New Book: Heads, Hats and Tall Tales, Travels in India, Nepal and Egypt: 3 Books in 1

On Amazon 

 Memoirs of my travels in India 1972, India, Nepal and Kashmir in 1981 and 1985, and Egypt in 1989, 1990 and 2010, along with a murder mystery and poems - includes the nitty-gritty from my previous books "All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972", "Back to the East, India, Nepal and Kashmir", and "Myhat in Egypt Through the Eyes of a God" - all in one book.

It's a very different world today.

Alun Buffry was born in Wales in 1950 and studied Chemistry at UEA. In 1972, he travelled overland to India, with little money or support, becoming ill in India and spending time in hospitals in Delhi, Kabul and Tehran. After returning to the UK later that year, he became a follower of Prem Rawat, then also known as Guru Maharaji, whom he still follows today. In 1991 he spent time in HMP for cannabis offences. After his release he started writing his books which contain personal accounts of his life experiences and travels, as well as poetry and science fiction..

In 1999 he co-founded the <a href="http://www.ccguide.org/lca/lca.php"Legalise Cannabis Alliance (LCA)</a> with Jack Girling, He stood for Parliament in 2001and local council elections in Norwich As well as many published letters, interviews and speeches, he spoke in a debate on cannabis legalisation at the Oxford Union and testified before A Select Committee in Parliament.

His other books are
"From Dot to Cleopatra", a concise history of Ancient Egypt, "The Effie Enigma, The Motherless Mothers" (Sci-fi), "Out of Joint, 20 Years of Campaigning for Cannabis 1991 - 2010", "My Piece of Peace£, "Time for Cannabis, The Prison Years", Inside my Hat and other Heads" (poetry with others), "Words of Weed and Wisdom" (poetry with others), "An Alliance-of Eyes" (poetry with others), "Damage and Humanity in Custody" with William D Hutchinson, "If Only Suomi" time-travelling romance", "Legalise and Utilise Commemorative Edition", "Cannabis: Challenging the Criminal Justice System" with Don Barnard.

<a href="http:/www.buffry.org.uk/abefreepublishing.html">SEE HERE</a>

Conclusion: Taken from Back to the EAST: INDIA, NEPAL, KASHMIR by ALUN BUFFRY

 TAKEN FROM BACK TO THE EAST: INDIA, NEPAL, KASHMIR - Alun Buffry

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1916310796/ref=nosim?tag=webbooks05

CONCLUSION

I have made three trips to India. The first, pretty much out of the blue because when we left the UK we had intended to travel only as far a Turkey, in a van. There were four of us. None of us had very much money. I had left UK with just about £60, three weeks wages in those days. By the time we reached Antalya, in Turkey on the southern coast, I had just £20 left. We slept either in the van or in a tent until we reached Istanbul, where we rented cheap rooms. After that, we slept in Turkey in the open. From Turkey Keith and I took a boat eastwards, intending to travel to Beirut then back to Istanbul to meet up again with the others. On the boat, however, we were advised not to go to Beirut, so instead hitch-hiked across Syria into Iraq and on the Baghdad, then on by bus to Tehran. Then we headed east across Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and into India. The main problem for me was lack of money, so not being able to eat the food I should have been eating and staying in cheap and often dirty hotels. I ran out of money in Kabul, a dirty city but cheap and friendly. I sold a few items such as shirts and a compass and met a wealthy German guy called Helmutt, who helped us get to India, by plane from Lahore to Amritsar, one of the first passenger planes after the end of the Pakistan-India war. In Amritsar, we stayed for free at The golden Temple and I hitched a truck ride to Delhi.

I struggled on very little money, receiving just a few pounds in mail from the UK. Keith went on alone to Nepal. I became ill and spend a week in hospital (free) in Delhi, suffering from dysentery and hepatitis. I tried to travel back overland to the UK but became ill again and again, being hospitalised in Kabul and Tehran, from where I had to take a flight back to London, which my parents paid for. I was 22-years-old. Looking back, it’s easy to say I should have had more sense.

Yet looking back, it was a pretty dumb thing to do, although very educational and an experience that I valued. But it was hard work in the east, with such different people, customs, lifestyles, religions, languages, foodstuff, politics and the divisions of wealth and poverty.

That was a disastrous trip, not only did I and Keith became ill, but after we left Turkey my good friend John Sullivan was killed when the van crashed in Antalya; the other passenger, Mike, was seriously hurt, broken leg, broken ribs and bang on the head. I did not even find out what had happened until I was back in Kabul, months later, and by chance met somebody that I knew from Norwich, Pete Roscoe, who was on his way to India.

From the moment we had left the UK, everywhere we went, we managed to buy hash, in every country we passed through with the exceptions of Iraq and Iran. In Iran, we actually stayed on an opium farm run by a licensed farmer who also supplied it illegally. He was also the village policeman.

