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 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!
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.
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.
“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!”
“But they're only little,” said 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
Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972 ISBN 978-0993210716
(Pics found on line)
When Al awoke it was really early in the morning. He left the station and found a small café where he ate some breakfast. Whilst he was in there, the waiter recommended that Al go by train to Rishikesh, another of India's sacred Ganges cities. He headed back to the station and yes there was a train in an hour. By now Al had just less than one hundred rupees and his ticket back to Delhi. He wanted to stay at that ashram for a week and then felt sure that money would be in Delhi when he got back.
All he had was a few dirty rupees notes and a fifty rupee note. The fare to Rishikesh was just five rupees return.
Al queued for over an hour for the tickets which were sold just before the train arrived. When he finally reached the ticket office window and presented his fifty rupee note, he was told that it was no good because it was torn. He was told to go to a bank to change it. Of course that would mean we would miss the train.
So he decided to board the train and he could show the ticket inspector his ticket from Delhi and pay the extra few rupees.
It was not long before the inspector arrived, the train chugging slowly onwards.
Al showed his ticket and explained the problem back in Haridwar.
The ticket inspector said that as Al had no valid ticket, he would have to pay 100 rupees fine on top of the fare. Of course he didn't have one hundred rupees and said so.
There was a short argument between them and suddenly the inspector turned away and pulled the emergency cord. The train stopped.
The petty official ordered Al to get off the train and feeling that there was no alternative he did.
He climbed down, heard the blowing of a whistle and watched as the train pulled away up the track towards Rishikesh. All around seemed like jungle! Al imagined monkeys in the trees and then thought about tigers.
All he could think to do was follow the railway line.
“Bloody petty bureaucrats!” thought Al; “Here I am between two of the most holy cities on the Ganges and I get kicked off a train by an official without compassion.”
After walking for about ten minutes and enjoying it, the track crossed a road. As Al reached the road he spotted a car heading towards the direction of Rishikesh. He waved down the car and it stopped.
There was a man and woman and two children, presumably a family, and the man speaking English asked Al if he wanted to go to Rishikesh and offered a lift. The man, told Al that he was a Hindu and his name was Ashok. He told Al that he was very happy to meet him and that, if Al wanted, he could spend the day with them. They were planning to visit the ashram of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi near Rishikesh. Al quickly agreed.
Al could hardly believe his luck. Travelling with this family could be far better than on the train.
Ashok told Al a few things about Rishikesh.
Al already knew that it was a special holy city on the Ganges, but he was surprised to hear that it is also known as 'The Gateway to the Garhwal Himalayas'.
Apparently the name means means Lord of Senses or Lord Vishnu.
The ashram was within a complex of lecture halls and sparse concrete cells where paying students stayed. The contrast between the luxurious lecture halls and the cells was shocking, as is the contrast between rich and poor throughout India. There were pleasant gardens with many trees where people could stroll or maybe meditate.
It did not appeal to Al at all. He felt he wanted no part of that. How could anyone charge money to supposedly teach peace?
After leaving the Maharishi's ashram, Ashok drove first to a small restaurant for a delicious vegetarian lunch. Ashok told Al that Rishikesh was vegetarian by law. That suited Al.
Ashok explained to Al: “Legends say that Lord Rama did penance here for killing Ravana, the demon king of Lanka; and Lakshmana, his younger brother, crossed the river Ganges using a rope bridge."
Now there was a new bridge for locals, tourists, cows and monkeys.
Rishikesh was quite full of people in all sorts of styles and colour of clothing, Many women dressed in bright coloured sarees. There were also the sadhus and babas that had renounced worldly goods and wealth and lived beside their holy river Ganges. At this point where two rivers met it was the origin of their holy waters.
The sounds also bells and chimes was everywhere.
It was almost like a supermarket for the occult and spiritually-minded, offering courses on well-being and some form of enlightenment, as well as services like palmistry, massages, healing and yoga.
The streets were lined either side with stalls and shops offering, as well as food and drink, amongst other things, gems and semi-precious stones, sarees, all sorts of clothing and shoes and boots, kitchen utensils, wooden goods, books, sweets and cakes. There were street-side barbers, dentists and pharmacies, travel agents and shops offering to tell one's future.
The streets were full of the smells of incense and wood fires, mixed sometimes with the smell of cooking or unpleasant drains.
The most astounding site was the thirteen-story red temple, called the Tarah Manzil, believed to have been built over five hundred years ago.
