All About My Hat, The Hippy Trail 1972, a book by Alun Buffry

 

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My journey to India 1972, a visualisation

Kabul to Peshawar via the Khyber Pass - Meeting Hellmut, 1972

Taken from "All About My Hat, The Hippy Trail 1972"

Kindle version 

Peshawar and the Khyber Pass

It was 180 miles from Kabul to Peshawar, across the Khyber Pass.

Keith read quietly from his guide book:

“Peshawar is the capital of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, formerly known as the North-West Frontier Province, and the administrative centre and economic hub for the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Pakistan.

"Peshawar is situated in a large valley near the eastern end of the Khyber Pass, close to the Pakistan-Afghan border. Known as "City on the Frontier", Peshawar's strategic location on the crossroads of Central Asia and South Asia has made it one of the most culturally vibrant and lively cities in the greater region. Peshawar is irrigated by various canals of the Kabul River, Kunhar River and by its right tributary, the Bara River.

“Being among the most ancient cities of the region between Central, South and West Asia, Peshawar has for centuries been a centre of trade between Afghanistan, South Asia, Central Asia and the Middle East. As an ancient centre of learning, the second century BC. Bakhshali Manuscript used in the Bakhshali approximation was found nearby.

“In 1947, Peshawar became part of the newly created Pakistan after politicians from the Frontier approved the merger.

“Over 99% of Peshawar's population is Muslim, mostly Sunnis, with Twelver Shias the significant minority group. Despite the mainly Islamic nature of modern Peshawar, the city was previously home to a diverse range of communities, such as Hindus, Sikhs, Jews, Zoroastrians and members of the Bahá'í Faith. A significant number of Sikhs, in addition to smaller communities of Hindus and Christians, continue to exist in Peshawar”

“That is very interesting, I did not know that history”, said a voice with a German accent belonging to a man that sat opposite us.

“My name is Hellmut. You want smoke some joint?”

He had lit and was offering them a joint – on the bus!

Well, I could tell Al liked the smell so he quickly accepted it with a “Danke” (thank you in German, Al thought). He took three rapid puffs and passed it to Keith who took three puffs and passed what was left back to Hellmut.

Al was feeling quite self-conscious about smoking on a bus heading to Pakistan. He thought everyone was looking.

He turned round to look back down the bus.

Almost every seat had a man leaning out and looking back up the bus at him!

And, Al noticed, they were all grinning and smiling and nodding, as if to say “You are stoned now, as we are stoned too."

Al thought those men probably did not smoke cannabis but it must have been in their blood, handed down over the centuries.

He relaxed, chatted with Helmut a while. Helmut said he travelled that route every year for ten years. Then as the calming effect of the lovely hash took over, he sat and started to enjoy what was to be an incredible journey through the Khyber Pass.

The over-laden coach trundled on, struggling up hills and rounding bends with sheer drops, then down and up again. At the end of most down bits there was a small waterfall. At the end of each up bits there was a beautiful view, often including the same road below them, winding around the boulders in between the fields.

At some places there were what looked like caves in the sides of the hills. 

 

We passed small groups of men that seemed to be just sitting and looking; we saw young boys driving herds of sheep or goats or camels and several times we had to stop to let them pass us.

Occasionally we saw groups of women carrying baskets, bundles or clay pots on their heads, trailed by urchin-looking children – her children always waving at the coach.

The women here were dressed very differently and, Al thought, more practically than those in Burkas. These showed their faces beneath head-scarves decorated with beads and chains and quite colourful too. These must be tribal mountain women, Al thought.

The coach was moving quite slowly and Al had a chance to take a couple of photographs through the window, of the valley below. He wished he had more film, but thought he would not be able to afford it.

Hellmut was quite jolly company and did lot of talking. They smoked another couple of joints.

He explained that he travelled this same route for years and the border post guards knew him. He always gave them a little money and they left him alone. He also said that every year he visited Afghanistan and Pakistan, India and Nepal, and arranged for shipments of hash to be sent back to London where his partner lived. He travelled for six months, then went back to London and his partner did the same. They were paying off customs everywhere, including the UK, and they were making a lot of money. But, he said, he preferred to stay in cheap hotels, not the big ones, and then he met people.

So Hellmut too, was heading for the Hotel Rainbow.

“Very very cheap”, he said, “But it is OK for a few days, but do not eat their food – it is better to go out to eat in a secret local restaurant that I know, it is good and clean.”

Hellmut said that after Peshawar, he was heading to Lahore and then would fly to Amritsar where the “Golden Temple” was and where travellers could sleep and eat for free, courtesy of the Sikhs. The same plan as Al and Keith's, they used to call it the “Hippy Trail.”

“Hey listen to this about the Khyber Pass man,” said Keith, who read again from his travel guide:

“The Khyber Pass is a mountain pass connecting Afghanistan and Pakistan, and India cutting through the north-eastern part of the Spin Ghar mountains. An integral part of the ancient Silk Road, it is one of the oldest known passes in the world. Throughout history it has been an important trade route between Central Asia and South Asia and a strategic military location. The summit of the pass is about 3 miles inside Pakistan at Landi Kotal, about three thousand five hundred feet.

“The pass itself is entirely in Pakistan. The nearest major cities on the route that goes over the pass are Jalalabad in Afghanistan and Peshawar in Pakistan, with Torkham as border crossing point.

“For strategic reasons, after the First World War the British built a heavily engineered railway through the Pass. The Khyber Pass Railway from Jamrud, near Peshawar, to the Afghan border near Landi Kotal was opened in 1925.

“At the Pakistani frontier post, travellers are advised not to wander away from the road, as the location is a barely controlled Federally Administered Tribal Area.