That tail is told in my book “All About My Hat The Hippy Trail, 1972”

What did I learn?

The variety of people in our world.
The generosity and care we received from people with so little.
That I had people that I could call on to help when all else failed.
To travel with enough money to get one through and get one home safely.
To take more care of health regarding hygiene and diet.

So my next trips to India, both by plane, recorded in this book, were 1981 and 1985.

By this time many places had already changed in respect of politics and freedom, and it was not so possible to travel overland.

1981 was a two week holiday. 1985 was a two month journey.

At both times I had more money, enough as I thought, being older and wiser, as I thought. Yet in both cases we spent our money faster than we had anticipated and had to write home for more.

Of course another problem that was easy to have forgotten, was that contact with family and friends back in the UK was not instant and easy. A phone call had to be booked a week in advance and one had to hope that the call would be answered. Otherwise, it meant booking another call. Also in those days not everyone in the UK had a phone in their house and nobody had a mobile (cell) phone.

We were lucky to have booked the holidays through travel companies that were able to help us out.

So I reiterate my advice, make sure one has enough funds and remember, cash and bankers cards can be lost or stolen (as can possessions and passports).

Delhi and Agra, had changed noticeably since 1972 since I had visited those cities.

They were more populated with more traffic, more noise, more dirt and more beggars and hasslers on the streets. Also more “richer” tourists. Kashmir was attracting people with money, staying on houseboats, often isolated and even protected from the people and poverty on the streets. Corruption, baksheesh, favouritism and bureaucracy were all more common – you will have read about our problems getting seated on planes that had been overbooked.

One of the favourite sayings of many people was “no problem”. Either they did not see a problem, did not see it as important or simply did not care. Yet paying baksheesh in advance would often avoid those problems. ‘Jimmy’, on the houseboat in Kashmir in 1985 never did post the letter that he had promised to post; that cost me a sitar.

Many Indians won’t say that they don’t know; instead they tell one what they think. An example was when we were told that our funds were at abank when they were not and had not even been sent.

I certainly would not advise anyone to drive a vehicle in India. The rule of the road everywhere was “Might is Right”. Walkers and people with carts pulled by animals got out of the way of cars, which got out of the way of buses, which got out of the way of trucks. Everyone was listening out for the loudest horns approaching them. Everyone in the cities seemed to drive using their horns more than indicators. Of course walkers and those with animal-pulled carts had no horns.

At one point in this book, you will see a photo taken from a rickshaw on a road in Delhi; you can see pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, cars, buses, trucks and even an elephant.

Of course food is another problem: you may have heard of “Delhi belly”.

The difference between western and India food and water, the way in which so much ghee is used, often the lack of hygiene, that does not cause serious problems for locals, almost inevitably causes some problems for westerners on short holidays. Often these problems are short-lived, being simply a matter of adjusting, but one does not want or need to spend a few days feeling ill especially on a short trip.

At all times, one needs to be aware of thieves and conmen on the streets. People, bot men and women, that will simply want to take advantage of you.

There are those that will simply try to pick your pocket or steal your bag; there are those that ask for money and won’t take no for an answer; there are those that will tell lies and try to mislead you for their own advantage; there are those that say they just want to practice their English and end up taking you to a shop where, albeit they are friendly and often the craftsmanship is fine. That includes foreigners as well as locals.

Of course those people are in the minority, thankfully, and the majority will be friendly and helpful or simply stand and stare. One certainly has to become used to people staring. Also some people don’t want their photographs taken and will ask for money or become very angry, whilst others will ask you to take a photograph of them with or without you.

The gap between wealth and poverty is sometimes atrocious and sickening. One can do nothing about it. In Delhi we made a quick visit to a five star hotel. Inside was spotless and elegant and a cup of tea cost about £5. Right outside the guarded gates that led to the garden from the street, was a tiny chai stall where a cup cost pennies and the street was littered with rubbish and rubble. One sees street food stalls selling hot and cold dished whilst donkey-pulled carts trundle by in the dust, dropping their crap as they go. Many people are unaware of hygiene or unable to do anything about it. Certainly it is essential to ensure that even bottled water ins restaurants is actually bottled water and not just from the tap, or to use purification tablets.

But all that in India. That is part of the experience. But just as it is wise to wear a safety helmet on a building site anywhere, one needs to take care and precautions.

Life on the Brim: The Autobiography of a Hat

Two books in one. The adventures of Myhat on the journey to India previously published in “All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972” have been described as humorous and educational, whilst “MyHat inEgypt Through the Eyes of a God” took the reader through modern day tourism in Egypt to the fantasy time travel and murder mystery in ancient Egypt.

Now with 360 pages, the reader can enjoy the best of both.

MyHat speaks: “I am a Fedora hat, but no ordinary hat, as I am blessed with the power of observation. I can see and hear through the eyes of the head that I sit on, which enabled me to travel the world and learn.

