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

 

July 20 1972: Entering Pakistan and arriving in Lahore: Trouble in a village

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

(images from on-line)

The next day, July 20 1972, they met up and went to the bus station – there was a bus leaving that afternoon and it was due to arrive in Lahore in the evening. They would stay one night then get a bus to Rawalpindi. They bought tickets.

Al had been in India almost seven weeks.

A few hours later they were back at the bus station with their bags, had boarded the bus and were on their way to the border crossing at Attari – Wagah along the Grand Trunk Road. It was just about 20 miles and they arrived to be told that the bus would stop long enough to see the daily ceremonial lowering of flags at dusk.

This was one of the strangest military displays Al had ever seen. On each side or the border there were troops dressed in costumes and hats.

On the Indian side the troops wore black with black fan-like hats; on the Pakistani side they wore khaki with red fan hats.

It was like some sort of game, a flag-lowering with synchronised shouting and stamping of feet, with soldiers doing fast goose-step marches and high kicks with a waving of flags and shouting of orders, as if a show of one-upmanship, a battle of wits without bullets being fired with a great waving of arms, salutes and gestures. Crowds had gathered to watch this display. The gate was opened and closed and opened again, and the two country flags lowered simultaneously.

 

When the prancing and parading was over, Al and Diane walked through the customs and passport control and re-boarded the bus that took them towards Lahore.

Not long before they arrived, a young Pakistani man asked if they needed somewhere to stay. He had a house in a village just outside the city and they could stay for free.

Al and Diane agreed and got off the bus with the young man. He led them through a small village to a small house. They entered the house. It was completely devoid of furniture. Not even a chair or a bed.

The man explained that he had only just rented the house and was yet to move in, but if they waited then he would bring them blankets and a rug to sleep on and some tea and food. He left and had not come back.

Instead other young men started entering in groups of two and three, saying that they only wanted to speak in English to practice for their school. They were all talking. About half a dozen with Al at one side of the front room and others to Diane at the other side.

Suddenly Al heard Diane shouting - “No, get off of me, leave me alone!”

Al could see that Diane was looking very uncomfortable and up against the wall with about eight young guys in front of her. It reminded him of the similar situation in the Lahore film studio corridor with Miriam. But, he thought, that was in a public place, this is in a village.

He needed to act fast, so he did exactly what he had done before.

He pushed through the small crowd in front of him and crossed the room. He started shouting; “That is enough, stop it and go away!”

Some of the guys backed off.

He shouted again “Fuck off or I'll stab you!”

With that they started pointing at Diane and shouting at each other. Within a minute or so they had all left the house.

“Come on,” said Al, “let's split before it gets dark and they come back.”

As the light was fading, they walked back through the village to where the bus had stopped. People were shouting at them and it sounded like it may have been abuse. A woman threw a bucket of what looked like dirty water into the street in front of them.

“What's up with this fucking place?” asked Al.

“It's really aggressive here isn't it. Let's get into Lahore.”

Just then a bus came along and they jumped aboard.

 

Al knew exactly the place to stay, the Hotel Eden, where he had stayed with Keith a couple of months earlier. But the staff were different so he did not ask for Bhang, the cannabis drink that he had tried last time. After all, he thought, we want to make an early start tomorrow.

So it wasn't long before they had eaten dinner and were in bed.

Diane asked Al if he had brought any hash.

“No,” he said, “did you hear the tale about the customs woman there that is supposed to be psychic?”

Life on the Brim: The Autobiography of a Hat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 1972: Peshawar and Lahore: Miriam at the Lahore Film Studio

  Taken from All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972  

The street looked like a chaotic mishmash of tumble-down buildings with broken or torn flags hanging everywhere. The road was pot-holed. It was crowded with people. There was a restaurant across the road. Al took a photograph – not many left.

There was no toilet in the room. In fact, there did not seem to be one visible at al. So still with me on his head, he went to the reception to ask.

“On roof,” said the small man sitting behind a desk reading a newspaper. He did not seen interested.

Al climbed two flights of stairs to find a door that opened onto the roof.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure with three doors, a couple of steps up and inside there was a hole in the concrete floor and a jug of water. The water was to wash instead of the Western toilet papers we had seen in some cities.

Below the hole was another level of concrete – piled with human shit. It was smelling real bad even though the day was cooling fast as the light was beginning to fade. The whole place was, of course, swarming with flies.

Later Al learned that the place was emptied once a day, the shit shovelled into wicker baskets lines with rushes and leaves, to be carried down through the hotel and into the street. Al could not imagine what they did with it after that. Those poor women deserved a reward. But he had nothing spare to even offer.

A while after returning to the room, there was a knock on the door. Keith jumped up and opened it and there stood Hellmut, grinning and with a smoking joint in his hand.

