Introducing the book "All About My Hat, The Hippy Trail 1972" by Alun Buffry - Amazon and Kindle

 

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April 1972: Tehran to Mashhad via the Opium Farm

 Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972

So it was decided, that is what they would do, and the next morning we made an early start with out bags and walked into the city. It was more like a Western than Asian city, with streets full of people, cars, trucks and buses. There were no donkey carts and few bicycles. Many of the men were dressed in western styles, either jeans or suits, and the women wore colourful cloths and showed their faces.

Al was surprised that the Embassy was easy to find and the queue to apply for a visa to cross Afghanistan was short. The visa was for up to four weeks. But they had to buy them in Mashhad.

They very quickly found a cheap bus to the city outskirts and the road heading east – they would aim for another large town, called Mashhad, much closer to the Afghan border, if they could get a lift. It was 625 miles by road from Tehran to Mashhad.

Al was wondering what sort of adventure lay in front of them, hitch-hiking with so little money in a country where they knew not one word of the language and was probably going to be very different from Tehran.

It was!

As it turned out a car with two young men wearing jeans and shirts stopped within minutes. They spoke English. They were not going all the way to Mashhad and said they planned to sleep that night on the edge of the Caspian Sea and carry on next day to their village.

“You can stay few days in our house”, said one man, “we have morphine.”

“We don't take morphine,” said Al.

“Well stay with us any way,” the man said.

Later we learned that these two new hosts-to-be were called Atash and Nouri and were brothers.

The car was driven by Atash into the night so by the time they reached the home it was dark.

By that time Al and Keith had chatted to their new friends and learned that the lads’ father was in fact the village and area policeman and that he had a license to grow poppies to make opium. It was opium that the brothers had offered, not morphine itself – morphine was the name they gave to it though. Al asked if opium was legal in Iran.

“Oh no no,” said Nouri.

“It is not permitted without special permission to grow and my father has that and anyway he is the police. If you like you can smoke some opium tomorrow. My father will give some for you but only if you want.”

“I've smoked opium before, man, it's cool” said Keith; “I really dug it, made me feel relaxed and dreamy. I'd like to smoke some tomorrow. How about you Al?”

I felt that Al was both enthusiastic to try something new and reluctant to take any risk with it. I knew that Al had taken an interest in experimentation whilst at University studying chemistry, after all, that was what science was about and Al was a scientist. Al wondered whether Mike and John whom he had left in Turkey would also try a smoke and thought they probably would – they were chemistry students too.

Al's interest in chemistry had started when he was about 13 and had been given a “chemistry set” by his father, Jim. From the first time Al had mixed two chemicals (sodium bicarbonate and citric acid) and watched them effervesce, Al's imagination and interest in chemicals had been awakened. Al had thought it was like the two substances had become aware of each other in a “chemical way” and that awareness, he thought, was a form of life.

It was about that age when Al lost interest and belief in any form of god.

So chemistry had come along and Al thought that maybe there was some answers in science as to what the universe was, what life is and why he was here at all.

To tell you the truth those thoughts, not part of Al's memories but also his behaviour pattern. His need to search and explore, try new experiences and experiment. It was that burning that had taken Al onwards to study chemistry and science at university, but also what had first led him to want to try cannabis – and now he was thinking of trying opium.

Keith, Al knew, was very different in that respect. He had told Al that he did not believe in any gods or any secrets to life and for him, life was just to enjoy and that was why Keith took drugs. He enjoyed them.

 

The car pulled into what looked like a large courtyard.

“We eat now”, said Nouri, “then we sleep and tomorrow you meet father and maybe smoke – for you my friends, no charge.”

The next morning Al awoke to find Keith studying the map in his guide book.

“We can get from here to Mashhad easy I think,” he said “and from there we can get a visa stamp and go to Afghanistan. I 'll send a letter home and ask Marion to send us some money to Kabul – maybe you can get some sent out too.”

There was a knock on the door and Atash came into the room. “First little food and tea, then to smoke."

“After smoking pipe only little black tea, no food as it will upset stomach and make sick”, he said.

Breakfast was short and sweet. Sweet black tea, eggs and bread and sweet breads, and fruit.

Soon enough Atash led Al and Keith into a large room full of cushions and some of the cushions had men laying on them. Al, Keith and Atash went to one side and sat on some cushions. There was no conversation at all in the room.

 

In the centre of the room was a man putting a light to the end of what looked like a very long pipe and on the other end was a man laying on his side and sucking on the pipe. Al could see that the man at the lit end seemed to be prodding what looked like a small black ball – and knew that must be the opium.

Atash pointed at the man lighting the opium. “Father.” he said, “He speaks no English but good man. He will make pipe for you. Remember, no drinking or eating, only little tea.”