“These are my memories of my journeys with Al and later with Ed and Ana.

“I first met Al in 1972 in Greece and we travelled on what became known as the Hippy Trail through Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan to India, where Al became impoverished and ill. After several stays in hospital we returned to the UK.

“Those were remarkable time,s passing through countries and cities that nowadays, in 2022, are often inaccessible and far more dangerous than in the days of drugs and flower-power.

“Later I was passed to a new head, a man called Ed, and was fortunate to visit Egypt with his lady Ana.

“We saw Cairo and Luxor with their many pyramids, temples and tombs in 1989 and 1990. Once again we visited Luxor in 2010, and travelled 4000 years into the past where something even more extraordinary happened.

“So these are my tales of love, mystery, history and murder on the Nile.”

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1838440135

1972: RECURRING ILLNESS

 Previously published in INSIDE MY HAT AND OTHER HEADS  ISBN 978-1-9163107-0-4

I wrote this in 2018,  46 years after those days of those recurring illnesses.

1.  I’d thought I’d been lucky to get out of Afghanistan alive. I had been ill for months and now, after a three day bus journey from Kabul, I found myself sitting in the street. My head was spinning and I could hardly walk. I had been vomiting again throughout the night and unable to keep even water down for long. I was dehydrated again and I still had little money. Nobody seemed to want to help for a while, then a man asked me if I needed help. After telling him I was English and wanted to get to the Embassy, he helped me to the busy and dusty street corner and pointed me down another street filled with various vehicles and people, saying that it was the American Embassy. I slowly walked to the entrance and discovered it was in fact the UK Embassy after all. Then I remembered I was in Tehran, on my way home. The Embassy was closed and the costumed guard at first would not let me in, but I insisted, entered a large room and lay out on wooden bench, saying that is was UK and I would stay until I saw an official. That is how I was taken to the Tehran hospital. I was treated well over the week of my stay, put back on my feet and afterwards the Embassy guy took me back to my hotel to get my bags and next day took me to the airport from where I flew to Heathrow. Unfortunately, just as in the previous two hospitals they did not cure me.

 

2.  TRANSLATION: the dirty hippy man that Mahatma Ji brought into my Chai shop by the bridge in Haridwar, did not look well. He was hot and I think he had been smoking charas. We did not speak the same language but I wanted to help him and I wanted to tell him to go to doctor. I could only give him Chai with extra sugar and milk. Then he soon went off and I never saw him another time.

3..It wasn’t until I had reached Delhi by train that I knew that I was far more ill than I knew. As well as having dysentery, I had contracted Hepatitis A, the infectious sort, that I thought I had picked up in Kabul. I spent a week in hospital in Delhi, well fed and resting in the cool, which was good for me as I had completely run out of money. It was good that I had left Haridwar which was where I’d first got sick. I don’t think there would have been much of a hospital there and surely no ashram would want me

I had a horribly-tasting porridge for breakfast that morning, along with poorly cooked eggs and toast and tea. That was the day I became ill with dysentery, the day everything changed. That day I was cleansed.

Kabul was a lovely city with friendly yet strange people and hardly a local woman to be seen without a full Burkha. But it was filthy. They had little care for hygiene. The water provided on the tables of restaurants was dodgy; even bottled water could not be guaranteed clean and often may have been from the tap. Whilst salads were washed in tap water, fruit was not washed at all. We saw donkeys shitting in the street next to open stalls cooking and selling food, fruit or bread. We were advised to be careful when eating with a wet fork or spoon or when drinking in a cafe, for fear of hepatitis or other sicknesses. As for the opium den, well it was the pits. We had two pipes and left hoping that we would not be ill later. It was nothing like the clean opium farm we had stayed at for three days in Iran.

When I was admitted into the hospital in Wales, they took away my Iranian medication and ignored my diet of no fried food or salads. As a vegetarian, then, I had to eat salad and chips twice a day until their test results came in, after which time they reinstated my diet and fed me better. They kept me there one week and loaded me up with pills. Apparently I had a bacteria that came from dirty water.

The bus ride from Kabul to Tehran took 5 days, changing buses several times, sleeping and eating in the cheapest places I could find, having to drink tap water. I got sick a few times but I did arrive in Kabul, dirty, hungry and ill.

 

4.  TRANSLATION: We were sitting in the shade of a holy tree and smoking chillums of the holy herb, when I saw a thin and bedraggled western man with long hair walking besides the Holy River Ganges. I watched as he slowly stepped down into the rushing waters and he disappeared beneath them briefly. After he had pulled himself out and was walking closer, I called to him to come to us and invited him to smoke with us, the Holy Herb. I asked him why he had come to the city of Haridwar and he said to meet with me. We laughed; we shared a drink of water from the river. A short while later he left with Mahatma Ji from the ashram of Prem Nagar, the place of the Guru Sant Ji Maharaj, I never saw the young Western man again.