“Crossing the Khyber has always been something of an adventure. Even in peacetime, this was a fairly wild region where banditry and tribal warfare were part of local history and almost every adult male went armed. “

“Did you know that Khyber Pass is Cockney slang for arse!” said Al.

It was quite a journey until they reached Peshawar, but once there, with Helmut leading the way, they soon found and booked into the Rainbow Hotel. Reception gladly changed Afghani money into Pakistani Rupees.

The room for Al and Keith was small with two beds, but the view out of the window into the street below was good.

It was May 5 1972.

 

View from Rainbow Hotel, Peshawar

 

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>

Meta AI said this Alun Buffry is a British author known for his writings on cannabis law reform, spirituality, and travel experiences.

Meta AI said this

Alun Buffry is a British author known for his writings on cannabis law reform, spirituality, and travel experiences. Here are some key aspects of his life and work:

 

## Books and Writings

- *Autobiographical Works*:

- *Life on the Brim: The Autobiography of a Hat* - Details his life journey, including his involvement in the cannabis law reform movement.

- *All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972* - Chronicles his overland trip to India in 1972.

- *MyHat in Egypt: Through the Eyes of a God* - Explores ancient Egypt through a unique blend of history and fantasy.

- *Cannabis Advocacy*:

- *Out of Joint - 20 Years of Campaigning for Cannabis* - Documents his 20-year campaign for cannabis law reform.

- *Time for Cannabis: The Prison Years* - Reflects on his personal experience serving a 10-year prison sentence for cannabis-related offenses.

- *Other Works*:

- *From Dot to Cleopatra* - A concise history of ancient Egypt.

- *The Effie Enigma: The Motherless Mothers* - A thought-provoking exploration of themes and ideas

 

## Activism and Public Presence

Alun Buffry has been an active advocate for cannabis law reform, participating in various campaigns, conferences, and media appearances. He co-authored *Cannabis: Challenging the Criminal Justice System* with Don Barnard, further solidifying his commitment to the cause ³ ¹.

 

## Personal Life

Alun Buffry's life experiences, including his travels and spiritual explorations, have significantly influenced his writings. His interests in Prem Rawat's teachings and spirituality are evident in some of his works

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

 

Press Release: Norwich author has facebook group with almost 80,000 members

 

Press Release: Norwich author has facebook group with almost 80,000 members
7 March 2024

No Embargo

In 2014, Norwich author and UEA Chemistry graduate published his first of many book on Amazon:  "All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972".

The book, strangely telling from the point of view of a"hat", recounts Buffry's experience after graduation and setting out eastwards in a small van with several other graduates and little money.  After several months he arrived in India via Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan, meeting many people of different cultures, religions and lifestyles on the way, a journey where drugs became an integral part of the experience.

Such a journey would be near-impossible today, with many more dangers than in 1972, despite that we now have the likes of mobile phone and the internet, guide books and gurus,

Alun Buffry says: "I did not set off either to run away or to find anything but simply wanted to travel and see part of this wonderful world.

"Although I ended up ill with dysentery and infectious hepatitis, penniless and hospitalised in Delhi, Kabul and Tehran, I would not swap the life-changing experience for anything. Now at 74 years, I look back in amazement that I actually survived.

"In 2015, after writing my memories of those days, I founded a Facebook group called 60s, '70s &' 80s Trails to India and Beyond. Remarkably it now has almost 80,000 members from all over the world and contains a wealth of stories and pictures from people that made similar journeys and people that live in the countries we visited."

Since the publication of the book, Buffry has written over a dozen more, recounting his other travels and experiences including his time in prison for cannabis, poetry and science fiction. Having taught himself to format and present his books, he has also offered a free service encouraging others to tell their own stories, most of which are also on Amazon and Kindle and linked though his web sire at ABeFree Publishing.

Contact Alun Buffry at alun@buffry.org.uk or find him easily on Facebook.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/0993210716/ref=nosim?tag=webbooks05


https://www/buffry.org.uk/abefreepublishing.html

BOOKS BY ALUN BUFFRY and OTHER RECOMMENDED READING

 

 

https://www.buffry.org.uk/abefreepublishing.html

August 1972: Leaving Diane, leaving Kabul, trying to stay alive

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN ‎ 978-0993210716

The following morning, fighting with his conscience, finding that Diane was not going to join him, Al left. He went straight to the bus station and caught a bus to Herat, via Kandahar. It was normal for the bus to stop one night at Kandahar and he would sleep on the bus.

In that way he arrived in Herat the following day, spent one night there, bought a ticket to the border and from there a ticket all the way to Tehran.

Al crossed the border at Islam Qala and on to the Iranian side at Tayebad on September 3, 1972. He had been in Afghanistan this time for forty days and forty nights.

It was about fifteen hundred miles from Kabul to Tehran, Mashhad being about half way.

That five hundred miles to Tehran from the border took a day and a half, overnight Al slept on the moving bus.

By the time he reached Tehran, he felt filthy dirty not having washed properly for four or five days. He was very tired and very hungry and thirsty. He found a small hotel near the bus station, booked a room for one and before long was asleep.

 

 

August 1972: Tripping in Kabul: bad news

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN ‎ 978-0993210716 

“Well anyway,” said Al, “we've got to get some money or I'm going to die here. I don't have much energy. I'm going to go to the embassy and see if they will lend me some money or something. I've got a bank account but there's no money in it, maybe they will give me an overdraft.

"I reckon if I can get one hundred pounds it will get us both home.

“If we can get to Istanbul, I know the Pudding Shop . We may be able to get a cheap lift to UK or Germany or somewhere from there - they have a noticeboard where people can ask for a ride."

“I'll do that tomorrow. We might get some money before you get your passport. I've got enough to last a while, it's cheap here.

“Here, you better have some.”

He counted out some notes that were part of what he had left out of what Diane had given him. It was ten pounds.