“Hello my friends, you want to smoke some hash with me and I buy you dinner?”

So they puffed on the joint, their spirits again lifting. Al had been wondering where he was – absolutely everything was so different to his home city; in fact it was so different to anything else he had seen even in the places we had passed through.

Al was thinking, what is different: well for starters the smells and the air, the people and their costumes, the language and the script, the food and the drink, the streets and the buildings, the transport, the health care, the hygiene and safety rules and protection, life expectancy and family life, politics and religion, even the ways in which business was conducted - people argued over prices.

And, thought Al, what is the same – well I guess I am, he thought – I guess everyone, well most people, have two arms, two legs and two eyes; we're all breathing; we probably all want the same thing, We all want to achieve something and to find fulfilment, peace, love, freedom.. We probably all wonder at some time what life is all about – or maybe their religions satisfy all that.

Al began wondering why he was travelling – what was he looking for. Religion and science had failed him, now he was feeling like he was wandering far from home, maybe risking his health and safety, taking risks in a dangerous part of the world and with very little money. “Am I nuts?” he thought.

But so far this adventure had gone well, and in any case there was only one direction to go and that was India. Al thought that it was said people could find answers in India – it was where The Beatles had gone to their Guru called Mahesh Yogi. It was a land of many beliefs, supposedly with enlightened beings willing to impart the truth. Or so he'd read. Probably not like that at all. And, thought Al, I probably don't have enough money to buy enlightenment.

Outside in the damp street, the women were dressed in black Burkas again, or colourful cloth wraps, except the Westerners of course. Some of them were well covered too and many wore head scarves. Almost all the Western men wore blue jeans, some with hats of varying sorts, and one even looking quite like myself.

The local men were of two distinct types. One lot were quite short in height and slight, dressed in what often looked like dirty pyjamas with white caps or wrapped in sheets of cloth. The other lot were massive, thick set giants over 6 feet in height, wearing turban-like headgear and armed with rifles and long swords.

Bicycles, three wheeler Rickshaws, and beasts of burden, were the main form of transport here.

Al spotted a sign above a doorway. It was a drawing of a set of false teeth.

There were three-wheeled street stalls with massive piles of apples, oranges, lemons and yellow and green melons for sale. Dirty-looking streets stalls offered strange looking food in huge pans cooking over charcoal or wood fires.

“You know, my friends, Peshawar is called the 'City of Thieves' – you can buy guns here – be careful with your bags,” said Hellmut.

“Fucking great, man,” said Keith.

The street was filthy.

“Two nights here, then I am going to Lahore on the train, if you want, my friends, I will tell the manager at the hotel and he will buy us tickets,” said Hellmut.

“How much do the tickets cost?” asked Keith.

“No problem my friends I am paying, you are my guests. Now we go to special place to eat and we can smoke hashish. It is called The Secret Restaurant and my friend from Berlin, Karl is running it. And his wife Marianna is from Switzerland. They have good vegetarian food and good music.

The Secret Restaurant was actually inside a large second floor apartment down a poorly lit back street and on to another main road, this time far busier with trucks, carts, colourful coaches, cars and bicycles – and men with donkeys carrying either them or their wares. The roadway and pavements were equally muddy and dirty and it was quite noisy. Street stalls were still selling fruit and vegetables and bottles of fizzy drinks – a lot of signs for Pepsi. Other stalls were issuing clouds of smoke or steam, offering a whole range of quite unpleasant looking foods. Hygiene was an absentee here.

But the apartment building itself, behind a large wall separating it from the road, and guarded at the entrance by a costumed and armed giant from the hills, was remarkably clean.

The guard greeted Hellmut and let us pass through the arched gateway. Hellmut pressed a buzzer near the doorway and soon a pretty young lady came to let us in. Hellmut greeted Marianna, they hugged like good old friends. She led the way for us up the stairs and into the apartment.

The apartment consisted of at least two bedrooms, kitchen, western toilet with shower and a massive living room with a balcony looking out on to what may have been the back garden or a park. There were several round tables with chairs in the room seating for maybe 16 people. That still left plenty of room for the many cushions scattered around by the walls. About half a dozen people sat at tables another half a dozen or so on the cushions. A young dark-haired girl was playing a guitar and singing 'The Circle Game”, a Joni Mitchelle song.

For a second or two Al thought it was Miriam, but no.

Al could see outside through a double glass door was a balcony – he could see people were smoking.

The three of us sat at a table; Al took me off his head and put me next on the table next to the fourth chair which was empty. I felt as if I too was a guest at this meal.

The meal was three courses of vegetarian food – two choices for each course.

Al chose dahl with bread, a Madras vegetable curry with rice, and pancakes with fruit. The dahl was a very hot dish made from lentils and onions and garlic. It was all delicious, to Al's taste. And Keith had finished his plates too. Keith had eaten vegetable samosas – triangle of pastry with spicy potatoes and vegetables inside – pasta with creamy sauce and cheese, and rice pudding for afters.