5.. I sipped fruit juice on my way back to the railway station bench where I had slept. I think it was that what made me puke. I’d been quite stoned on chillums that day so being sick was doubly unpleasant.

6.  I saw a young man with very long hair sitting in a busy street in my home town of Tehran. He looked as he needed help so I spoke to him. He asked me to show him to the UK Embassy. I knew it was round the corner in the other big street so I took him there. It was in fact UK embassy so I left him there and he went inside. I don’t know more than that.

 

7.  After several chillums besides the Ganges and a brief dip, I met a Mahatma and was invited to stay at an ashram. I drank some tea and returned to my sleeping bench at the train station in Haridwar. I became sick and never made it to the ashram. The illness was to last for weeks and reoccur. I have often wondered if it was something I drank or just Karma.

 

8.  Peshawar was one of the filthiest places I had to stay in. Eating almost anything was a risk. We were lucky to be taken to The Secret Restaurant, run by Swiss hippies, which was clean with good food and dope. Our hotel was dirty with an open toilet on the roof. There were a lot of sick people in Peshawar and many drug addicts.

 

9.  The Mahatma took me to a chai house and ordered a cup for me. He invited me to join the Arti parade through Haridwar early evening and said that afterwards, if I wished, I could go and stay in the ashram. He left without paying for the chai, telling the waiter that it was baksheesh and not to ask me to pay. The waiter or tea-house owner did not seem to happy with that. The chai tasted strange but it was hot day so I drank it down fast. Afterwards I went back to the bench at the railway station where I had spent the previous night, I thought to relax until the evening parade. On the way I bought some fruit juice and sweet cakes. It was not long afterwards that I began to vomit and soon I had diarrhoea so I never made it to the Ashram.

 

10  TRANSLATION: I was walking alongside the river with a group of Premies on our way back to our ashram. A local Baba called to me and there I met the young man from UK. As were many young men who visited our city, he was long-haired and quite dirty. We took him to a Chai shop where I ordered a drink of chai for him, telling that he should not be charged any money. The owner was not pleased but served chai. I invited him to join our Arti parade that evening and to stay at our ashram. Then we left. I never saw that young man again.

 

11.  I’d awoken early and took a breakfast of spicy chai, porridge and eggs on toast. I wasn’t too keen on the porridge; it was slimy and too sweet. Then I made my way across the bridge to the other side of the Ganges, one of the major holy rivers of India. It is said that to drink the waters of the Ganges is to purify the soul. So I strolled along the river bank and spotted a group of younger men sitting around an orange-robbed elder – they called them Baba’s or holy men Sadhus and they smoked chillums of hashish dedicated to the god Shiva. He shouted and waved me over. On such a hot day, sitting in the shade of the tree smoking a chillum was appealing enough, alongside a possible dip in the river. So I went over and sat with them. They lit and passed me a chillum. I gave a couple of rupees and we smoked another. I said my thanks and carried on walking down besides the river but soon was invited to smoke another chillum with a different group. By now, I was very high. I took a quick dip in the Ganges but slipped my footing and quickly found myself below the rapidly moving water, getting a mouthful. By luck or grace, I managed to pull myself out and clamber up the steps. I was soon sipping weak fruit juice with another Baba, smoking more chillums. This Baba asked me why I had come to Haridwar. “To meet you,” I said and we both laughed loudly. He asked if I would like chai and said that soon the Mahatma would pass by and take me for tea. After drinking a strange tasting chai I went back to the station to rest on my bench, intending to accept the Mahatma’s invitation to his ashram. Then I got sick. I puked onto the station platform and managed to get then to the toilet where I emptied my bowels. It was the beginning and the end – the beginning of an illness and end to my outwards journey. Maybe it was a cleansing?

 

12.  TRANSLATION: the Young man from England had slept on the platform bench. In the morning he left. He came back again late that afternoon and returned to the bench. I decided to let him rest there. After a while I saw him being sick over the platform onto the tracks and then he rushed into the latrine. That was at the end of my working day, so I went home and prayed for him. The God never showed me that man again; I do not know what happened to him. The sickness here can quickly kill people from the West.

 

13.  The young hippy man was stretched out on a bench in Reception at the Embassy when I arrived. Although the Embassy was closed that day, he had, I was told, insisted that he be allowed inside as it was UK territory and he was British. He was quite correct. He told me his name and explained that he was travelling back from India after becoming ill there with dysentery and hepatitis of the infectious kind; he did look very ill. He told me that he had been in hospital in Delhi and in Kabul. He had run out of money but some had been sent to the British Embassy in Kabul, but instead of using it to fly back to the UK, he had left most of it at the Embassy and tried to go all the way by road. So he had been several days travelling and had booked in at a Tehran hotel. That morning he had set off to the American Express offices where he hoped would be some money waiting for him. I decided to take him direct to the Tehran general hospital where they admitted him immediately; then I made arrangements to transport him to the hotel to collect his baggage and then to the airport to fly back to Heathrow, one week later. I know that is what happened but apart from that, I don’t know. We get quite a few poor travellers coming from India or Afghanistan with little money and poor health, that need help to get home. In this case it was the man’s parents that paid; often it is the country itself, then we must take their passports when they arrive back in the UK until they repay the transport costs.