“Don't give it away,” he said.

That evening they went to Sigis just down Chicken Street, sat ate, chatted with other travellers some going one way and some going the other, drank milkshakes and smoked joints. All for less than one English pound.

The following day Al went to the embassy for the UK. He was sent in to see an English official who asked lots of questions. Then he said that the embassy could not contact a bank and asked was there anyone that Al could ask for funds to be sent, what about his parents, where did they live.

Al provided the information. The official said it would take about a week and if there was no other way, they could not give Al a loan but they could fly him back to the UK.

Al told him about Diane.

The official said that when she got her passport and entry visa stamped into it, she should come to see him or she could come in sooner, they would have to see her before he could say how they could help.

Al went back to meet Diane at Sigis and told her what was happening.

“I'm still not going back to the border though,” she said.

They had lunch and smoked a couple of joints of hash.

Suddenly Diane said “Hey, you want some of these?”

She held out her hand and in her palm were four or so small squares of blank paper.

“What's that?” asked Al “looks like paper!” he laughed.

“It's acid,” she said, “LSD, you know, Lucy in the Sky. I got some from a French guy. He reckoned they're really good! Want to try?”

Al found her manner too seductive to resist.

“How many do we take? How strong are they? How long do they last? I've never done it.”

"I don't know,” she said “I've got four. You take two and I'll take two.”

“I think I'll just take one first time,” he said.

With that Diane popped one small square of paper into Al's mouth. “Suck it and see,” she laughed.

Al laughed and then frowned as he watched Diane put the other three squares into her own mouth.

She washed it down with a fizzy drink.

“So this is going to be a trip”, thought Al.

He thought about the books he had read: “Aldoux Huxley and Timothy Leary, about LSD and other psychedelic drugs: there was that book by the guy that gave acid to dolphins and then took it himself and put himself into an “isolation tank” and had met beings made out of light. What was his name? Oh yeah, John Lily's Eye of the Cyclone. Oh and the Carlos Castaneda's tales about a Shaman that took psychedelic plants to make contact with beings on other levels.

 “The Beatles of course – was that before or after they had gone to Rishikesh with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi?

“The whole hippy thing was a lot to do with LSD and love and peace and flowers, so that is obviously what it's about, a good time, a spiritual time, just probably stronger than hash.”

He looked up from his thoughts and started to look around the courtyard.

It looked different!

Al thought that he hadn't noticed the bells hanging from the edge of the roof, or the bright red flowerpots that held the small trees. And there seemed to be more flowers than before. Yet he'd been there several times before.

Some of the people there, the Westerners, started to look quite funny the way they were dressed. Bandanna’s! He hadn't noticed them – in Kabul – they looked really out of place!

Funny how so many were wearing blue jeans, including the two guys serving, and they had short hair, the customers all had long hair.

Weird that people came here to Sigis to eat food they could get back home.

Some of the people looked like people Al had known, or like mixtures of two of them. Several times he felt like shouting out to them, but then they moved and turned into themselves again. How strange, how funny.

He started to laugh and turned to Diane to tell her his thoughts – she was looking at a colourful bird, some sort of canary, that was standing on on top of a small green shrub, almost motionless, as she was. She looked mesmerised, so Al kept quiet, laughing again in his head.

 Al turned back to look at the people again.

That guy looked familiar.

As he looked at the guy, the guy stood up and walked over.

“Hi!”, he said. “Are you Al?”

Al felt a little uneasy at that – how did the guy know his name?

“You from Norwich? I'm Pete, remember me, Pete Roscoe?”

“Wow,” said Al, “You are Pete Roscoe, yeah, I remember you of course, I thought you were somebody that looked like him, I mean you!”, he laughed.

Al had known Pete Roscoe back in Norwich but had had no idea that he too, would be heading for India. Pete had also known John and Keith.

“How you doing man?” said Pete, “How long you been here, where you going?”

Al answered: “I went to India with Keith and then I got sick, Infectious Hepatitis and dysentery, nearly died, had no money, on my own, in Haridwar in the Northern Foothills. But I got to hospital in Delhi. I've been in hospital here too. Just waiting to get some money to get home. I'm with Diane. I want to get her home too."

He turned to introduce Pete to Diane. She was staring into a glass of fizzy drink and quietly giggling.

“Hi Pete!”

Al knew that Pete had known John and maybe Mike, so he asked: “Have you heard anything about John and Mike? Keith and I left them with the van in Antalya in Turkey and caught a boat to Iskenderun. We hitched from there across Syria to Baghdad. I haven't heard from them. We were supposed to meet them back in Istanbul but decided to carry on to India. Are they back in England yet?”

“God what a drag about John. You don't know what happened, do you?”, asked Pete.

“No,” said Al.

“Wow man, I hate to tell you this,” said Pete, “John was killed in a crash the night you left them in Turkey. Mike had broken his legs and some ribs and was in hospital there for several weeks. I heard they crashed into a parked truck on a bend at night – John was driving. He swerved out and probably saved Mike's life but was killed himself. Everyone was real sick about it, man.”

It may have been because Al was still in some doubt that this was actually Pete Roscoe. Maybe that cushioned the blow for him. He was tripping on acid and just been told his best friend John had died hours after he had last seen him.

So Pete and Al chatted a while longer, Pete was on his way to India. Al gave him some advice about being really careful about what he ate and drank, to keep hydrated, and not to drink the Ganges.

Then it was time that Pete said he would have to go as he had people to meet. They agreed to meet in the same place at lunch time the next day.

Al ordered another two teas with milk. It tasted weird. Different. He didn't drink his.

Then he felt it time to go and explore the streets.

“Come on Diane, let's go for a walkabout. I want some of those spicy potatoes and corn on the cob I've seen..”

So they went outside to see the street.