They each drank a beer. It was the first alcohol Al had drank since the Ouzo in Syria. It was not as strong but still went straight to his head. He felt giggly.

Afterwards they smoked chillums on the balcony, looking down on a garden complete with flowers and a small pool with trickling water.

Al was lost looking down at that pool. Suddenly he began to wonder where he was.

One minute there's a dirty gloomy fearful city at night, with all the hustle and bustle and smoky fumes. Next, a veggie banquet with beer and chillums and Hendrix playing ' Foxy Lady' on a balcony above a heavenly garden. "Maybe in fact", thought Al, "we're actually all dead! Or just sleeping, dreaming. Or being dreamt?"

Al was thinking of the nature of reality - or was it illusion? Science had told him that everything was made of atoms and molecules, forms of energy, but those very atoms were almost all space, with wisp-like clouds of negative charge called electrons around a positively charged nucleus itself made of tiny particles that were sometimes behaving like particles and sometimes like waves – the wave-particle duality. And in between it all, 99% was nothing but space. So we are all mostly space.

Al thought that just as ridiculous to believe as a religion saying we were all made out of and by some supreme creator four thousand years ago in the Garden of Eden.

And where was the Garden of Eden anyway?

Certainly not in Peshawar.

With that he realised he was sitting on a balcony, high as a kite, looking at a pool of water.

They drank another beer and Hellmut led them back to the hotel, this time taking a slightly different, longer but better lit route.

Was that fireworks or gunshots we could hear? Guns?

The next day was spent mostly in the Secret Restaurant smoking talking and eating.

The morning after that, they took the train to Lahore – direction India.

In comparison to the bus rides, the train journey was boring. It was about three hundred and twenty miles but it took many hours.

When they reached Lahore, Hellmut took a taxi to a hotel he knew and they soon booked in. It was another hotel for mostly western travellers.

It was the Hotel Eden!

A small hotel with about a dozen room surrounding a small open garden with small shady trees, potted flowers and a pool in the centre!

Eden! Was this the Garden of Eden that Al had been thinking about at the Secret Restaurant in Peshawar?

The hotel also had a games room and Al looked inside; it had a pool table, table tennis and darts board.

He went to their room, small but comfortable, with two beds, dressing table with mirror and another table with one chair. On the way in he spotted a machine offering fizzy drinks and bought two for a few rupee coins.

Inside the room, Keith said:

“I'll read you a bit about Lahore,” and opened his travel guide.

“Lahore is the capital city of the Pakistani province of Punjab and the second largest metropolitan area in the country.

"It is the largest native Punjabi-populated city in the world and an important historical centre in South Asia. With a rich history dating back over a millennium, Lahore is a main cultural centre of Punjab region and Pakistan. One of the most densely populated cities in the world, Lahore remains an economic, political, transportation, entertainment, and educational hub. It is referred to as the "Mughal City of Gardens" due to the historic presence of gardens in and around the city dating back to the Mughal period.

“Lahore successively served as a regional capital of the empires of the Shahi kingdoms in the eleventh century, the Ghaznavids in the twelfth century, the Ghurid State in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and the Mughal Empire in the sixteenth century.

"From 1802 to 1849, Lahore served as the capital city of the Sikh Empire. In the mid-nineteenthth and early twentieth century, Lahore was the capital of the Punjab region under the British Raj. The traditional capital of Punjab for a millennium, Lahore was the cultural centre of the northern Indian subcontinent which extends from the eastern banks of the Indus River to New Delhi.

"Mughal structures such as the Badshahi Mosque, the Lahore Fort, Shalimar Gardens, the mausolea of Jehangir and Nur Jehan, Chauburji Gate, and the walled city are some of the major tourist attractions in the city. Lahore is also home to many British colonial structures built in the Indo-Saracenic style, such as the Lahore High Court, the General Post Office, Lahore Museum, Lahore Railway Station, and many older universities and colleges including the University of the Punjab, Govt College and King Edward Medical college. The Lahore Zoo, thought to be the fourth oldest in the world, is also situated here.

“Lahore was called by different names throughout history. To date there is no conclusive evidence as to when it was founded. Some historians trace the history of the city as far back as four thousand years ago. However, historically, it has been proved that Lahore is at least two thousand years old. Hieun-tsang, the famous Chinese pilgrim has given a vivid description of Lahore which he visited in the early parts of the seventh century. Lahore has been ruled and plundered by a number of dynasties and hordes.

