet

From riding camels in this heat.

Three days the desert journeyed on,

We listened to the Rajputs' songs,

Passing temples, villages

Passed to us through ages.

Suddenly, the words we hear:

"See over there, sweet Salmeterol!"

 

 

Back in the Hotel Fort View. All in all it was sometimes a bit too hot but it was an incredible experience. Lesley said that her coccyx was struggling and she still says she never recovered (now in 2021). She was also upset because she’d lost a bead from her hair.

The hotel manager asked me to write a comment in his guest book, which I did. I read through some of the other comments which were all positive. One read: “The best thing about riding the camels is that one could fart loudly and blame it on the camels.”

27th March to 29th March 1985: JAISELMER

  Taken from Back to the East, India, Nepal, Kashmir  

The night train to Jaiselmer arrived at 7.30 AM. It was already quite hot but bearable. However by the time we had taken chai, all the taxis were gone, so we had to phone the manager at out Hotel Fort View and he sent a taxi to pick us up.

The hotel was superb, with a very friendly and helpful manager and, best of all, an incredible view of the beautiful town and fort. Although the rooms were basic, with twin beds and shower downstairs, it feels good here. He explained the best times to see the sites and told us all about our three day camel trek in the desert. He also confirmed our train tickets back to Delhi on 2nd April.

It’s 10.30 now and much hotter so we are just going to hang out in and near the hotel and take a stroll later. So far Jaiselmer looks like a dream or something from Arabian Nights. The fort was quite magnificent, built in 1156 by Rawal Jaisal on top the 260 feet Trikuta Hill. About a quarter of the population live within it. Also within was a seven storey palace.

Jaiselmer was once an important stopping place for rich merchants travelling from Karachi and then here by camel and on to Delhi and all over India until the port of Bombay opened up. The population now was 20,000. Jodhpur had 400,000.

There were many shops selling, amongst other things, silk paintings and dresses which I knew I could sell easily back home, so a visit to some was on the itinerary, but not that day. I did buy a long piece of bright yellow cotton to wrap round my head for when we did our safari. We also bought light clothing for the days, warmer for the evenings, water bottles and plenty of purification pills and my camera. When we left we would be travelling with a camel riding boy, a guide and a cook. They will provide our meals and comforts and we would sleep under the stars.

28^th March

Up and ready to go at 6AM, whilst it was still comparatively cool. My breakfast was cornflakes Indian style, toast and chai. There were lots of pigeons and other birds about.

Sitting on the camel was a lot more comfortable than I thought, on straw-filled cushions. The camels are strange, the way they tuck their hind legs under, which does not look at all comfortable. Then we climbed a short ladder and perched ourselves on the bags, one camel for me and one for Lesley. As they stand up we were jostled back and forth, as they have two knees on their front legs and go up one at a time. They moan and groan but off we go.

We saw some succulent bushes, some flowering cacti and lots of sand and stones.

 Our “camel boy” was named Salima, a jolly teenager.

We soon stopped at a place that, from a distance, looked like a palace, but close up we could see it was mausoleum, tombs of the family of a Maharaja.

Soon we stopped again at a water hole for lunch, chapati, vegetable subji, oranges and coffee in the shade of a tree, with those ultra-cheap tiny bidi cigarettes to smoke. Bidis are small hand-rolled tobacco in tendu or temburni leaf, an Indian plant. This place was called Barabagh.

Later as we continued into the desert, we came upon the ancient capital of Lodhruva, with a Jain Temple and a black-faced god with wings and large eyes, that had been rebuilt in the 1970’s

There was a lot of camel and cow shit in the desert.

Rajasthan Desert Song
by
Alun Buffry

Lesley and I went down to Rajasthan
Desert, with Salima, a camel riding man.
Through a morning trotting on,
Just the sound of Salima's songs.
Peahens, crows and tinkle bells,
Crowds of men at water wells,
Telling tales of who-knows-what
While we're wishing it not so hot.
Stop for lunch, a shady tree,
Eat some vegetable chapati,
Drinking some chai, hot and sweet
Try to avoid the deadly heat.
All around us golden sand,
Shrubs and cacti about this land.
"Be careful please, where you sit,
"Cos desert's full of camel shit."