“Where are we?” asked Diane.

“Sigis, Chicken Street!” said Al.

 “Or is it? Hang on, it's not Chicken Street, we must have come out of a different door!,” exclaimed Al. “Wait a minute, there's that Kabul restaurant place, it is Chicken Street. Wow, it looks different, I never noticed all those ribbons and flags. Hey be careful where you walk, there's holes all over the place. Hey look at that donkey, it's only got three legs!”

 “Hey this is great, let's go look at Flower Street!”

“Okay,” said Diane. She wasn't saying much but she had a big grin. She took hold of Al's arm.

“Don't let me fall down a hole, it's really tricky up here with the wind.” she said.

 Al couldn't feel any wind and we were not high up at all, from the road – well I guess if we're 6000 feet above sea level we must be “up here”.

“Six thousand feet and climbing!” he said for no real reason.

So they strolled down Chicken Street towards Flower Street, looking in the shop windows and at stalls that Al thought he had never seen before. Everything except the road itself was much more colourful and shiny than he remembered, except the road had many massive piles of dung on it. As he looked, he saw a donkey adding more to it!

All the local merchants seemed to be nodding and smiling at them today! Al thought they all looked like – well they were on something. They were tripping too! Well, thought Al, I guess you've got to be on something to live here, it's like magic.

They reached the end of Chicken Street where it joined Flower Street.

It looked really busy with people that obviously weren't tripping.. It didn't look magic at all. Dark and damp with too many hidden spots, thought Al. Despite the flowers it was not inviting. Noisy too. Chicken Street had seemed very quiet – probably all the shoppers were down here.

“Let's go back or down by the river, we could see the Mosque,” he said.

“Yeah let's go that way, to the Mosque,” laughed Diana. “It doesn't matter where we land, we'll be OK.”

It seemed like hours before they reached the Mosque and Al had to sit down.

He sat on a low wall outside a building where he could see the Mosque and got lost in thoughts about the good and bad of religions and how the bad side made it hard to believe, yet so many had fallen for religions, as if it was some sort of spell to control people. Al did not want to be a part of religion. He wanted to be apart from them all. “If there's a God,” he thought, “it's not in religion.”

He heard Diane shouting “Get off, go away. Help!”

He turned to see Diane standing on the wall and below her were three dogs. They were jumping up at her in a friendly way, thought Al. “It's OK, they're just trying to be friendly, just get down and pet them!”

 “No they're trying to bite me, they won't leave me alone. They might have rabies!”

“But they're only little,” said Al.

 “No they're not, they're massive. They're not dogs – they're wolves. Help! Please!” She was really freaked.

 Al just shooed the dogs away. They went off down the street, stopped and looked back. Al shouted “Go!” Off they went, hunting for food probably.

He helped Diane climb down. She hugged him.

 “Well obviously, cos she took three, she's right out of it”, thought Al.

He grabbed her by the arm and they went back to Sigis where they could relax in a good friendly atmosphere and listen to some good rock music.

“Kabul streets at night”, he said, “Not good on acid!”

That was a good decision. Diane calmed down and they both enjoyed the rest of the trip, going back to the Peace Hotel with a nice piece of hash to smoke, until they dozed off as dawn was breaking and the Mullahs were calling the so-called faithful to prayer, from their minaret towers.

The following day, Al went back to Sigis and, sure enough, Pete Roscoe was there. It was the real Pete and they chatted a while about what they had been through and, of course, the devastating news about John and Mike. Pete said everyone was really worried about Al as news had reached Norwich that he had been ill.

Diane gave Al a book, called the "I Ching". He had in fact seen it before. Keith had shown him the book in Norwich before they had left. It was the "Book of Changes", an oracle, not so much a fortune teller, more of a clarifier. Al learned from Diane that by throwing three coins six times and recording the results, one could "ask" the book a question, for advice, and the coins would reveal a set of lines that led to readings.

And so the days passed, pretty much day to day, up and down Chicken Street, getting high, meeting people, eating western foods and waiting. No more acid though!

 RIP JOHN SULLIVAN 1949-1972

August 1972: Kabul and Illness: Desperation

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN ‎ 978-0993210716 

They had been there (in Kabul) for about ten days when Al started to get sick again. I knew he was feeling worse each day, unable to eat or drink without being sick, until one day he realised that he could not stand straight without his head spinning and the feeling that he was about to black out.

He told Diane that he was going to a clinic and she found the address from reception and arranged for a taxi. Al left his bag but was sure to take his passport. Diane went with him to the hospital reception but had not stayed. She took the same taxi back into the city.

Al had to wait about half an hour and then a doctor approached him, saying “Very sorry Sir, very few people here speak English – they had to fetch me from my home. It is a holiday for me today, but I come to see you.”

He took Al into a room and asked his problem, which he explained briefly. The doctor called and a male nurse arrived and, without a word, took Al by the wrist and led him out of the room. As he left he spotted a poster that was warning against smallpox!

Al was led into a very large structure, the walls were made from corrugated-looking tin and the roof was canvas. It looked like it had well over a hundred big steel beds, most of them empty.

Al was led to a bed and given a bottle of water and the nurse gestured for him to stay. He got on the bed and instantly fell asleep.

It was some time later that Al was awoken. The same male nurse took a sample of his blood.

A remarkably short time later, the nurse returned with a blood transfusion kit. They gave Al a pint of blood, into his arm, and when that was done, several pints of plasma. The nurse motioned to Al so he understood to drink water.

Al just kept dozing off. Several times somebody woke him and gave him sugarless black tea, then the evening meal arrived. It was rice. Just soggy white rice. But Al was hungry and ate it all.

It was two days before Diane arrived for a visit. She had waited, she said, for Al to come back, then tried unsuccessfully to phone the hospital for information, then decided to get a taxi.