 

14.  I was staying at the same hotel in Kabul. He got more and more ill. I know he was being sick a lot, getting dehydrated and hardly eating. Then one day I heard that he had been taken to the hospital and they kept him there for about a week. I was still at the hotel when he got back. He still wasn’t very well, but able to walk; when they took him in, he could hardly stand up. A lot of people get sick on their journey through Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India and Nepal. I must be one of the lucky ones.

15.  Inside the opium farmer’s house was surprisingly clean and comfortable. It was all ground level, cushions and carpets and low tables, sleeping mattresses on the floor. The village was very basic, just a small group of stone houses, a rough road running through it, where we had driven to the house. Quite a lot of donkeys were tied up outside. Soon after we arrived, they served us black tea with sweet cakes, followed by bread, salads and dips, all of which we ate with our washed hands. That was quite novel, no forks or spoons, but somehow it seemed so natural. The water, they said, was good to drink as it came from the well. After lunch we lazed around chatting for a few hours, then our host, the opium farmer’s son, invited us to smoke opium. Apparently the father had permission from the government to grow the poppies and, strangely, was not only a supplier of opium to locals (and maybe the occasional travellers), but he was also the local policeman. We smoked several pipes each: we were each given our own mouthpiece that slipped easily onto our end of the long wooden pipe with the bowl at the other end; as we inhaled to maximum, the farmer applied heat to a small ball of black opium with he turned, gleefully, until he knew we could inhale no more. Actually, although not one that I intended to repeat, it was a pleasant feeling, a relaxed, dreamy buzz, in the room with the men who were also laying on cushions, taking their turns, was nothing at all as I would have imagined an opium den to be. I felt safe.

 

16.  The train ride from Delhi to Haridwar took many hours. The carriages were crowded and dirty and the stink from the unflushable toilet was sickening. I had very little money left so ate what was available at the many stations where we stopped. Dahl and chapati or samosas, spicy milky sweet Chai and biscuits or sweet cakes, lots of bottled water although I wondered if they were simply refilled from a tap. It was a very uncomfortable journey and as soon as I reached Haridwar and was off the train with the crowds wandering off to do whatever they do, I spotted a bench on the platform and stretched out and slept for the first time in 48 hours. Mercifully, nobody disturbed me or robbed me. Next morning I bought a cheap breakfast and headed off to cross the River Ganges.

17.  I was wandering about New Delhi with little purpose and no money, when I spotted Al sitting on a wall. He was long-haired and bearded and looked friendly enough, smiling as I approached him. I introduced myself and he invited me to sit besides him. I explained that I had come to India over a year ago with my boyfriend but when I got pregnant, he left; I told Al that I had had an abortion and was now penniless and hungry. He told me that he had been ill with hepatitis A and dysentery and that he had been in hospital in Delhi. Well he did look quite ill, very skinny and worn. He said he was just 22 and I was just 20. Al said that he could not give me money but I was welcome to share his fat-free meal at the Chinese restaurant and that he was sitting waiting for the to open up. That evening and for many weeks to come, we shared food. That night we lay together in the local park but he would not get close as he said he did not want to risk giving me hepatitis. After a few days he received a few pounds from England; about a week’s wage there but should last many weeks here. Al wanted to get back to the UK overland and he agreed to take me with him. Actually, I just wanted to get to Kabul. We took the train to Amritsar then buses through Pakistan to Islamabad and Rawalpindi. They were two cities, new and old, right next to each other. We stayed in a cheap hotel in Rawalpindi. The hotel was as dirty as the streets. I had to take a bus to the new city of Islamabad to the British Embassy to pick up some money that my parents had sent. Then we took buses to Peshawar and then through the Kyber Pass to Kabul. The money went quick though. We’d been in Kabul a week or so and he started getting sick again. One day he couldn’t stand up so I took him to the hospital and they kept him there. I visited after a few days and he looked so much better but he did not know when they planned to release him. I got the taxi driver to translate and he said that the only doctor that spoke English was away until the weekend, so they were keeping Al ’til then. Al said that they were feeding him on soggy rice and black tea. He came back to our hotel a few days later. He was not happy when I told him I had given most of the money away to a French woman whose husband was locked in the prison, and I had lost my passport. Al wanted to leave Kabul as soon as he could and said he thought he’d die there if he stayed. So he helped me get a new passport and himself went to the embassy for help. He managed to get some money from his parents sent out. But when I got the new passport they wanted me to have to go back through the Kyber Pass to the border to get an entry stamp, or they would not let me out of Afghanistan. That was stupid, to me, to have to pay for two bus rides when I thought they should be able to do it in the post. We argued about that a lot. We had a weird trip on acid then, which seemed to bring us closer together but we still argued the next day. Al said that if I would not go to get the entry stamp, he would catch the bus alone to go west. I didn’t really care as I was not going back. So one night he said that the next morning he would either go back to the border with me or go west alone. I decided to stay – he gave me half his money and left. I never saw him again.