“Maharaja Ranjit Singh made Lahore his capital and was able to expand the kingdom to the Khyber Pass and also included Jammu and Kashmir, while keeping the British from expanding across the River Sutlej for more than forty years. After his death in 1839 the internecine fighting between the Sikhs and several rapid forfeitures of territory by his sons, along with the intrigues of the Dogras and two Anglo-Sikh wars, eventually led to British control of the Lahore Darbar ten years later. For the British, Punjab was a frontier province, because Lahore had boundaries with Afghanistan and Persia. Therefore, the Punjabis, unlike the Bengalis and the Sindhis, were not allowed to use their mother tongue as an official language. The British first introduced Urdu as an official language in Punjab.

“Lahore played a special role in the independence movements of India. The 1929 Indian National Congress session was held at Lahore. In this Congress, the Declaration of the Independence of India was moved by Jawaharlal Nehru and passed unanimously at midnight on 31 December 1929.

“Upon the independence of Pakistan, Lahore was made capital of the Punjab province in the new state of Pakistan. Almost immediately, large scale riots broke out among Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus, causing many deaths as well as damage to historic monuments—including the Lahore Fort, Badshahi mosque and colonial buildings. With United Nations assistance, the government was able to rebuild Lahore, and most scars of the communal violence of independence were erased. Less than 20 years later, however, Lahore once again became a battleground in the War of 1965. The battlefield and trenches can still be observed today close to the Wagah border area.

“Lahore has a semi-arid climate.

"The hottest month is June, when average highs routinely exceed 104°.

“That's about right, it's damned hot even now in the evening,” said Al.

It was indeed one of the hottest places Al had ever been to. At night the choice was between sweating it out and tossing and turning, or awake with the powerful and noisy ceiling fan blowing at the bed sheet. In the day it was difficult to move at all.

Hellmut arrived at their room and they smoked joints.

The following morning, breakfast was provided by the Hotel Eden. There were eggs, cheeses, breads, fruits, yoghurt and tea or coffee with sweet and spicy cakes.

By the time they had finished eating, Al was thinking it was already far too hot to move. We sat in the courtyard under the shade of a tree and Al took me from his head and placed me on a nearby table.

Hellmut appeared again and invited Keith and Al to share a “Bhang”.

Al knew that Bhang was a cold drink made from cannabis and spices, ground together with milk, clarified butter called ghee and water.

The Bhang in fact did not taste very good this time, so Al drank his glassful quickly.

About half an hour or so later and Bhang! The drink lived up to its name! They didn't even go outside of the hotel grounds that day. They spent the day reading and chatting and laughing and eating snacks with tea. Apart from the effects of the Bhang, it was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit by noon.

At one time Al decided to go to the games room.

When he entered it was quite dark but he could see what looked like a light switch on the wall half way along, so he went to switch it on.

Al put his hand to switch on the light and as he touched it there was a loud bang and a flash.

Al seemed to be flying backwards through the air – he had received an electric shock – first time for him and first time for me. Very strange feeling.

As Al went backwards, time seemed to slow down. Al seemed to have plenty of time to think about what had happened, how stupid he had been in the dark, whether he was about to hit his head on anything and how he would cushion his fall and even what would happen and how people would react back in England if this was going to kill him.

As he landed backwards on the floor, he realised he had not hit any tables or anything and thought about how to best protect his head, so he did his best to keep his head forward and try to take the force of the fall on his back and shoulders.

He bent his head forwards – as he hit the ground I flew off his head, unable to protect him – lucky for him his method worked and the back of his head hit the ground quite gently.

But he was pretty much shook up.

He returned to the garden and told Keith what had happened.

Keith seemed like he was in a world of his own, very stoned on cannabis – he did not reply, as if he had not even heard Al, who felt lucky to be alive.

“Hey man,” Keith suddenly said, “it's almost four thousand miles direct back to London, we must have done six or seven thousand the way we came.”

The next day after breakfast in the garden, Hellmut asked Al and Keith if they would like to join him on a flight to India.

“A few days time, “ said Hellmut; “They have opened the border with India and there will be flights from here to Amritsar, I will buy you the tickets, I just need your names and passport numbers. If you want we can fly in a few days after I have done business.”

So Hellmut went off in a taxi to buy the tickets. Al and Keith decided to go out and look about the city.

It was about as different, as Al thought, from Peshawar as it is different from Norwich – or maybe less different from Norwich.

The streets were now dusty, not wet, but with less litter and animal droppings.

There were far more cars, taxis, trucks and buses as well as bicycle rickshaws, and far fewer animals of burden. Quite a few bicycles too.

Most of the men were dressed either in one-piece djellabah’s, loose-fitting cotton in white or grey, or two-piece cotton garments that looked like pyjamas. A few wore suits, some western-style, others high-buttoned jackets over trousers.

The women wore feminised versions of the same, often with lose scarves draped over their heads, some dressed quite colourfully.

Children were dressed pretty much like the adults!