At about 6.30, we stopped for the evening for dinner at another water hole. Suddenly a wind came up, with moisture in it so we thought it was going to rain. But it didn’t rain at all. We slept under a tree. I awoke during the night and wow, what a clear starry sky!

29^th March

Up, breakfast and ready to go at some unearthly hour but it was overcast and cooler until about 10.30. We passed several small villages but saw no activity. There were wild camels in the distance. Our camels seemed to fart a lot.

When it became hotter, we stopped at the Sam sand dunes at a water hole for lunch. Salima invited me to follow him for a “very good site”. I imagined a fantastic view over a valley with the walled city of Jaiselmer or somewhere equally exotic in the distance, as we winded in and out between the dunes. Suddenly, he stopped.

“Look,” he smiled and smirked.

As I looked around, all I could see was sand. Not even my own footprints. I realised quickly that I was at his mercy. If he ran off I would maybe not find my way back. All I would be able to do was shout and hope that the others came and rescued me. I didn’t even have my water bottle. I thought I would last long if he ran off.

Thankfully he didn’t and just took me back. We weren’t actually a long way from the others, maybe just the other side of a dune. The sand was very hot and rippled, and ran into my footprint as soon as I took another step. I should have spotted where the sun was, but so trusting I was.

We spent about 4 hours there before continuing for another hour before stopping for lime and soda in a small village; better than the warm, treated water we had in our bottles that was keeping us alive. The village had as mall shop that sold a few vegetables, Coca Cola and Fanta and cigarettes, what everyone had to have even right out here in the desert.

The guide gave me a small lump of opium which I ate. That helped me relax. Another surprise. Who would have thought, eating opium with a camel in the desert!

Another beautifully clear starry night at another water hole.

 

1972 March 26 to March 30: Heading South From Istanbul

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972

There were now four men and one woman in the party, smoking hasheesh whenever they had the chance, wandering the streets of Istanbul, visiting the markets and eating houses. Then they decided to leave and head down into Turkey and maybe beyond.

With all the warning about hasheesh in Istanbul they were glad to be leaving – heading South.

The task of driving was shared between Keith and John and they were heading for a place called Afyon or Afyonkaraishar, which, Keith explained, meant “The Black Fortress of Opium”. Keith added “I heard they make some great Turkish Delight there too, man, let's see if we can get some!”

Unfortunately though, it was evening by the time we arrived, so no sweets were on sale. Most eating places were closed. There were very few people on the streets.

We walked along a street with covered arcades either side and saw one man, alone, walking towards us. As he came closer, he smiled, and Keith said “Hasheesh?”

The man ran away across the road, saying “No! No! No!”

Yet, as we continued down the street, the man was following us on the other side of the road, darting from pillar to pillar. Then he came over to us again. He said if we wanted hasheesh, he could get some. We would have to drive around the town, drop him somewhere and pick him up ten minutes later. Keith agreed.

Keith drove him round the same route twice and then stopped so he could get out. “I will be back in ten minutes,” said the man.

So Keith drove round the same route at least three times before we spotted the man and picked him up. “Quick!”, said the man, “Drive out of town,” pointing the way we were already heading.

About five minutes later he told us to turn off onto a track and stop besides the dirt road – we could see the town on one side and a small settlement of ramshackle buildings and tents on the other. The man said “I have hasheesh, but only to smoke, not to buy,” and made some joints.

There under a beautiful clear and moonlit sky, he insisted that they all smoke “my way. Inhale deeply through your hand, throw back your head and blow the smoke at the moon.” This produced fits of giggles and I ended up on the ground!

Some time later, we parted company with the man, who never gave his name, and Keith asked which way to our road South. He pointed up the dirt track, telling us to turn right at the end and off we went, with Keith driving again. I was in the other front seat, on Al's head.

After a short while the track became a road and we sped onwards. There was a turning to our right and Keith took it. Suddenly, we screeched to a halt.

It was a Turkish army camp and the two soldiers on the gates suddenly took down their rifles and pointed them at us, just as we came to a. halt. Keith shouted something to them and they relaxed and pointed us back the way from which we had just driven.