The bridge itself, built where Lord Rama's younger brother Laxman was believed to have crossed the Ganges by a rope bridge, was a narrow and swaying suspension bridge. It was used by rickshaws and bicycles as well a pedestrians. At the entrance to the bridge there were monkeys ready to grab what they could from unsuspecting travellers.
The plaque there read:
"Lahshman Jhuala Bridge - first Jeepable suspension bridge of U.P.
"Span - 450 feet; Carriageway - 6 feet.
"This bridge was constructed by U.P.P.W.D. during 1927 – 1929. It replaces the old bridge of 284 feet span which was washed away by great floods of October 1924. This was opened to traffic on 11 April 1930".
The views both from and of the bridge with the beautiful mountain backdrops were stunning.
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.
Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
When we reached the town of Silvegozu near the border crossing, we discovered that we would have to walk through the Turkish customs and passport control, then walk about five miles through “no-man's land”, to reach the Syrian customs and passport control. We also had to change some of our money into Syrian money. We did not have much in terms of British money, I knew, but I sensed that both Al and Keith were pleased that it was worth a lot more in these countries.
Al was carrying his rucksack and I had a great view from from the top of Al's head. I could see we were following a rough road with fields and hills on either side. There were people working in the fields and also some animals. There was no traffic on the road at all, until suddenly a small camper van appeared. It pulled up beside the two men and the driver leaned out and said hello, in English
"Hi, where you from, where you going?” asked the driver.
“Hello, we're from England and we're on our way to Baghdad,” said Al, “but we've got to get across Syria first.”
“We'll we're driving to Aleppo, then back, we're Aussies, good luck!”
“Any chance of a lift to the border?” asked Keith.
“Nope, sorry, we don't give lifts!” answered the driver.
“Well any chance of some water?” asked Keith – I knew both he and Al were thirsty as it was not very hot.
“OK,” said the driver, pouring two cups and handing one to each. “Sorry we don't have much left either.”
Keith and Al drank the water and gave back the cups, and without another word the “Aussies” drove off. “Man, I hope they're not typical fucking Aussies,” said Keith, “they could have fitted us in.”
So on we walked and within the hour we had reached the Syrian border post, completed formalities, bought a three-day visa, changed money, Turkish Lira into Syrian Pounds, and quickly found a lift in a truck going to Aleppo. Even though the truck driver spoke no English and neither Keith nor Al spoke his language he seemed far more friendly than the “Aussies”.
It was April 10, 1972. They had three days to hitch-hike across Syria to reach the Iraq border before their visa expired.
Aleppo did not seem to interest either Al or Keith and after a night in a cheap hostel dormitory and bread, fruit and black tea for breakfast, we were soon back on the road and then inside another truck going close to our next destination, Deir Ez Zur. Again the driver spoke no English. Keith said that the second most-widely spoken language here was German. Al said he had studied German in school but not been very interested and had failed the exam. Keith read from the Guide Book:
“Deir el Zur is a booming oil town in Eastern Syria on the Euphrates River. A few worthwhile attractions and the friendliness of the locals welcome those willing to go off the beaten track.
“While there may not be much in the way of tourist attractions, Deir el Zur stands out for me and other travellers I've talked to mostly because of its people.
"Getting to Deir el Zur is not for the faint of heart. Crossing the Syrian desert in summer or early fall is a painful experience even by bus. Few people will speak English and there isn't much in the way of tourist infrastructure. Once there, though, you will be welcomed by people of all ages with an eager "merhaba" and a curious "where you come from?"
The following day, Al and Keith hitch-hiked from Aleppo to Deir el Zur, a distance of 213 miles.
It was quite a long time before the duo had arrived in the city of Deir el Zur and found a small hotel.
To get inside they had to climb three broken steps.
The room was small but cosy and Al could see the sign of a large hotel from the window, obviously much more pricey – the Hotel Continental. The hotel we were now in did not seem to have a name, just a small wooden sign saying “Hotel”.
We also noticed that now most of the women were wearing black and covered their heads, some even their eyes, and almost all the men were dressed in typical Arab style gowns called Djellabas, of different colours. Some wore head scarves or turbans and most wore sandals. On the streets were stalls selling snacks such as falafel in bread, nuts and sweet cakes, others selling meat hanging from hooks, and fruits and vegetables. It was also much cleaner than most cities and for sure, people were smiling.