Al spoke to somebody for the first time in two days. Diane told him that the taxi-driver had helped her find him and that he had translated for her, Al had been at such a point of dehydration that his life was at risk. She said that the doctor here had said there was nobody to speak in English but in another two or three days an English-speaking doctor would come and until then, Al had to stay!

True to that, the English-speaking doctor that Al had first met at reception, appeared three days later.

Al had been there for five days.

The doctor said that he was surprised that Al was still there; he should have been there for just one day but nobody knew. He said Al could go now.

 Al then realised that he did not have any money and told the doctor – his money was at the hotel. The doctor gave Al some few Afghani notes and told him that he could get a bus outside that would take him to the city centre. From there a short walk took him back to the Peace Hotel in Chicken Street.

Diane was there. She was not happy. She told Al how she had met an English woman whose husband had been in prison for drugs for two years and she had given her most of her money.

The she said “And I've lost my passport!”

“Oh no, how did that happen? Are you getting a new one?”

“I don't know,” she said, “It was in my bag and then it was gone. I went to the embassy and they are getting me a new one in about a week, they just gave me a temporary document for ID in case I need it. They told the police. I've got to go back in a week.”

“Wow, that's not too good, we've got to get out of here next week, our visa's run out and I've not got much money left!” said Al.

“I've got none either, well not much,” said Diane.

“Bloody hell that all went quick!”

“And,” she continued, “When I get a new passport I've got to go back to the border to get an entry stamp, then we got to get our visas extended.”

“Well that's not too bad, it was a brilliant bus ride, I don't mind, I'll come with you. Got to get some money too, somehow.”

“I'm not going to go back to the border,” said Diane, “I don't see why I should, it's obvious I'm here so I must have come into the bloody place. They can stuff it. I'll get my passport but I am not going back.”

Al decided not to argue. He just explained that it was all formality and if Diane wanted to cross into Iran she would need an entry visa and it was only at the Pakistan border that they probably have a record of when they had come in.

That didn't work.

Diane said rather loudly: “Look, I'm not going back, right. They can phone up or do it in the post I don't care. It's just stupid.”

 

image found on line

April 24, 25 1972: Arriving in Afghanistan, Customs and bus to Herat, meeting Miriam

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 

(images found on line)

Al and Keith took their rucksacks from the roof of the bus and headed into a wooden shack labelled, in English, ‘Passport and Customs’.

This was close to a small town called Islam Qala.

It was April 24 1972.

 Inside the shack were wooden tables and chairs and in the corner a window to a small office. At the window stood a line of ten or so people waiting to get their visas stamped. It was all done speedily and efficiently, so there was not too long a wait. Al stepped to the window first, passport in hand, dragging his rucksack. A sad-looking official sat at the window, but as Al approached, he smiled.

“Ah, you from Inglant, why you come to Afghanistan?” said the official.

“Just to see the country and the people,” said Al; “We're travelling to India.”

“You smoke hasheesh in Inglant?”

“No I don't!”. Al thought in this instance it may be best to simply say no.

“Okay, good. You no smoke hasheesh. You no buy hasheesh in Afghanistan. You buy, you smoke, big problem, prison, very bad.”

“No, no, we won't smoke it”.

With that the official stamped Al's visa and told him he could go through without his bag being searched.

Then it was Keith's turn. Al stood nearby waiting and listening to almost exactly the same conversation again. At the end, Keith asked if there was somewhere to sleep.

Following the officials suggestion, we left the shack and walked a short distance down a rough road to find a guest house offering “dirt cheap” accommodation, sleeping on rough mats on the floor, in their own sleeping bags. The only facilities were a shared hole-in-the-floor toilet and a shared wash-tap and drain-away sink. But despite his initial impression and appearance, the man on reception smiled and tried to help, although he spoke little English. He was indeed a very large man, at least 6 foot eight, and wore a long black beard and turban-like hat. He was dressed in a blue suit and white shirt without a tie. He held up a card with the price per person for one night. They handed over some of the Afghan notes that they had bought earlier at the border – the currency was the Afghani. How imaginative, Al had thought.

The room was surprisingly large with space for maybe six people to sleep on the rough dirt floor, which is why it was so dirt cheap, thought Al.

But Al and Keith were the only two to sleep in that room that night.

They sat on the thin mats and were both reading their books, when there was a knock on the door.

Keith jumped up and opened the door to see the reception manager grinning at us.

You no smoke hash here, big trouble with police!” he said.

“No we are not smoking, we are reading,” replied Keith.

“OK said the man, “Do not buy outside.”

With that he bowed and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Fucking hell, I'm not sure I dig this place,” said Keith. “Not sure we'll get a safe smoke if it's all going to fucking be like this.”

But within minutes the door opened again and in walked the giant grinning and carrying a large colourful water-pipe hookah. He placed it on the ground and said “I give you some tobacco so you only smoke that, OK. You happy men? Welcome.”

Without more ado, he walked out again, this time closing the door more gently.

“What's going on?” said Al. “Seems a weird chap. We said we weren't smoking!

“Well, we may as well smoke the tobacco,” said Keith, “Looks like he may have left something in that newspaper.”

Somewhat gingerly was how Al was feeling, as he unwrapped the newspaper, wondering in fact what strange thing he was going go find. It was in fact tobacco, chopped up and extremely dry. It was dark brown in colour.

As they had both smoked plenty of cigarettes including the dry rolling tobacco in Turkey, the only new thing here was the hookah itself. It was about three feet high, a round clay bulb and clay neck with a flexible tube to suck on attached, and the smoking bowl at the top of the neck, made again of clay. The whole thing was painted and decorated with short strings of tiny beads of many colours. Al felt it was more of a precious ornament than tobacco pipe.