 

 

April 23, 24 1985: From Kathmandu back to Delhi

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

(Images found on-line)

23^rd April: Delhi

We were up at 5 AM ready for the bus back to Delhi, but a problem getting breakfast or a taxi from the Hotel Eden after we ordered both last night. Eventually we got to the Hotel Withies to board the bus.

This time we had good front seats.

The journey down the valley was smooth with some good scenery, although the driver seemed to think he was on a race track. Nobody on the road seemed to want to get out of anyone else’s way. The rule here was simple: “Might is Right”.

It now seemed that many Nepalese and Indians like playing head games, so when when we said chai, char, tea, we were met with blank stares. Then, if you shouted, like barking an order, they suddenly understood. Maybe they were all just stoned.

We reached the border with no problem and the customs came and took all our passports to inspect whilst we sat on the bus outside the customs shed. They did not inspect any luggage.

But whilst we sat there a young boy outside spotted Lesley through the window. He obviously recognised her from when we passed through before. He was knocking on and waving through the window. Lesley waved back. He ran off and soon returned with some other boys and motioned us to open the window. They started throwing newspaper packages through the window. I opened one. It was weed. We are right outside the customs office. I through it back out shaking my head. More came in. I through them back shouting no. A couple of minutes later a guy came from further back on the bus and gave me two wraps, saying that the boys had asked him to give them to me. I threw them out too.

After a while the boys waved goodbye and left and soon we were on our way. The last thing I wanted was to get busted for weed at the border.

Across from us were two guys, one looked like David Soul from the Miami Vice TV series. They were smoking small joints and passed one to me. There was just enough for Lesley and I to have two puffs each. It was wonderful and strong Nepalese hash. They said they had trekked into the mountains to a village to get it. They made another small joint and we had another puff.

The bus took off and we were flying several feet high.

Into the darkness we went.

A few hours down the road, the bus suddenly stopped. It was the Indian customs officers.

They came on the bus and immediately told me to get off the bus. Strangely, as I was holding my shoulder bag on my lap, I passed it to Lesley. They ignored that. They also ignored Starksy and Hutch. They got some people from the back of the bus too, Nepalese I think.

It was dark outside so they all had torches, about six cops. They took me to the back boot and got me to show them my rucksack, which I opened and they emptied. They took my camera, a torch (the bulb no longer worked) and a tin a sardines. I told them the camera was cheap and so I did not need to declare it, the torch bulb was no good and the tin was fish. One guy said that if the fish were inside, they would be dead. Then another guy, presumably their boss, came and said “OK, mister, what you have?” I told him camera, torch and fish. He said “Is that all?” I said yes and he said “OK, get back on bus.”

That was the end of that. They searched some other bags and off we went again, to Delhi.

24^th April

By 9 AM it was very very hot on the bus. We were both aching, queasy and probably dehydrated.

We passed through a place called Bareilly. There was a modern looking place with some nice architecture. Suddenly, a little further on, we realised this was the dump of place where our other bus had broken down, on our way to Kathmandu. So that time we had sat there for many hours in the heat with just a tiny chai shack and our prayers and mosquitoes, whilst five minutes walk away was that lovely looking new place that probably had a restaurant. 

 

Later we passed though Rampur, which was mentioned in the book Staying On. 

 When we reached Delhi at about 6.30 PM. As we were getting off the coach, I looked under the seat to make sure we had not dropped anything. I found two newspaper wraps of weed, about ten grams or so. A nice surprise.

We took a rickshaw back to our regular hotel, Ashok Yatri Newas. 

 

Connaught Place, New Delhi (photo from on line)

Back to the East, India, Nepal, Kashmir 1981 and 1985

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1916310796

 

VIDEO: The Jewels of the East

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ISBN 978 0 9932107 1 6

http://www.buffry.org.uk/allaboutmyhat.html

watch and listen here:

https://youtu.be/p3qD19zIMPI

ALUN BUFFRY - 2 news books now in paperback

"ALL ABOUT MY HAT - THE HIPPY TRAIL 1972"  PAPARBACK
isbn   9780-0-9932107  ON AMAZON
isbn    978-0-9932107-0-9 THROUGH BOOKSHOPS AND LIBRARIES

An incredible journey in 1972, of a young man and his hat, "Myhat", from Thessalonki in Greece, through Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and India - and back to the UK, through poverty and illness, a journey not forgotten. Passing through Istanbul, Izmir, Ephesus (Efes), Antalya, Antakya, Aleppo, Deir el Zur, Qa'im, Baghdad, Tehran, Mashad, Herat, Kandahar, Kabul, Khyber Pass, Peshawar, Rawalpindi, Lahore, Amritsar, Delhi, Agra, Haridwar and Rishikesh - known now as "The Hippy Trail".