This was the last day of their Visa to cross Syria and Keith explained that they would have to leave early afternoon to try to get a lift to the border. If they were late they may have to pay a fine and they did not have enough money to do that. They could, however, take a stroll around the area near the hotel.
So after a cup of tea, the two decided to go out for a stroll, walking the streets just looking at the people. But it was not long before Keith said he wanted to go back to “get some kip,” and Al decided to stroll around on his own. He suddenly found the Tourist Office next to a small park. He went inside the tourist office only to find that the staff spoke no English and after trying a conversation in German he picked up a map and left. He strolled into the park and sat on a wooden bench to look at the map of the town.
It was only minutes before he was approached by a couple that said “Hi!” and he knew straight away that they were Americans. They seemed friendly enough and after a couple of minutes the guy produced a small “joint”. “Want to smoke some Turkish hash?”
Of course, Al wanted to do just that!
So they all sat about chatting and smoking the joint – I could sense that Al found the joint very strong. After about twenty minutes the Americans left and Al decided it was time to head back to his hotel. But where was it? He did not remember it having a name or the name of the street it was on – all he could remember was that it had some broken steps in front of the entrance.
So Al headed off up a street opposite the Tourist Office – at least, he muttered to himself, if it was the wrong street he could turn round and find the Tourist Office again.
It was the wrong street! Al did turn around and tried another street, then another street – he was stoned and lost!
Now he was back at the Tourist Office for the third time at least. He sat outside to rest and think and was then approached by a young Syrian man who said “Excuse me Sir, I think you are lost. I have seen you coming back here. Can I help?”
Al thanked him and said he could not remember where his small hotel was or the name – but that from the window he could see the sign for a larger hotel called 'The Continental.'
The Syrian man, who said his name was Mohammed, said he knew where that was and headed off chatting, with Al following. Suddenly in the distance, Al could see the sign and then, just as suddenly, he spotted an elderly Syrian man waving from an upstairs window. Al's eyes fell to the entrance, spotted the broken steps and the small 'hotel' sign and exclaimed, “That's it!” I felt he was relieved.
As soon as Al reached the room, Keith said, “Come on, we're late, I've arranged a lift to Iraq! They're going all the way to Baghdad. Where the heck you been anyway?”
“I got stoned and then got lost and couldn't remember where the hotel was or what it was called. I was walking up and down from the Tourist Office anyway, then I remembered the Continental sign and a guy offered help. I only knew it was our hotel 'cos of the broken step."
“Anyway man,” said Keith laughing, “stoned or not we gotta go.”
They had to walk to the outskirts of the City where there would be a convoy of trucks arranged by the hotel manager, waiting to pick them up and take them towards the border. That was no problem. The trucks were waiting and eagerly set off, with Al in one truck and Keith in another, about five trucks in all. The driver of our truck spoke no English and very few words of German, so Al settled down to try to read. The countryside was very brown and hilly, very dry looking but quite beautiful. Then Al tried to ask what time they would reach Baghdad. Al pointed to his watch. The man held up three fingers and Al became confused. They could not possibly reach Baghdad in three hours.
So after trying a few words in German, Al realised it would not take three hours but three days! He had to try to explain that they only had about 8 hours to get to the border and out of Syrian because their Visas would expire and he had no way of contacting Keith..
Al managed to explain and found out that it would be over 36 hours before they reached the border and that they were heading for Baghdad via a place called Mosul. They were in fact, back on the road going towards Aleppo.
A short while later, the driver pulled into an area by the side of the road where other trucks were parked, and our convoy stopped for a break. The break consisted of bread, fruit and meat, and a drink called “Ouzo”, an anise-flavoured alcohol that I had become familiar with back in Konstantino's barber shop. Al explained to Keith that they had a problem and were heading the wrong way and on a much longer route to the border. Somehow, he explained, much to Keith's surprise as he was oblivious to the problem, having been asleep, they would have to get back into Deir el Zur and find a lift to the border but it was now late afternoon and they had just 8 hours to get there. “Doesn't look good,” said Keith.
Al's friendly truck driver came over with another driver who spoke some English and after the problem was explained the man said “No Problem, I take you to truck stop in Deir el Zur then I find you good lift right way! But first we drink!”
They did not seem to worry about drink driving in Syria – at least these truck drivers didn't and before long, Al and Keith had both drank enough Ouzo and water mix to start laughing and staggering slightly. It was going to be an interesting evening getting to Iraq.