Keith poured some of the dry tobacco into the pipe, put his mouth to the tubing and a lighted match to the bowl, and sucked – one long, slow but deep suck.

He sat upright holding the smoke in his lungs a while before blowing out a massive cloud of smoke.

He doubled-over, coughing. His colour changed from tanned brown to dark green. He looked like he was about to explode.

But he didn't. A bout of coughing later and he was passing the tubing to Al to try.

I sensed that Al was a lot more wary than Keith had been, as he sucked gently on the pipe. He inhaled and immediately blew out a small cloud of smoke and coughed.

“That's bloody dreadful,” shouted Al; “It tastes foul and just made me feel bad, not good. I am not bothering with that.”

Just then, once again, the door opened without any knocking, and once again in strode the giant from reception – this time followed by the grinning official from the border control post.

They looked at the hookah and sniffed the air. “Ah, not smoking hasheesh?” said the official with a massive grin. “Very good.

“Now we smoke good hasheesh. You want to buy, you buy from me OK. It is safe now.”

With that he threw his bag to the ground and pulled open the zip. He started to pull out some discus -shaped lumps of black hash.

 

“I have 100 gram, or quarter or half kilo good hasheesh from Mazar. I give you some to smoke, you want, you buy. You not buy, no problem”. He bit off a lump of about ten grams from the smaller block and passed it to Al. Al looked at it and then lit a match and warmed the corner of the piece. It smelled fantastic. He passed it to Keith, who took one smell, laughed out loud and proceeded to replace the foul tobacco with some of the crumbled hash.

They smoked a couple of pipes whilst the customs man and reception giant rolled and smoked joints made with American cigarettes.

“You want buy some?”

“No thanks we enjoyed the smoke but we don't want to be taking any with us and don't want to go to prison,.” said Al.

“No problem, very good very wise,” said the official. “In Afghanistan drugs very bad but it is OK here with me but when you go, do not buy drugs.”

The official and the giant left the room. Keith and Al moved a cupboard across to place in front of the door.

“Hopefully that'll stop them barging in. I'll roll a joint.”

The last cannabis that the lads had smoked was in Turkey, except for the one time with the Americans in the park in Syria, and I can tell you Al was very “high” and enjoying the experience. The two lads spent some time giggling at nothing. They ate bread, cake and fruit that they had bought from a shop on the way to the hotel. Washed down with bottled water.

Al stretched out on the mat, which seemed to be much more comfortable now he was laying down.

He fell asleep.

The following morning there was a banging on the door that woke the two travellers, and a shouting from outside:

“Mister come quick, bus to Herat going soon.”

So they scrambled to their feet, stuffed their rucksacks, grabbed the remains of their supper, and got out of the hotel, walking fast to the bus stop.

There were a few old cars on the street, and bicycles, as well with the men leading donkeys laden with crops. What was really noticeable was the trucks.

There seemed to be lines of trucks going in each direction, throwing up dust, honking their horns – but it was the way in which the trucks were decorated that was amazing to Al.

Each was painted in bright colours and in unique styles, showing depictions of buildings, people, animals, mountains and lakes. There were trees and flowers, birds and even insects.

Al spotted a truck with an elephant painted on the side, with the trunk going to the cab and then as if raised to the roof. There was one with a lion. There was one with people that looked like men and women dancing together. Several had large birds painted on.

Others were painted brightly in lines and patterns; reds, blues, greens, well almost every colour.

Most of the trucks had a box-like section over the cab, Al thinking that was probably where the driver slept for these would surely involve overnight stops. All the trucks seemed laden to the limit.

Al thought the drivers must be very proud of their trucks; maybe even named them.

When they reached the bus station, it looked like chaos. There seemed to be at least two bus loads of people with a massive amount of luggage. Huge cloth bundles were being passed up to the roof to be tied down.

Keith walked off and came back a couple of minutes later.

“God man, it's ridiculous,” he said, “they reckon that yesterdays bus never left so people had been here all day yesterday waiting, now they want to get on this one..

“Look they're getting bags back down off the roof. The driver said we should get on. I showed him the ticket, he just pointed inside. But I reckon it'll take hours sorting this out. There's still only one bus. Some guy told me this is today's bus and yesterday's bus has broken down so they have to get another one from Herat and that won't be here 'til tonight. Come on let's get on – you get two seats and I'll get the luggage onto the roof. I'll climb up and tie it myself.”

So that is what they did. They claimed two seats, put their coats on them. A while later they got off the bus again, for a smoke. Keith had some of his joint from the night before so they went up away from the people to smoke it. It was now about 9 o'clock. The bus should have left at 7.30.

In fact it was almost 11 o'clock before the bus left. The journey was along what seemed like one long straight road through desert, the occasional small village with mountains in the distance.

The bus made several stops at tea houses and once in the middle of nowhere all the men got off for a piss. Keith too. The men lined up and all crouched down, pissing from under their gown-like clothes, mostly grey or white, some with stripes, and a few in blue. Looking out of the bus window, Al laughed. About thirty feet from the road on the sandy ground, in the middle of the long line of crouching men was Keith, standing up with his back to the bus, presumably pissing: dressed in jeans a T-shirt.

It was just then that Al heard an American-sounding voice. “High man”.

Al had not even noticed any non-Asian looking people in the queue or on the bus, but soon learned that sure enough the guy was from the US. He explained that he had arrived from Mashhad had three nights ago. He had missed his bus, bought another ticket only to find the next day that bus was broken down. So then this morning he had turned up late but managed to swap his ticket and some money so he could get on this one. From the general conversation, Al gathered that the American was travelling alone and was hating it. Almost everything he said had the word filthy or the words nuisances or stupid in. Al was actually quite glad when the guys started getting back on board and the American went back to his seat.