 

It was not long before it was Keith's turn to try the pipe. Keith smoked three pipes as did everyone else in the room and then went back to his cushions.

Then it was Al's turn.

Al noticed how the pipe was smoked through small wooden mouth-pieces and each smoker had their own so that lips did not have to touch the pipe. The room was clean and Al was pleased to see that and the mouth-pieces. It was nothing like the dark and dirty opium dens Al had read about.

Father, policeman, opium farmer, called Mohammed, took up a small piece of the black opium on a small metal rod which he them placed on the end of the long wooden pipe. Father lit the opium whilst Al sucked gently but consistently until his lungs were full. Mohammed seemed to know exactly how much Al needed, for it ran out of smoke just as Al's lungs were full. Al sucked on three pipes and went back to his cushions to relax.

It carried on like that well into the late afternoon. Al was feeling pretty good, in a dreamy state, not asleep but euphoric. Al did not feel that opium, when used in situations like this, was a bad thing – none of the other smokers seemed anything like the poor decrepit addicts he had read about in the press in his home country. But he was aware that opium was very different to manufactured heroin or morphine. And taking it for a day may be very different to taking it day after day.

Al was feeling very warm and cosy, laying down on the cushions and drifting into pleasant dream-like chains of thoughts. He had smoked about nine pipes!

 

Mohammed the father had left the room as had most of the other men, when Al opened his eyes and looked around. It was then that he realised that Keith was missing, so he scrambled to his feet and went outside into the courtyard first, to see where his travelling companion was.

To his surprise Al found Keith in a corner by a tree, being sick into a bucket! He asked Keith: “You OK,? Doesn't sound too good.”

After getting his breath back, Keith stood up: “Aw man, I drank some fucking 7-Up and had some bread and cheeses, it must have been that.”

“Well they did tell us not to eat or drink between smoking,” laughed Al.

“Yeh, that too, man” said Keith.

Al and Keith went indoors and Al took me off his head, a rare occurrence, and I knew nothing until the next morning.

Keith Marshall

Whilst Al was eating breakfast, he told his hosts that Keith had been sick all night and was still asleep, asking if they could stay another day.

“But,” he said, “We won't be smoking today.”

“No problem my friend,” said Nouri, “We are hoping you will stay and it is our honour to have you and Mr Keith in our house. No smoking, no problem.

It was late afternoon before Keith arose; Al had been spending the afternoon in a shady spot in the courtyard, reading, drinking tea and making notes. He had been looking through Keith's travel guide book, reading a little about Afghanistan, the next country they would visit. They would need to go first to Mashhad and buy a visa, then go by bus to the border. He was thinking just how different everywhere was compared to his home country, Wales, and England where he had been living whilst at University. He was thinking how different University life had been to his younger years at home in his parents' house with his sister and Aunt.

Al's last school as a teenager had been boys only. It had been like that since he was eleven. When he was eighteen, he went to University in a city called Norwich, a day's travel from his parents in Wales. As a University student Al suddenly had complete control over his life, having to pay his rent and buy his food, books and beer out of his money from a government grant. And there were women at the University too.

Here in Iran, Al thought, he had hardly ever seen a woman except western or American travellers.

What women there were, were covered head-to-toe in black clothing. In the village there did not appear to be any at all. It seemed unlikely that many girls or women had much of an academic education. He wondered if there were any at Iranian Universities – were there qualified female doctors or teachers or lawyers? He did not remember seeing any women working in shops or offices, except maybe a few in Tehran. Al thought just how isolated in their lives those women were, probably hardly going outside of their homes or the nearest market. He wondered how much even the men knew about his country and how different it was, especially from this village-come-opium den.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Al spotted Nouri and Atash and asked them if he could take their picture, and they agreed. They stood on a porch outside of a door and put their arms round each hoer’s shoulders and Al took one shot. He had only one film with just about eight shots left.

Nouri asked if he could take one of his brother Atash with Al and it was done.

(Now I can tell you that a while later, when the film was developed and printed, to Al's big surprise, whilst his back was to the door and he was facing the camera, and couple of quite young looking women had opened the doorway, and stood in the background with some small children, one in arms. So there had been women in the village after all? But sadly I was not on Al’s head for that photo.

The following day, Atash took Al and Keith by car to a bus stop where they boarded a bus to Mashhad. It seemed like a journey that would never end, a long hot and dusty road in a bus crowded with women in black, men in a variety of garments, and a few live chickens.

Mashhad was well over seven hundred miles from Tehran the way we had travelled – but just one hundred and twenty miles from Afghanistan.

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ISBN 978 0 9932107 1 6

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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.