Saturday, 21 February 2026
Saturday, 14 February 2026
Tuesday, 14 June 2022
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.”
Wednesday, 8 June 2022
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.
Tuesday, 7 June 2022
June 1972: Haridwar, Chillums and A Dip in the Ganges
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-robed '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.
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, buying, 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!”
Al 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 into 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 ground.
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. He was pointing at Al and the chai was seemingly somewhat disgruntled. He delivered to his table with "no charge Sir" and the Mahatma and his entourage left, saying “Join is for Arti parade.”
There was 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.
I sensed that Al's head was spinning, not like it had been after drinking alcohol and nothing like the hash or opium he had smoked or eaten; not even like the blues that he had swallowed in Lahore.
This was different, not at all pleasant.
Suddenly Al jumped up and ran to the edge of the platform. He vomited onto the ground. He started to sweat profusely. He felt the need to rush to the toilet which he found just in time and his bowels emptied over the hole in the ground. He was sick again.
A while later he cooled down and felt a little better.
He returned to his bench. He was thinking that he had so little money and so few possessions but he had never set out to be a Sadhu, and people called him “Baba” too!
Nw he was ill – he had no idea where Keith was and Miriam was probably in Nepal. He had little or no contact with anyone in the UK. He didn't even really know where Haridwar was. He didn't know where Prem Nagar was. He would have to miss the “Arti” parade.
Was it the holy Ganges water that made him vomit like this, or the reluctantly-given Chai?
Now he was sick. He would have to try to get the train back to Delhi and hopefully, some money.
And that is how I, Myhat, felt, like the head, Al, thatI went with.
And felt I did as felt was part of my fabric.
Monday, 6 June 2022
June 1972: Back to Delhi and Train to Haridwar
Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN
978-0993210716
A couple of days later and Al was back in New Delhi by train. He checked the post office but there was no mail. He checked at American Express. There was no money for him.
He decided to sleep in the small local park and save money.
The next morning he went again to the Poste Restante. This time there was a letter from a friend back in Norwich promising to send some money in a “few days.”
So Al decided to best use what money was left and buy a train ticket to Haridwar to try to find that Prem Nagar Ashram that he had been told about, where he could sleep and eat for free, on the Ganges riverbank.
He had now run out of film so immediately went to the Sikh indoor market and sold his camera.
He bought a big bag of samosas and another bag of fruit, and sooner than imagined was on a packed train to the foothills of the Himalayas. Talk about a crowded train, there were people riding on the roof.
Al actually now had very little idea where he was heading or how long it would take. It took almost twenty-four hours. The train seemed to be taking a zigzag route, a steam engine pulling us one way then the other, as it travelled up and down the valleys, through places that Al had never heard of. It was supposed to be about 150 miles but with all that zigzag was probably closer to two hundred and fifty.
Haridwar, Al had learned, meant 'Gateway to God' and was one of the Hindu holy places in India and a centre of Hindu religion and mysticism for centuries. It was on the banks of River Ganges and attracted a large number of Hindu pilgrims from all over the world.
When the train arrived at Haridwar, it was not long before dark. Al slept that night on a wooden bench at the railway station.
(Photos found on-line)
Saturday, 21 May 2022
Wednesday, 15 March 2017
Saturday, 16 July 2016
Readers photo competition - help by giving some pics a LIKE on Facebook: All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972
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Sunday, 7 February 2016
Saturday, 28 March 2015
ALUN BUFFRY - 2 news books now in paperback
"ALL ABOUT MY HAT - THE HIPPY TRAIL 1972" PAPARBACKisbn 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.
Friday, 9 January 2015
"All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972" by Alun Buffry NOW ON KINDLE AT AMAZON
READERS' COMMENTS
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: "Read it before Christmas, liked it, 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."
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.
NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE AT AMAZON