There was a stop for refreshments, at what were basically a shack with charcoal stoves in the street outside. It was all pretty dirty looking and smoky. People from the bus crowded round barging each other about as if there was a limited supply of gourmet treats.

In fact there was only one choice, a set menu, a watery-looking soup and a meat and rice dish, and bread.

Nearby was a tiny stall selling vegetables. Al bought bread and spring onions and a few bottles of Fanta orange drink. That would have to do.

And both vegetable stall and shack café were hassled by flies. Several donkeys in the street, a few dogs, probably open hole-in-the ground latrines. Hardly hygienic. In both the shack and the shop the bread was charred looking, unleavened, covered with flies. The locals did not seem bothered. Al wondered if he should eat anything at all.

The men here were mostly wearing head-coverings that looked like puffy pancakes, flat hats of grey, white or black wool, called Pakols. 

 

Other men were wearing scarves of varying colours or what looked more like a towel, thrown over their heads.

What women there were wore black garments from head-to-toe and were always seemingly carrying baskets, buckets or bales.

 

I felt that all the men, seeing me on Al's head, shading his eyes from the glaring sun, wanted me.

Almost all the men wore beards, many quite long. They looked weathered.

 Al wondered what the American thought of this, but he was still on the bus.

Al was surprised to see the size of all the vegetables and fruit on sale. The spring onions, red and green peppers, tomatoes, apples, melons, onions, carrots were all massive. Two or three times the size he had seen before. There were nuts and open pots of yoghurt sitting in the sun, and bunches of various green leaves. Cans of fizzy drinks and packets of American tobacco were also on sale

The bus stayed there in the heat for about two hours. Everyone seemed irritated in the heat with nothing to do but wait, but the driver was not going to move. Al fell asleep.

Al was awakened with a bump. The bus was speeding down the new road which was said to have been built across Afghanistan through deserts and paid for with Russian, American and British money. But there was nothing to keep people or animals off the road. Apparently the bus had hit a dog. That was it. The dog was left in the road and the bus carried on.

There were also plenty of Bedouin tents close to the road and sometimes small groups of men leading camels.

 Eventually and none to soon, they pulled into Herat just as it was starting to get dark.

It once again looked dusty and ramshackle, the roads far worse than the highway. There were a few cars about, trucks as well as donkeys.

“Hey man, Al, let's get our gear and find a place to stay fast” said Keith, “Before all the rooms get taken..”

To Al's amazement their bags were already off the roof of the coach before they got outside, and they immediately spotted a sign across the road that said “Hostel”. 

They went in; the receptionist spoke English and was pleasant. He said there were many Westerners staying there. He explained that tomorrow many would go on buses to the border or to Kandahar and Kabul. They served an evening meal and breakfast. It was remarkably cheap and looked clean so they booked a room that turned out to have two beds.

The receptionist explained that the bus to Kabul left at 3 o'clock each afternoon and would take almost 24 hours, stopping in Kandahar. He said he could buy their tickets the next morning. Keith and Al gave him the money, about two hundred Afghanis, worth about one pound in British money.

The lads decided to drop their rucksacks into the room, lock the door and go for a walk before it got too dark. The room had two beds. These would be the first beds they had slept on since Tehran. The beds had sheets and thick woollen blankets. In the corner was a table and two wooden chairs, and another small table with a wash basin and large jug containing water. They could see the street from the window.

Al told Keith that he had hardly any money left.

That was when Keith first told Al that he had fifty British pounds in travellers cheques that could be cashed at a bank or maybe sold for more on the illicit market on the street. So really they had no big money problems if Keith would give Al a loan until his money arrived. Al had left Turkey weeks earlier and travelled many miles on less than £20. Surely they had enough to get to India? Fifty pounds was about two weeks wages in Britain. Al had lived on his ‘grant’ of £10 a week for three years, four pounds of which went on rent and the rest of books, bus fares, food and beer. Then he had worked on a building site erecting fences for twenty pounds for five days work. Here in Asia so far, it seemed that £20 was worth more like £500.

It was getting dark now and the temperature was dropping quite quickly. They walked up the main street that the bus had stopped on, past tea and coffee houses, small eating places, shops selling foodstuff or with butchers meat hanging as if a feast for the flies, hardware shops with piles of metal and clay cooking pots outside, a baker's shop with a window full of chocolate brownies and other cakes, and shops selling cloths.

They bought some bottles of water, chocolate brownie cakes, rusks, soft cheese, yoghurt and tobacco, and headed back to the hotel.

“Well I can't see there's much here,” said Al, when they were back in their room. “What's it say in your book?”

“Aw man I'm hungry, I'll read some later, let's see what they're serving up.”

So they went to the dining room in the hostel and to their surprise it was filled with western men and women. Some were sitting at tables eating and others were sat on large bean-bag cushions on the floor. Some of the men had long hair, but some short; same for the women. Some were dressed in jeans and T-shirts or sweaters, some in Indian garb, white pyjamas, and a couple in orange robes. There was a girl sitting on a cushion singing and playing her guitar. Songs by Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell, as Al recognised.

Al sat at a table and a few of the other diners said “hi”.

The man from reception appeared at the table holding a small blackboard with a list of food for sale, in English. Al was amazed to see Pizza, Burgers, Fried Potatoes and Milkshakes listed. But he and Keith decided to try the vegetarian goulash and yellow rice with beans and salad, and a milkshake each.

“Bloody hell, it's cheap,” said Keith.

He turned to one of the others and said “Hey man, is the food OK?”

“It's actually very good,"said a chap with a very English accent, “best we've had since Athens.” The guy explained that he and his girlfriend were going to Nepal and had left the UK six months earlier. They had chosen to go across Turkey to Iran, rather than the route taken by Al and Keith, but had got stuck in eastern Turkey due to a bad storm and landslide. They had had to wait weeks whilst the road was cleared.