“Man, we must have fucked up and missed the turning,” said Keith.

"And I'm glad we missed the bullets too,” said Al. “I thought we were going to get shot, did you see their eyes?”

On we drove then, into the night. They were looking for somewhere to sleep. Keith suddenly pulled off the road, drove down a dirt track, as if he knew where he was going – and pulled up. This was where we were to spend the night, in an open area close to a shallow river. The lads set about building a camp fire.

Almost as soon as the fire was burning, we were visited by a group of young Turks, few of whom spoke any English, which was the language of my head. They had brought with them some bottles of alcohol and offered them around. Despite the lack of communication on a verbal level, there was much laughter. I sensed, however, some trepidation in my head.

The Turks were piling massive pieces of wood onto the fire which was burning away brightly and hotly – it was quite large. I heard Keith saying that he thought they needed to be told to stop, but there were now over a dozen of them. Slowly my travelling group was getting into their van saying they were going to sleep. Keith and Al went over to the group and told them we wanted to sleep now and asked that they keep the fire low and not to make too much noise. With that there were handshakes and “bye-bye” and they started to leave in groups of three or four. There were just two left, one of whom spoke English.

He walked over to the van where Keith and Al were sitting on the ground, and said “You want smoke some hasheesh?”

“Oh yeah man, you bet we do,” said Keith and once again I saw joints being rolled and smoked. The feeling of relaxation once again come into my head – and then the two Turks said goodbye and left.

I think my group was glad as there had been no trouble. We had already had rifles pointed at us by the Turkish army earlier that night!

The following morning my group was awoken by rumbling noises and shouting. As Al and the others sat up, I could see what looked like military tanks rumbling towards the small stream that was near-by. I knew about tanks as there had been pictures on the walls in Konstantinos' barber's shop in Thessaloniki and the customers there talked about them and the “army” and the “war”. Tanks were meant to fire at people and buildings and other tanks, with the object of destroying them. It didn't make sense to me – why would people want to kill other people – surely not fighting over hats?

Then I could see that the tanks were just part of a long convoy of military vehicles and that some of the leading ones had been driven into the river and seemed to be stuck; hence the shouting. My group started laughing. It did look odd, with two vehicles half way across the small river and all the men running round shouting, trying to push and pull them to get them to move again. The tanks were just sitting there. I wondered whether they would just shoot at the other vehicles and blow them up and get them out of the way – or would they turn and fire on us! What a start to another day in Turkey!

A couple of the soldiers walked over to us and started speaking in Turkish but when they realised we did not understand them, they just shook hands and left. A while later the convoy was able to move on.

I liked that sort of adventure as it was exciting and different, then turned out to be OK.

March 24 1972: Istanbul and The Pudding Shop

Taken from All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
ISBN 978-0993210709

(Photo's from on-line)

We headed for Istanbul, which Al said was the 'gateway to Asia'. Apparently some of the city was in Europe, then, across a river, the rest of the city was in Asia. Sounded strange to me, but then I already knew from what I had heard, the world was often strange.

 

Istanbul was a massive and busy city, hosts of people, much traffic. There were donkey carts on the roads along with cars, buses and trucks all tooting their horns. It was one of the noisiest places I had yet to visit. Fun though!

 

 

There were massive streets full of cars and buses, sounding their horns and weaving in and out of the traffic. There were tiny back-streets that looked unswept for years. There were people of many nationalities and eating places suitable for all tastes and pockets. Then there was the souk, the market, packed full of tradesmen selling their wares to tourists mainly, from huge circular brass plates to Turkish fine carpets, and rows and rows of massive water pipes called hookahs, used for smoking scented tobacco.

My group found somewhere to stay, a place called a hotel, and Al shared a room with John and Mike whilst Keith and Marion had their own.

“Man, I just need a smoke,” said Keith, “but we'll have to wait 'til tomorrow. I'm not going out looking for puff at night, not here man– we'll go to the Pudding Shop in the morning, for a smoke!”

Pudding Shop for a smoke; sounded weird; puddings, smoke?!