Some men wore the Afghan Jinnah Cap made from sheep's wool, with it's peaked shape and favoured by Pakistani politicians. Others wore oval hats that sat in the middle of their heads not covering the eyes at all. Others wore turbans.

Al and Keith found along street with stalls on each side, selling just about everything except the guns we had seen in Peshawar. The buildings were three story and had decorative balconies, many with sheets hanging from them.

Most of the signs were in Arabic writing but some were in English, many offering Pepsi or Seven Up drinks.

There were stalls selling 'lassi”, a drink made from crushed ice with milk and yoghurt, with sugar or salt to taste, or fruit juices. The ingredients were scooped up from various aluminium bowls; the ice was piled up behind the vendor who sat cross-legged as he worked. He would lean over, grab a lump of ice and smash it between what Al thought looked like rags. But they were thirsty so they bought and drank some out of aluminium mugs.

That evening they met with Hellmut again at the Hotel Eden, smoked some joints and drank some tea. Hellmut had bought the air tickets for the next day.

“Then tonight I invite you to film studio,” said Hellmut. “I am giving some money to make a film. We will have dinner there, it is gut. Also you may meet the top singer in Pakistan and a famous actor.. We leave in half an hour when the taxi is coming.”

It was a modern-looking building with a couple of guards outside and they just waved us in.

Inside the big doors, Hellmut told a receptionist who we were and we were shown through some corridors to a large room decorated with glitter and lights, with pictures of people around the walls, presumably film stars and sponsors.

After a while two young men approached us – they were dressed immaculately in suits and ties.

They shook hands with Hellmut who introduced us simply as “Keith and Al”. Obviously in such a place, Al had removed me from his head and I had been placed on a table, so nobody mentioned me. I simply watched, listened and learned.

A waiter came and asked us if we wanted to drink; beer was available, so everyone ordered that. It was American beer.

The conversation was mainly between Hellmut and the two Lahore lads.

Sure enough he was going to give them hundreds of thousands of rupees to make a film. They were saying that the industry had suffered. They said they had a top actor and one of the best known pop singers. There was some talk about what the film was about – it sounded that it was mostly about a man and a woman that met and wanted to be together but circumstances always interfered.

After about half an hour, several waiters came in carrying plates and trays of food: bowls of dahl, flat bread, a spicy lamb dish and more pieces of lamb and of chicken, a dish made with chick peas and spice, vegetable curries and rice, yoghurt – and fruits. And a massive cherry tart! And creamy rice pudding There were five of them eating with enough food for twenty.

Whilst they were eating, suddenly a group of about ten people entered and headed towards them. They were all men except the two women they were surrounding. Apparently one of the ladies was the pop singer.

As they approached the others stopped eating and stood up. Al and Keith did the same. One of the Pakistani hosts at our table spoke, introducing only Hellmut. Smiles were exchanged, but no words and as rapidly as they had arrived, the group left.

“So much for pop stars, man, “said Keith quietly.

After the dinner, we headed back out into a wide corridor.

As Al, Keith and Hellmut headed down the corridor, Al noticed something in another wide corridor off to the left.

There was a group of about ten young men that seemed to be surrounding a girl that Al thought was European. Al thought that did not look like a good situation so decided to look closer.

She was certainly not Pakistani. She wore a headscarf. She looked familiar. She looked a bit like Miriam.

Al started to push his way through the small crowd.

It was Miriam!

“Miriam, hi"!”, he shouted.

“Al!” she answered and stepped towards him and they gave each other a hug.

All felt good about that hug.

“You OK, what's happening?” asked Al.

Miriam replied: “I'm OK, great, it's just this lot, they think I'm a rock star!”

“Well I guess you are!”, said Al, “Shall I get rid of them?”

Al turned to the crowd of youths and said “OK, that's enough, now fuck off!”

And, somewhat to Al's surprise, they did!

Al told Miriam that he had better go the the exit to tell his friends what he was doing, so they went down the stairs and back towards the long wide corridor that led to the exit.

Suddenly a group of about twenty men were approaching us, all huddled together but still filling the corridor so all Al and Miriam could do was to stand close to the wall as the large group passed by.

Al could see that in the very middle of the group crammed so much that he had to go with the flow, was Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, the President of Pakistan.. Al had the idea he was not entirely popular with people. “Apparently,” Miriam said later, “he is on his way to do a TV broadcast, in English as that was the language shared by most of the people rich enough to have a TV.”

Miriam told Al that,Bhutto had managed to get the release of thousands of prisoners and some territory from India, after signing an agreement with Indira Ghandi, the Prime Minister of India.

When Al and Miriam reached Keith and Hellmut, Al told them he was going to stay a while and drink some beer with Miriam and he would make his own way back to the hotel later. Hellmut passed Al a small paper bag. “It is blues, speed,” he said quietly, “Take a few and they will keep you awake and give good buzz”.