READERS' COMMENTS
Joan Bello?, US: "I am quite sure that I have just finished reading what should be recognized as an all time classic. Alun Buffry is a master storyteller. All About My Hat kept me spellbound from the first page. This is a precise recounting of true adventure that every hippy-minded person will be in awe of regardless of age. Thankfully, Buffry has found a delightfully unique literary vehicle that completely disposes of the usual ego distraction of so many biographical accounts. It is effortless reading, nothing superfluous, no fillers, with an ease of language and a precision that is admirable. My Hat is a constant reminder of the camaraderie shared among all cannabis supporters around the world. Bravo!!"
Winston M, Surrey: "Great read and so much interesting found it hard to put down."
Kevin T, Norfolk: "A Brilliant book once i started it i could NOT put it down i would recommend others to read it."
Roger H, Suffolk: "Good Grief!"
Ann C, Norwich: "This is a fascinatng book packed with stories about adventures on the "Hippy Trail" in all its reality. It was harsh with extreme discomfort, heat and dust and sometimes illness. It took strength and endurance ...but then... the rewards were a rich awareness of other cultures and beliefs. "I recommend it warmly.and did I mention, it is so funny!"
Roger W E, Swansea: "My Hat is becoming an independent friend, as I read on - he/she/it is competing with you! Roger WE"
Chris P, Essex: "Awesome read fella, most enjoyable."
Ian L, Norfolk: "Liked it a lot, very entertaining, definitely a good read, well done Alun."
Frank K, W Sussex: "Loved the book Alun and have shown friends, also travellers with a Hippie hat. Great days to remember for you I bet. I like the way you laid out the text too, great read."
Mark S, Norfolk: "Loving the book."
Melissa D, Italy "I really enjoyed this book..... but I have to admit I skipped some of the travel book descriptions. My favourite part is..... No, I won't spoil it for you!
Simon B, Norwich: "You were lucky to survive - loved the book."
Marion G, Suffolk: "Marion Gaze An easy enjoyable read. It took me right back to those times of footloose carefree travel and spontaneous adventure....usually ending in illness or loss of ones money! Though i was part of the start of the journey, Alun's Hat remembers a lot more than me, which is why there will not be a book about my overland trip to India a year or so later..." 
 
INTRODUCTION
Let me introduce myself, I am called Myhat.
I am quite an old hat. I was made decades ago. I had been passed many times to a few heads, yet had seldom found one that I felt really comfortable on.
About 40 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 had sat on Al's head and witnessed all sorts of strange places and events until we had 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 Hepatitis and also dysentery. Al went to his parent's house in Wales and then to hospital. But whilst he was in that hospital, I was never on his head after he had arrived, and ended up in a box in a storage cupboard.
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 it came that I found 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. Al had 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 I 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.