The Pudding Shop turned out to be just that, a shop, an eating place, selling dozens of different types of pudding, made mostly of rice – some sweet and some savoury. So my team ate.

On the walls were small notices asking for lifts to India, to London, or to places in between. Apparently Istanbul was on the “hippy trail” and the Pudding Shop was full of long-hairs and short hairs on their travels. People talked about where they had been and what they had seen, with both pleasant and less pleasant tales of their experiences in places called Iran, Kabul, Peshawar, Pakistan, India and Nepal. Mostly they were good tales but sometimes bad enough to put one off going anywhere.

I learnt that the Pudding Shop was really called the Lale Pastahanesi and had been opened in 1957 by two brothers, Idris and Namil Colpan. It was on Divanyolu Street in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul, near the Blue Mosque. There was a great view of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia Mosque from the garden. People sat around eating and drinking, playing guitars and singing, and exchanging greetings and news – along with the occasional warnings. It seemed to be a place that attracted a wide variety of travellers. It felt good there. However, nobody was smoking hash and there was none for sale.

 

After we left the Pudding Shop, on foot, we had to cross a big bridge to Asia, across a massive river called the Bosphorus Strait. I had heard about rivers but never about the boats that floated on them, apparently made and guided by people, out for pleasure or business. It was one way to get around. I thought that if I ended in that river, I could get blown or washed away, so I clutched my head tightly. But that never happened. I stayed firmly on Al's head.

Keith said that he had read that the bridge, called the Galata Bridge, separated the European-side of Istanbul from the Asian side. He pulled out his guide book and read: “It was constructed by Machinebau Ausburg Nürnberg on 1912, and connects the two sides of the Haliç district across the Bosphorus Strait.”

There were people walking and people driving across the bridge, and even a few men fishing from it.

John and Al separated from the others and headed along a busy street filled with shops and stalls.

Suddenly, I heard the word “Hasheesh!”

It was a local man and he seemed to be offering John and Al something “to smoke.” I knew that some humans smoked something called tobacco. It did not smell nice to me. That included John and Al and the others, but this man was offering something else, trying to persuade them that they could trust him and go with him to get some but not to tell anyone and to smoke it only in the hotel. It didn't take much persuasion and John and Al were led down through some of the less busy back streets and eventually arrived at – oh no – another barber's shop! I did hope I would not be left there, forgotten again for months.

I also knew that Al and John had smoked hasheesh before.

The man told John and Al to wait inside where they sat watching the jolly barber sharpening his cut-throat razor. John and Al seemed worried and I don't blame them – but soon the man returned. They gave him some money and he gave them some hasheesh. “Keep it in your pocket, there are police about. Just smoke in hotel,” he said. “I wonder if Keith scored,” said John; I wondered if Keith was off playing some sort of game. I had heard about football.

John and Al went back to the hotel and it was not long before there was a knock on the door which seemed to cause some panic. “Open the window.” said Al. “You lean out and I'll open the door and if it's cops, you sling it.”

It was Keith and Mike with Marion. “Any joy man?” asked Keith.

“Yes,” said John, “look what we got.”

John showed the others the small lump of greenish brown hasheesh.

"Aw man, that smells ace” said Keith. “Let's barricade the door and have a joint.”

A joint was made by licking and sticking some small, thin sheets of paper together. They called them "skins” and using them to roll around a mixture of tobacco and hasheesh. A small piece of rolled-cardboard, called a roach, was inserted into one end. In was then sucked at from that end by one of the people and lit at the other with a match. It that way they inhaled the smoke of the burning mix and then passed the joint to somebody else.

As this procedure continued, it seemed like everyone started to relax and chuckle. To be honest, I was thinking I would gain something like that from the smoke too, but smoking is not for hats – you know, no mouth, no lungs!

It was a while later that there was another knock on the door which was barricaded again, and everyone sat upright – Keith jumped up and moved over to the open window, whilst Mike went to the door and asked who it was.

“Your friend from barbers,” said a voice, “I bring you coca-cola.”