Al swallowed three tablets and went back to Miriam. They drank coffee instead of beer and chatted for a while. I learned that Miriam had been invited to the studios for dinner by an American but he had not turned up. He also discovered that Miriam had a ticket for the same flight as he for the next day and that she too planned to stay at the Golden Temple in Amritsar.

After a while Al started to feel the effects of the pills. He was talking a lot! Miriam did not seem to mind, she seemed like a good listener. But Al felt it was time for him to get back to his hotel. Miriam would get a taxi but it was in the opposite direction to Eden. Al saw her into the taxi and was about to order one for himself when one of the young men that had met Hellmut appeared and he offered Al a lift on the back of his moped.

Quite a ride – the “speed” in the blues had kicked in and they seemed to be speeding ever so fast in and out of the busy traffic along poorly lit roads. I thought that I was going to blow off Al's head several times and land in the road and get crushed by a car. Gladly I was OK and we soon reached the Hotel Eden, Keith sitting in the garden smoking a joint.

So this “speed” drug seemed to make everything go faster whereas the electric shock in the hotel games room and the backwards fall had seemed to make time go more slowly.

“I didn't expect you back tonight – thought you'd be with Miriam, What happened man?” said Keith.

“No I thought I'd better come back and get ready for tomorrow,” said Al, “and anyway I don't like those pills, I wanted a smoke.”

Several smokes later, his rucksack mostly packed, Al lay on his bed for hours tossing and turning. He just could not get to sleep. Keith was snoring. Al was thinking about Miriam and the flight to Amritsar.

“My name is Hellmut – you want smoke some joint” - Taken from: "All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972" by Alun Buffry

Taken from: "All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972" by Alun Buffry
(Available at Amazon as Paperback and for Kindle)

“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.

Khyber Pass

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.”

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.

The street looked like a chaotic mishmash of tumble-down buildings with broken or torn flags hanging everywhere. The road was pot-holed. It was crowded with people. There was a restaurant across the road. Al took a photograph – not many left.

There was no toilet in the room. In fact, there did not seem to be one visible at al. So still with me on his head, he went to the reception to ask.
“On roof,” said the small man sitting behind a desk reading a newspaper. He did not seen interested.

Al climbed two flights of stairs to find a door that opened onto the roof.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure with three doors, a couple of steps up and inside there was a hole in the concrete floor and a jug of water. The water was to wash instead of the Western toilet papers we had seen in some cities.

Below the hole was another level of concrete – piled with human shit. It was smelling real bad even though the day was cooling fast as the light was beginning to fade. The whole place was, of course, swarming with flies.

Later Al learned that the place was emptied once a day, the shit shovelled into wicker baskets lines with rushes and leaves, to be carried down through the hotel and into the street. Al could not imagine what they did with it after that. Those poor women deserved a reward. But he had nothing spare to even offer.

A while after returning to the room, there was a knock on the door. Keith jumped up and opened it and there stood Hellmut, grinning and with a smoking joint in his hand.

“Hello my friends, you want to smoke some hash with me and I buy you dinner?”

So they puffed on the joint, their spirits again lifting. Al had been wondering where he was – absolutely everything was so different to his home city; in fact it was so different to anything else he had seen even in the places we had passed through.

Al was thinking, what is different: well for starters the smells and the air, the people and their costumes, the language and the script, the food and the drink, the streets and the buildings, the transport, the health care, the hygiene and safety rules and protection, life expectancy and family life, politics and religion, even the ways in which business was conducted - people argued over prices.

And, thought Al, what is the same – well I guess I am, he thought – I guess everyone, well most people, have two arms, two legs and two eyes; we're all breathing; we probably all want the same thing, We all want to achieve something and to find fulfilment, peace, love, freedom.. We probably all wonder at some time what life is all about – or maybe their religions satisfy all that.

Al began wondering why he was travelling – what was he looking for. Religion and science had failed him, now he was feeling like he was wandering far from home, maybe risking his health and safety, taking risks in a dangerous part of the world and with very little money. “Am I nuts?” he thought.

But so far this adventure had gone well, and in any case there was only one direction to go and that was India. Al thought that it was said people could find answers in India – it was where The Beatles had gone to their Guru called Mahesh Yogi. It was a land of many beliefs, supposedly with enlightened beings willing to impart the truth. Or so he'd read. Probably not like that at all. And, thought Al, I probably don't have enough money to buy enlightenment.

Pesahwar

Outside in the damp street, the women were dressed in black Burkas again, or colourful cloth wraps, except the Westerners of course. Some of them were well covered too and many wore head scarves. Almost all the Western men wore blue jeans, some with hats of varying sorts, and one even looking quite like myself.