A DIP IN THE GANGES
After a pleasant afternoon with Ashok and his family, they drove back to Haridwar and Al was dropped off back near the railway station where, once again, he slept on the wooden bench.
The following morning after a breakfast of fruit, yoghurt and bread, Al took a stroll around the town. It seemed very old. The streets were crowded with people going about their days amidst the cows.
After a while he found a bridge over the river Ganges. It looked greener on the other side, with trees to sit beneath and watch the powerful currents pass. So he crossed the bridge and turned right to follow a rough path running besides the River.
He spotted an orange-robed elderly and bearded man sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, a semi-circle of younger people sitting facing him.
Al knew that they were called Baba’s, as he himself had been called a few times.
“Maybe he’s one of those guru teachers,” Al thought.
Back in England Al had read about the pop group The Beatles who had taken up with a Guru called Maharishi Mahesh Yogi who had taught them how to meditate and himself gained great publicity and popularity – maybe it was something to do with that.
The orange-robbed ‘teacher’ shouted something and motioned to Al to go over and join them and sit down. Al complied. The elderly teacher smiled and asked Al where he was from and why he was in Haridwar, in a broken English with an almost German accent.
Al explained that he had travelled overland from the UK, simply on an adventure and that he was here because he had met a Spanish man in Delhi who had recommended it as a good place to stay for a while. The teacher laughed and from under his robes produced a chillum. The chillum was prepared, wrapped in a safi – a small piece of cloth that served as a sort of filter – the tobacco hash mixture poured in and the lit chillum passed around so that everyone including Al had a good puff.
The teacher-come-chillum-maker – the Baba – asked Al if he had a few rupees for another chillum. Al handed over a small note. A young boy suddenly appeared from amongst the nearby thickness of trees, took the note, ran off into the trees to return seconds later with a small lump of black hash which he passed on and which was instantly made into another chillum and smoked.
Al stayed a short while and as nothing was being said and he was quite high on the hash, he said his goodbyes and left, carrying on in the same direction as before. Within minutes he was sitting with another group under another tree, smoking again.
“This is the good life!” thought Al, so high that he was beginning to feel like he was in a Holy city in India. “By the Ganges!”
He left the second group and walked some hundred yards before he had the idea that immersing oneself in the Ganges was supposed to purify the soul.
“Well,” he mumbled under his breath so only he (and I) could hear, “Why not, it’s hot and I’ll soon dry off.”
Across the river he could see a long walled building complex with steps going down to the River. As he got closer he could see steps going down on this side too. A few steps, “I should be OK."
The water was moving very fast. Al thought maybe he would not immerse himself, just splash himself all over.
“After all, I can’t swim.” So he put down his bag, took me off his head and put me on his bag, took off his sandals, and stepped down and in to the water.
With some hesitation, one step, second step, third step – then his feet were swept from under him. He felt himself falling backwards into the water which he knew would sweep him away. Too high to feel real fear, he envisioned the situation if he was to be swept down the Ganges – he would have to try to float. He had to hope he would be saved, but who would swim in this? How many bodies had ended up like this. Was this really Holy Water?
As he fell he reached out and somehow managed to grab a chain that was attached to the land, maybe for mooring a boat. He grabbed the chain but the force of the water was now tugging at his body like a hungry monster and now splashing his whole body with his head about to go under.
As his head went under he felt a wrenching on his arm but he pulled stronger, now his head was out, now his body, now he was clambering up the steps, drenched and coughing up Holy Water. He made it to the grassy bank and collapsed on the floor.
I felt so many emotions and thoughts and images flooding Al’s brain.
“So fucking stupid! I could have died.”
“Am I cleansed? Am I saved? Don’t feel any different.”
“God I’m stoned! I shouldn’t have done that. What would have happened if that chain wasn’t there?”
“Glad I took Myhat off!"
So was I.
Had I been in that water I would surely have been swept away for ever.
But it wasn’t long before Al was dried out and sitting with yet another group smoking another chillum.
After a while, that particular teacher said that they had seen Al go into the River and now his soul was clean. That was about all he said, except he asked Al if he wanted some chai and said that “Mahatma is coming, he will take you for chai.” Al liked the spicy milky tea drinks.
Al wondered if this was the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi or maybe some local lord or lord’s son, a rich man probably. Everything was so strange that Al did not know what to expect next. I was wondering about who this ‘Mahatma’ was - maybe he made hats?
After a while a man in orange robes accompanied by a small group of Indian-looking people approached. Apparently he was the Mahatma. He exchanged words with the teacher under the tree and said to Al: “OK, you come now for chai and this evening we will do our ‘Arti’ parade through town and then you join us and come to Ashram maybe?” They walked a while, crossed a bridge and entered a small chai shop where the Mahatma said something to the owner or waiter – who did not look too pleased – pointing at Al who, seemingly somewhat disgruntled, delivered to his table with “No charge, Sir” and the Mahatma and his entourage left, saying “Join us for Arti parade.”
There were still a few hours before evening so Al decided to go and wait on his bench back at the railway station.
That was when everything changed.

"OUT OF JOINT -  20 YEARS OF CAMPAIGNING FOR CANNABIS"  isbn  978-1-5084202-1-7

It was in Norwich prison whilst on remand in 1991 that Alun Buffry was approached by Jack Girling during a prison visit, and invited to help him and others form the Campaign to Legalise Cannabis International Association (CLCIA).In 1992, whilst on bail, the CLCIA was formed but it would not be until after Alun Buffry was released on parole in 1995, having served four-and-a-half years, that he started to dedicate himself to the cause of legalising the possession, cultivation and trade of cannabis in the UK. In the General Election of 1997, Howard Marks contested four seats on the single issue of cannabis. In 1999, the campaign registered as a political party in the UK under the name Legalise Cannabis Alliance (LCA).The LCA fought in over 80 elections including Parliamentary, local council and county councils, did numerous talks and interviews, gave oral evidence to the Home Affairs Committee and the Basque Government in Spain, debated at The Oxford Union and at universities, attended marches and rallies protests and picnics and produced the first and only Party Political Broadcast by a cannabis party, shown on TV in Wales in 2005. This is Alun Buffry's no-holds-barred story, from his prospective, detailing his own activities and those of others, over the period 1991 to 2011.