A short conversation and the group decided to open the door, so Mike and Al moved the furniture away from it and let in the visitor. Al said he recognised him and the man entered and placed a few bottles of drink on the floor – I had seen people drinking that whilst hanging from my hook in Thessaloniki. Some humans seemed to drink a lot but others did not like it at all. Bottles were passed around, the visitor first opening them – with his teeth. It was called cola.

He told the group that he also had some hasheesh and would roll some joints.

His way of rolling these joints was different – he made a mix of tobacco, hasheesh and opium and emptied it into some papers he had put together and placed on the floor. The others had put the tobacco in first then added the hasheesh. But the ritual of passing the joint was the same – but the smell was quite different – it was sweeter. So they carried on smoking and drinking until suddenly Al jumped up and ran out of the room.

He ran straight to the toilet – with me still on his head.

The toilet was a hole in the floor and above the hole was a shower for washing. As Al vomited down the hole, water dripped all over me and I made sure some ran down the back of his neck too. He seemed to be trying to hold himself up between the walls!

It all ended well though. Al seemed to recover and the visitor left in high spirits and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

There were now four men and one woman in the party, smoking hasheesh whenever they had the chance, wandering the streets of Istanbul, visiting the markets and eating houses. Then they decided to leave and head down into Turkey and maybe beyond.

With all the warning about hasheesh in Istanbul they were glad to be leaving – heading South.

 

March 23 1985: Varanasi and Sanarth

 Taken from Back to the East, India, Nepal, Kashmir  

23^rd March: VARANASI

A while later when we were up and dressed, Rameshwar said his wife asked did we fuck on the bed!

So back to the airport again, hoping for a flight – third time lucky?

Varanasi was 88 degree Fahrenheit, that’s 31 degree centigrade but it felt even hotter as we left the airport just before noon. We took a taxi into town to our hotel and ended up booking some tours to see temples.

Sanarth, about 6 miles away, was lovely, calm and peaceful. It was said that the actual Buddha came here to preach, in what was now a deer park. It was close to where the river Ganges and the river Varuna meet.

 

“Sarnath had been variously known as Mrigadava, Migadāya, Rishipattana and Isipatana throughout its long history. Mrigadava means "deer-park". "Isipatana" was the name used in the Pali Canon, collection of scriptures in the Theraveda Buddhist tradition and means the place where holy men landed.

“The legend says that when the Buddha-to-be was born, some devas came down to announce it to 500 rishis. Another explanation for the name was that Isipatana was so-called because, sages, on their way through the air (from the Himalayas), alight here or start from here on their aerial flight.

“Before Gautama (the Buddha-to-be) attained enlightenment, he gave up his austere penances and his friends, the Pañcavaggiya monks. Seven weeks after his enlightenment under the Bodhi tree in Bodhi Gaya, Buddha left Umvela and travelled to Isipatana to rejoin them because, using his spiritual powers, he had seen that his five former companions would be able to understand Dharma quickly. While travelling to Sarnath, Gautama Buddha had no money to pay the ferryman to cross the Ganges, so he crossed it through the air.

“Ashok, a Buddhist emperor, erected monuments and stupas here.

“Sarnath was once populated by 1500 priests and monks and the main stupa was 328 feet high. A stupa (“stupa” was Sanskrit for heap) was an important form of Buddhist architecture, though it predates Buddhism. It was generally considered to be a place of burial or a receptacle for religious objects. At its simplest, a stupa was a dirt burial mound faced with stone.”

“The Dhamekh Stupa wast about 500 AD, said to be on top of a previous construction. It had geometrical floral patterns.

“In front of the main shine stands the Ashoki Pillar which once stood about 60 feet high and had four faces of lions. It was a museum. There are four creatures: the lion representing bravery, an elephant symbolising Buddha’s mother’s dream, a horse representing Buddha’s journey from home on horseback and a bull.

“The Dhamek Stupa is an impressive structure,128 feet) high and 93 feet in diameter.

“The Chaukhandi Stupa commemorates the spot where the Buddha met his first disciples, dating back to the fifth century or earlier and later enhanced by the addition of an octagonal tower of Islamic origin.”

There was also a Bodhi tree planted by said to have been grown from a cutting of the Bodhi Tree at Bodh Gaya.

Also there was the Maha Bodhi Society Temple containing Japanese frescoes of Buddha’s life.