The local men were of two distinct types. One lot were quite short in height and slight, dressed in what often looked like dirty pyjamas with white caps or wrapped in sheets of cloth. The other lot were massive, thick set giants over 6 feet in height, wearing turban-like headgear and armed with rifles and long swords.

Bicycles, three wheeler Rickshaws, and beasts of burden, were the main form of transport here.

Al spotted a sign above a doorway. It was a drawing of a set of false teeth.

There were three-wheeled street stalls with massive piles of apples, oranges, lemons and yellow and green melons for sale. Dirty-looking streets stalls offered strange looking food in huge pans cooking over charcoal or wood fires.

“You know, my friends, Peshawar is called the 'City of Thieves' – you can buy guns here – be careful with your bags,” said Hellmut.

“Fucking great, man,” said Keith.

The street was filthy.

“Two nights here, then I am going to Lahore on the train, if you want, my friends, I will tell the manager at the hotel and he will buy us tickets,” said Hellmut.

“How much do the tickets cost?” asked Keith.

“No problem my friends I am paying, you are my guests. Now we go to special place to eat and we can smoke hashish. It is called The Secret Restaurant and my friend from Berlin, Karl is running it. And his wife Marianna is from Switzerland. They have good vegetarian food and good music.

The Secret Restaurant was actually inside a large second floor apartment down a poorly lit back street and on to another main road, this time far busier with trucks, carts, colourful coaches, cars and bicycles – and men with donkeys carrying either them or their wares. The roadway and pavements were equally muddy and dirty and it was quite noisy. Street stalls were still selling fruit and vegetables and bottles of fizzy drinks – a lot of signs for Pepsi. Other stalls were issuing clouds of smoke or steam, offering a whole range of quite unpleasant looking foods. Hygiene was an absentee here.

But the apartment building itself, behind a large wall separating it from the road, and guarded at the entrance by a costumed and armed giant from the hills, was remarkably clean.

The guard greeted Hellmut and let us pass through the arched gateway. Hellmut pressed a buzzer near the doorway and soon a pretty young lady came to let us in. Hellmut greeted Marianna, they hugged like good old friends. She led the way for us up the stairs and into the apartment.
The apartment consisted of at least two bedrooms, kitchen, western toilet with shower and a massive living room with a balcony looking out on to what may have been the back garden or a park. There were several round tables with chairs in the room seating for maybe 16 people. That still left plenty of room for the many cushions scattered around by the walls. About half a dozen people sat at tables another half a dozen or so on the cushions. A young dark-haired girl was playing a guitar and singing 'The Circle Game”, a Joni Mitchelle song.

For a second or two Al thought it was Miriam, but no.

Al could see outside through a double glass door was a balcony – he could see people were smoking.

The three of us sat at a table; Al took me off his head and put me next on the table next to the fourth chair which was empty. I felt as if I too was a guest at this meal.

The meal was three courses of vegetarian food – two choices for each course.

Al chose dahl with bread, a Madras vegetable curry with rice, and pancakes with fruit. The dahl was a very hot dish made from lentils and onions and garlic. It was all delicious, to Al's taste. And Keith had finished his plates too. Keith had eaten vegetable samosas – triangle of pastry with spicy potatoes and vegetables inside – pasta with creamy sauce and cheese, and rice pudding for afters.

They each drank a beer. It was the first alcohol Al had drank since the Ouzo in Syria. It was not as strong but still went straight to his head. He felt giggly.

Afterwards they smoked chillums on the balcony, looking down on a garden complete with flowers and a small pool with trickling water.
Al was lost looking down at that pool. Suddenly he began to wonder where he was.

One minute there's a dirty gloomy fearful city at night, with all the hustle and bustle and smoky fumes. Next, a veggie banquet with beer and chillums and Hendrix playing ' Foxy Lady' on a balcony above a heavenly garden. "Maybe in fact", thought Al, "we're actually all dead! Or just sleeping, dreaming. Or being dreamt?"

Al was thinking of the nature of reality - or was it illusion? Science had told him that everything was made of atoms and molecules, forms of energy, but those very atoms were almost all space, with wisp-like clouds of negative charge called electrons around a positively charged nucleus itself made of tiny particles that were sometimes behaving like particles and sometimes like waves – the wave-particle duality. And in between it all, 99% was nothing but space. So we are all mostly space.

Al thought that just as ridiculous to believe as a religion saying we were all made out of and by some supreme creator four thousand years ago in the Garden of Eden.

And where was the Garden of Eden anyway?

Certainly not in Peshawar.

With that he realised he was sitting on a balcony, high as a kite, looking at a pool of water.

They drank another beer and Hellmut led them back to the hotel, this time taking a slightly different, longer but better lit route.

Was that fireworks or gunshots we could hear? Guns?

The next day was spent mostly in the Secret Restaurant smoking talking and eating.

The morning after that, they took the train to Lahore – direction India.