True to his word, the driver introduced Keith and Al to the new driver and they climbed aboard and were soon passed through Deir el Zur. They pulled up at another truckers' picnic spot and then merrily on their way towards Iraq in yet another truck. This one had a music player and the driver seemed very happy to have company even though only he knew very few words in English.
They went for about an hour along a road with increasingly more pot holes, and as it was beginning to get dark, stopped in a small village. The driver, another Mohammed, said that he would be stopping and pointed into the village, so Keith and Al said their goodbyes and shook hands, put on their rucksacks, with me all the time on Al's head, and walked through the village.
Everybody they passed started waving and shouting greetings with big broad smiles. Not just that though, they started following Keith and Al through the village and out the other side. Few spoke English. Most of the men wore Arab style dress and most of the children were bare-footed in virtual rags. We passed various shops, stalls and tea-houses, where men sitting in the street. There was not a woman to be seen. By the time we found a place to try to get another lift there was a party of about 30, mostly children, behind us and as soon as a vehicle came along and Keith and Al started waving their hand asking for a ride, all the children and adults started doing the same!
Keith said: “Aw man, we'll never get a lift like this. It looks like we're at the end of a long line of people wanting a lift too, man,” as he started trying to motion to some of them to move away. But as he waved them away they came closer.
Al laughed and said “I think that wave you're doing means 'come here'! I'll just go and tell them.”
Finally Al walked over to one of the adults and asked if anyone spoke English. He discovered by chance that he had chosen the village schoolteacher who did indeed understand. Al explained that we were in a hurry to reach the border and needed everyone to go away so we could try to get a ride.
“No problem,” said the schoolteacher as he walked away leaving everybody else standing there. I could sense the frustration in Al and could see it in Keith. I don't think the Ouzo was helping. Keith started walking further out of the village so Al picked up his bag and followed. The crowd, however, didn't.
As darkness fell and Keith and Al had walked onwards, they could see no lights ahead. There was no traffic on the road, there was nobody about. I don't think Keith or Al's mood was very good at that point.
Suddenly there was a car with no lights coming down the road behind them, honking the horn as if in a panic. It pulled up behind Keith and Al and the headlights went on. Two figures got out of the car and started walking towards them.
“Hello, hello, Sir,” said a voice, “we have come to take you to next village.” It was the village schoolteacher! He explained that the other man was his 'friend with car' and that they would be happy to take us some of the way on our journey.
The next village was about a ten minute slow drive away, carefully avoiding the many pot holes. It looked like it was going to be a long night. “We'll never get there by midnight,” said Al.
“No way man. We're fucked”, said Keith.
This was to become a pattern for the next few hours. They would arrive at one end of a village and walk through, gathering a crowd of followers along the way. In one place there must have been over 100 people, cheering!
From that point somebody would turn up to offer a lift in a whole variety of vehicles most of them new to me.
There were more trucks and another car, but also a horse and cart, a tractor and almost unbelievably, a motorbike with two men already on it. They sat, first the driver, then Al with his rucksack, then the other man and finally Keith with his rucksack hanging on at the back! We weaved in and out between the potholes for about twenty minutes and pulled into another village. The man said “Passport” and pointed further down the road, indicating with his fingers that we had to walk. “Al Bu Kamai,” he said.
It was now 10.30, according to Al, so he said “We've got time for a cup of tea and some food?
“There's a place there, look!”
Keith agreed.
The duo drank tea and ate some bread and cheese, some sweet cakes and headed back out of town towards 'Passports'. “I don't like the vibe here, man” said Keith, “that guy didn't seem like he wanted to serve us. Heavy, man. Let's just get across the border before anything bad happens.”
“I reckon so,” said Al, “I felt a bit paranoid in there, they didn't seem like the other people in the other villages. Maybe it's because they know we're leaving their country. It's not like we're big spenders!”
So they walked about a mile and arrived at the border with its passport and customs control. The border guard spoke English. “We are closed for the night, good evening,” he said, “you cannot go now.”
Keith and Al showed their passports and explained that they had a visa but it expired at midnight. The guard kept looking at me, I thought I would end up with a new owner tonight. Maybe he would ask for Al's hat before he let them go through!
“No problem,” said the guard, “you sleep here outside and in the morning I give you tea and then you go through, walk to Iraqi border.”