It was certainly tranquil on the site and we spent some time just sitting in the shade of a tree.

Now we were back in town with its crowded streets of dustiness and noise, and off to see the Durga Temple and the Monkey Temple where monkeys hang out. Durga is the goddess of power and a terrifying form of Shiva’s consort Parvati. “You can look inside but you cannot go in”, we are told. So we took a peep. Outside was a pool of very smelly water where pilgrims wash! Also goats are sacrificed here at festivals. We were told that years ago children were also sacrificed here. Hinduism is not at all like Buddhism. I much prefer Buddhism, devoid of gods and bloody sacrificial rituals.

The new Vishwaneth Temple was however open to visitors. It was a replica of the original temple. Inside was a Shiva lingam. Women wanting pregnancy are supposed to strip and sit astride the lingam several times, praying for a baby. I don’t know if that works but pretty sure they also need a man.

“The Bharat Mata Mandir, or Mother India Temple, was erected by Mahatma Gandi. Anyone can enter and inside was a map of India and the Himalayas, Bay of Bengal and Shri Lnka (also known as Ceylon). You can go down some steps and view it from there.”

To be honest, we were both getting fed up being led around by guides or government spies or whatever they are, even though it helps to have somebody explain things to us. Today we were thankful that the guide just said goodbye, but often we ended up drinking chai or lemonade in shop. The shop staff were very good at getting sales when we had no intention or buying anything to start with. They were very polite and jolly, taking time to carefully show each piece as if it were a treasure, then asking which we like best. Then the inevitable bartering. One had to be careful not to buy stuff that we would not have room in our luggage to take home. But the quality of the goods was also excellent and prices cheap.

On the way back to the hotel we spotted several Naga (naked Sadhu) strolling down the street.

Meanwhile, even being clothed, we were both suffering from mosquito bites. Lesley reacted badly to them and was scratching.

March 23 1972: Entering Greece - How Al met MyHat

 Taken from All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
ISBN 978-0993210709

(see video below)

Let me introduce myself.

I am called Myhat. I was also known as Kapelomou.

I am quite an old hat. I was made decades ago. I had been passed many times to different heads, yet had seldom found one that I felt really comfortable on.

About forty years ago, everything changed. I found myself upon a head that I had a close affinity with and I found myself seeing, hearing, smelling much through this young man, Al and even picking up on his emotions and thoughts.

I was lost then for several years, stored in a cupboard until, once again, I found myself on Al's head and now I can tell my tales.

Al and I spent some nine months together on our first trip, visiting many big cities and several small villages, in eight countries, all different, all new to myself and my new head. an adventure of a lifetime.

I sat on Al's head and witnessed all sorts of strange places and events while we travelled to India and then to the UK.

When Al arrived back in the UK, he was quite ill, having suffered from a problem called Infectious Hepatitis and also dysentery. Al went to his parent's house in Wales and then to hospital. But after he was in that hospital, I was never on his head so often.

I didn't know what was happening. Why was Al leaving me? How long was I to be here? What would become of me now? Would I get a new head? Would I get more adventures? Would I be treasured or neglected?

Then one day, Al took me out of my box and put me back on his head.

That is how I came to find myself back on Al's head. I have been on and off Al's head for about forty years and now I can tell my tales. We have done a lot of travelling over those forty years.

I had always been able to understand any language spoken and understood by whatever head I was placed on, but never been able to utter anything myself – until now! I have discovered that I can help Al remember the places we had experienced together and somehow I managed to place the idea of writing my tale for me. Anyway, that idea came upon Al and here he is, writing this for me!

As well as understanding the thoughts, memories and feelings of my head, I felt as he felt, I have been able to see through the eyes, hear through the ears and even taste through the mouth and tongue of my head – Al – and over the days developed a strange connection so that so long as Al was nearby, I could watch what was going on around him – even when not on his head!

I watched, I listened and I remembered – and that is how I come to write this story through a head called Al.

Al had travelled from a country called Britain, a place I had never been to and knew little about.

Al, through me, Kapelomou or Myhat, is writing this account in 2014, forty-two years after the events of 1972.