In comparison to the bus rides, the train journey was boring. It was about three hundred and twenty miles but it took many hours.

When they reached Lahore, Hellmut took a taxi to a hotel he knew and they soon booked in. It was another hotel for mostly western travellers.
It was the Hotel Eden!

A small hotel with about a dozen room surrounding a small open garden with small shady trees, potted flowers and a pool in the centre!

Eden! Was this the Garden of Eden that Al had been thinking about at the Secret Restaurant in Peshawar?

ALUN BUFFRY - 2 news books now in paperback

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

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


READERS' COMMENTS
Joan Bello?, US: "I am quite sure that I have just finished reading what should be recognized as an all time classic. Alun Buffry is a master storyteller. All About My Hat kept me spellbound from the first page. This is a precise recounting of true adventure that every hippy-minded person will be in awe of regardless of age. Thankfully, Buffry has found a delightfully unique literary vehicle that completely disposes of the usual ego distraction of so many biographical accounts. It is effortless reading, nothing superfluous, no fillers, with an ease of language and a precision that is admirable. My Hat is a constant reminder of the camaraderie shared among all cannabis supporters around the world. Bravo!!"
Winston M, Surrey: "Great read and so much interesting found it hard to put down."
Kevin T, Norfolk: "A Brilliant book once i started it i could NOT put it down i would recommend others to read it."
Roger H, Suffolk: "Good Grief!"
Ann C, Norwich: "This is a fascinatng book packed with stories about adventures on the "Hippy Trail" in all its reality. It was harsh with extreme discomfort, heat and dust and sometimes illness. It took strength and endurance ...but then... the rewards were a rich awareness of other cultures and beliefs. "I recommend it warmly.and did I mention, it is so funny!"
Roger W E, Swansea: "My Hat is becoming an independent friend, as I read on - he/she/it is competing with you! Roger WE"
Chris P, Essex: "Awesome read fella, most enjoyable."
Ian L, Norfolk: "Liked it a lot, very entertaining, definitely a good read, well done Alun."
Frank K, W Sussex: "Loved the book Alun and have shown friends, also travellers with a Hippie hat. Great days to remember for you I bet. I like the way you laid out the text too, great read."
Mark S, Norfolk: "Loving the book."
Melissa D, Italy "I really enjoyed this book..... but I have to admit I skipped some of the travel book descriptions. My favourite part is..... No, I won't spoil it for you!
Simon B, Norwich: "You were lucky to survive - loved the book."
Marion G, Suffolk: "Marion Gaze An easy enjoyable read. It took me right back to those times of footloose carefree travel and spontaneous adventure....usually ending in illness or loss of ones money! Though i was part of the start of the journey, Alun's Hat remembers a lot more than me, which is why there will not be a book about my overland trip to India a year or so later..." 
 
INTRODUCTION
Let me introduce myself, I am called Myhat.
I am quite an old hat. I was made decades ago. I had been passed many times to a few heads, yet had seldom found one that I felt really comfortable on.
About 40 years ago, everything changed. I found myself upon a head that I had a close affinity with and I found myself seeing, hearing, smelling much through this young man, Al - and even picking up on his emotions and thoughts.
I was lost then for several years, stored in a cupboard until, once again, I found myself on Al's head and now I can tell my tales.
Al and I spent some nine months together on our first trip, visiting many big cities and several small villages, in eight countries, all different, all new to myself and my new head – an adventure of a lifetime.
I had sat on Al's head and witnessed all sorts of strange places and events until we had travelled to India and then to the UK.
When Al arrived back in the UK, he was quite ill, having suffered from a problem called Hepatitis and also dysentery. Al went to his parent's house in Wales and then to hospital. But whilst he was in that hospital, I was never on his head after he had arrived, and ended up in a box in a storage cupboard.
I didn't know what was happening. Why was Al leaving me? How long was I to be here? What would become of me now? Would I get a new head? Would I get more adventures? Would I be treasured or neglected?
Then one day, Al took me out of my box and put me back on his head.
That is how it came that I found myself back on Al's head. I have been on and off Al's head for about forty years and now I can tell my tales. Al had done a lot of travelling over those forty years.
I had always been able to understand any language spoken and understood by whatever head I was placed on - but never been able to utter anything myself – until now! I have discovered that I can help Al remember the places we had experienced together and I somehow I managed to place the idea of writing my tale for me. Anyway, that idea came upon Al and here he is, writing this for me!
As well as understanding the thoughts, memories and feelings of my head – I felt as he felt - I have been able to see through the eyes, hear through the ears and even taste through the mouth and tongue of my head – Al – and over the days developed a strange connection so that so long as Al was nearby, I could watch what was going on around him – even when not on his head!
I watched, I listened and I remembered – and that is how I come to write this story through a head called Al.

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

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

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