They were correct in that, the food was superb and the two ate their fill to the sound of peace songs from the girl on the cushions. Al thought she looked very pretty with her long black hair and smiling face and wondered if she was going to same way as he and Keith.

After dinner and after most of the others had left, Al and Keith went back to their room and Keith rolled a joint with some of the hash he had left. He shared it with Al and then opened his guide book and started to read about Afghanistan.

“It doesn't say much about Herat man,” he said, “just that it's a stopping off point for hippies going east or west. But there's a good bit on Afghanistan.”

“Do you know, “said Al, “I never heard of it except I remember it from when I collected stamps as a kid, still got some from here. A mystery adventure."

Keith read aloud:

“A landlocked mountainous country with plains in the north and south-west, Afghanistan is variously described as being located within Central Asia or South Asia.

“The country's natural resources include: coal, copper, iron ore, lithium, uranium, rare earth elements, chromite, gold, zinc, talc, barites, sulphur, lead, marble, precious and semi-precious stones, natural gas, and petroleum, among other things.

“At over two hundred and fifty thousand square miles, Afghanistan is the world's forty-first largest country, slightly bigger than France and smaller than Burma, about the size of Texas in the United States. It borders Pakistan in the south and east; Iran in the west and China in the far east.

“I'm glad we don't have to remember all that, I always hated having to remember dates in school” said Al.

“Pashto and Dari or Persian are the official languages of Afghanistan; bilingualism is very common. A small percentage of Afghans are also fluent in Urdu, English, and other languages.

“Over 99% of the Afghan population is Muslim; approximately 80–85% are from the Sunni branch, 15–19% are Shi'a, and roughly 3% are non-denominational Muslims..”

“There's a bit about Herat, man, not much though”:

“Herat is the capital of Herat province and is situated in the valley of the Hari River.

“Situated in a fertile area, Herat dates back to the Avestan times and was traditionally known for its wine."

“Bloody hell,” said Keith, “I didn't think they'd be making wine!”

“Herodotus described Herat as the bread-basket of Central Asia.

“Herat was a great trading centre strategically located on trade routes from Mediterranean Sea to India or to China.

“Three quarters of the population of Herat lives in rural districts while just under a quarter 23% lives in urban areas. Around 50% of the population is male and 50% is female. Dari and Pashtu are spoken by 98% of the population and 97.7% of the villages. Languages spoken by the remaining population are Turkmeni and Uzbeki.”

“Hey man I'll read this bit about Kandahar too,” said Keith.

“It's the capital of Kandahar Provincey.

“Kandahar is one of the most culturally significant cities of the Pashtuns and has been their traditional seat of power for more than two hundred years. It is a major trading centre for sheep, wool, cotton, silk, felt, food grains, fresh and dried fruit, and tobacco. The region produces fine fruits, especially pomegranates and grapes, and the city has plants for canning, drying, and packing fruit, and is a major source of marijuana. The area is believed to be the birthplace of cannabis indica.”

“Far out, it's where the weed comes from. We may get some blindin' stuff there! said Keith.

“The region around Kandahar is one of the oldest known human settlements. Alexander the Great had laid-out the foundation of what is now Old Kandahar in the fourth century BC and gave it the Ancient Greek name Alexandria of Arachosia. Many empires have long fought over the city due to its strategic location along the trade routes of southern, central and western Asia.

“Early peasant farming villages came into existence in Afghanistan about 5000 BC., or seven thousand years ago.

Keith and Al smoked another joint. Al decided to go to see if they could get a cup of tea, so he left the room and headed to the reception area.

At the reception was the happy friendly man that seemed to be manager, waiter and maybe even cook and the guitar-playing girl from the cushions in the dining room, chatting. From her accent, he guessed she was Canadian.

Al ordered two cups of tea with milk. There was no sugar, just hard boiled sweets to suck on whilst the tea was sipped. Apparently, according to the man, there was often a shortage of sugar but never a shortage of sweets and cakes!

“Hi, I'm Al.” He smiled at the girl.

“Hi, I'm Miriam,” she said, smiling back. “I'm from Vancouver on my way east.” she said.

“I'm going to India,” said Al, “at least that's where we're heading now. We left England in a van and we were just going to Turkey and back. There were five of us. But I decided to head east with my mate and the others stayed in Turkey. We're going to meet them later. Well, that was the plan. Now it looks like we're going to India instead.”

“So did you come through Turkey and Iran?” asked Miriam.

“Yeah and Iraq and Syria. We were going to go to Beirut but we were put off, so we went to Baghdad instead. We've been on the road a few months now. "Actually, it's the first time I ever left the UK.“

Al felt good chatting to Miriam and they exchanged a few travel tales. They talked about the Pudding Shop in Istanbul and how bad it was in Tehran. Al did not mention the opium village though. Miriam did not look the sort that he thought would take opium.

In fact, Al was so busy chatting and sipping his tea that he completely forgot to take a tea for Keith.

Keith suddenly appeared saying “Aw man, where's my fucking tea? I made another number.”

He smiled at Miriam and Al introduced them.

“Get some more tea and come and have a smoke,” said Keith.

“That would be nice,” she said.

So the three went back to the room with tea and smoked a joint, then another. Miriam sat on the bed next to Al. I could tell he liked this girl and wondered what would happen. Would Al leave Keith and go with Miriam? I knew he was thinking of it. Plus it turned out Miriam was catching the same bus to Kandahar the next afternoon.

After an hour or so, Miriam said “Good night, see you!” and left, presumably to her own room.

Now Al was looking forward to the bus journey and maybe chatting with Miriam again and maybe more. With the pleasant feeling from the cannabis and from the girl, he got into bed and soon fell asleep.