For my younger readers, I'll say that as Al looks back he remembers there were no mobile or cellular phones out there for the public to be able to buy: no Ipads or Ipods, no digital cameras, no microwave ovens, no 'Sat Nav'. Life was slower, sometimes maybe easier, without the 21^st century rush.

In some places there were no telephones at all. And mail was often very slow. Communication was often very difficult outside of the immediate area, especially in the villages and towns of the Middle East.

And Al himself was thinner and fitter if less experienced with the world. I know he doubts whether he could make the same journey now, as he did back in 1971.

Al will tell you, I know, that he feels that apart from the differences in technology and in himself, little has changed. Some things are better, some things are worse.

In his opinion most countries in the world are being run by members of elite families, or Secret Societies or Military men. And almost all of them live lives of luxury at the expense of the people they are supposed to both rule and look after. In even the richest countries there are poor and homeless people sleeping on the streets.

So, on with my account of my first incredible journey into the unknown. It is all about Myhat.

My first meeting with Al took place outside a barber's shop in the Greek town of Thessaloniki.

It was 1972.

At that time, I understood the Greek language, hence my name Kapelomou that means My hat, and I understood just a little English, but that was to change.

It seemed like months since I'd been left on the hook. I had been on the head of a local man who had come to the shop and left me there, never to come back.

During my time in the barber's shop, for long periods my vision and hearing had been impaired, but sometimes a young lad would come to the shop and place me on his head – then I could see and hear more clearly, and pick up on his thoughts and ideas to some extent. Later, of course, I realised that the lad's view of the world was very limited. Listening to the barber's shop chat, I learned about football and sport, politics and war, the rich and the poor – but I honestly considered the world to be quite small, and that everything that happened in it was within walking distance. I thought the rich were one side of the shop and the poor on the other and the shop itself was the great division. Much was still a mystery to me.

Most of the time at the barber's shop I was ignored, just left hanging there, waiting for my head to come back, occasionally being picked up and tried on by customers, always after a haircut!

Konstantinos, the barber, occasionally gave me a rough dust off. He used to sometimes put me on his head and stand in his doorway when there was no hair to cut. I cannot say I felt appreciated.

One thing that Konstantinos often said was the have great influence on my life: he used to say “Watch, listen and remember!”

My life was to change in a big way. I watched, I listened and I remembered.

One day, sun-shining, dusty and quiet, with no hair to cut and no chins to shave, Konstantinos was standing in his shop doorway watching the street. I was on his head. He did that a lot on fine dusty days: street watching was almost a local custom and what was seen was often the topic of barber's chair chat. I could see through the open door and some way up the street.

A group of young people was walking towards the outside of the shop, chatting and laughing. Four males and one female. As they approached I saw that two of the males had long hair; I wondered if they would come into the shop to get it cut.

Three of the young men wore hats. Well I cannot say they were as well made as myself, but there they were. Whilst I had been left hanging there for months, those hats were out seeing the world.

Konstantinos shouted something across the road – he was calling over one of the young men. He said to one: “I see you have no hat!” The young man said that he did not have one – and suddenly I found myself taken off my head, briefly dusted, and presented to him by Konstantinos.

The young man, whom I soon learned was called “Al”, put me on his head. I saw the world through his eyes, a world I sensed was very different to my life so far, a world of mystery, strangeness and adventure. A world that Al was exploring with plenty of new experiences, new people and new ideas.

Brilliant! I had a new head.

I instantly understood the new language, English, spoken by my new head. I began to see with different eyes and understand the world in a way new to me.

The others were Keith, John and Mike and the female was called Marion. It doesn't take long to learn those things when all you can do is watch and listen. The fact that the humans did not know that I could watch and listen had the potential of being very useful to me as well as educational.

From the conversations I heard, I was to learn that they had all been students in a country called England, a city called Norwich and most had studied Chemistry. They had finished with schools and had set out to travel and explore, in a small van. At night they huddled together and by day they drove. We were, I gleamed, heading for Turkey, eastwards.

John, Mike and Al had been at a University together for three years, but before that had come from different places. John, Al knew, was from Slough and Mike from London; Al himself was from South Wales. Marion had studied Biology at the same University and Keith, the oldest of them, from Birmingham, was Marion's boyfriend. Of them all, Al regarded Keith as the only experienced traveller. He seemed much more confident than the others, although Al did not know much about him and had only known him for about a year. Al felt safe with all of them, feeling that they were honest and non-violent people like himself

So, I found myself saying goodbye to what had been my home for several months, wondering what the future had in stall for us all. Wondering how long I would be staying with my new head, called Al. Wondering if he too would forget me, leave me on another hook, in some dark place maybe or would I get to travel far?

It wasn't long before we all piled into the van – they had bought some of the local sweet 'Halva' and were saying how good it was, crumbling all over, getting in my brim. I did not care, I felt free.

We were heading for Istanbul, a large city in a country called Turkey.

That evening we pulled up along the sea front near the town of Alexandroupoli. Keith read from his book that this town was an important port and the capital of the Evros region in the Thrace region of Greece.

Keith read aloud:

“It was originally called Dedeagach Dedeagatsh . The name was based on a local tradition of a wise dervish who spent much of his time in the shade of a local tree and was eventually buried beside it. Dedeagach remained the official name of the city throughout the Ottoman period, and the name used for it in the West until the establishment of the Hellenic Republic. In 1920 it was renamed Alexandroupoli in honour of King Alexander.

“Alexandroupoli is about 9 miles west of the delta of the river Evros, forty miles from the border with Turkey, 215 miles from Thessaloniki on the newly constructed Egnatia highway."

Keith also read bits about the many wars this city had been involved in. We did not go into the city itself though, as it was getting late, so stopped and built a camp fire then everyone went to sleep.

The next morning, when Al woke up, Keith and Marion were already awake and making tea, which they all drank with milk added, unlike the Greek people I had seen. They were also cooking eggs for breakfast.

As Al was pouring himself some of this tea, along came a weathered and aged looking man with a donkey, smiling broadly, he pointed at the fire and the tea.

“I think he wants some tea,” said Al, and he got up and poured another cup, adding some milk and sugar, and passed the mug to the old man.

“The old man first said thank you, then sipped the hot tea – only to spit it out shouting “Baba, baba!” Clearly, he did not like it. Then he opened his bag and pulled out a bottle of Ouzo.

I knew about "ouzo", an aniseed-flavoured alcohol much liked in Greece and usually mixed with water. It's meant to be taken before meals but many people seemed to like it at any time of the day. Konstantinos had been one of them, but not on the days that he had to cut hair – people got very drunk and loud on that stuff, sometimes.

So the old chap offered the lads some ouzo. Al and Mike were the only two to try it and both said they liked it. It had an aniseed taste and was strong is alcohol, making Al's head spin slightly. I had never experienced that before.

Later Keith read out about ouzo from his book:

“It was made originally in the 14th century by monks living in a monastery on Mount Athos. Ouzo is traditionally served with a small plate of a variety of appetizers called “mezes”, usually small fresh fish, fries, olives and feta cheese. Ouzo can be described to have a similar taste to absinthe which is liquorice-like, but smoother.”

We left for Turkey the later that morning. It was March 24, 1972.

Keith was telling them that sometimes on the border of this place Turkey, the guards took people off and cut their hair, so Al was saying he did not like that thought and maybe he would not even go to Turkey if he had known that before, but now they were on the way.

"Don't worry, man”, said Keith, “just put your hair up inside your new hat.

“Great idea,” said Al, “good job that barber gave me Myhat!”

“Yeah man, cool,” said Keith.

I felt useful, wanted, even maybe loved, elated enough to almost fly off my new head; I didn't of course, I wanted to fit well and be kept. I wanted to stay with these people, they seemed like fun, lots of laughter and good conversation to listen to.

It did not take a day before we arrived at the border, near a place called Ibala, and Al stuffed his hair up inside me with John doing the same with his own hair and hat. Marion, also with long hair, did not have to. Apparently border guards did not object to long hair on females.

The guards, however, simply looked at the documents, the passports as they were called and waved us through. No hat inspections, no hair inspections, no questions, just grins. As soon as we were through, the hair came down again.

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