March 24 1972: Istanbul and The Pudding Shop

Taken from All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
ISBN 978-0993210709

(Photo's from on-line)

We headed for Istanbul, which Al said was the 'gateway to Asia'. Apparently some of the city was in Europe, then, across a river, the rest of the city was in Asia. Sounded strange to me, but then I already knew from what I had heard, the world was often strange.

 

Istanbul was a massive and busy city, hosts of people, much traffic. There were donkey carts on the roads along with cars, buses and trucks all tooting their horns. It was one of the noisiest places I had yet to visit. Fun though!

 

 

There were massive streets full of cars and buses, sounding their horns and weaving in and out of the traffic. There were tiny back-streets that looked unswept for years. There were people of many nationalities and eating places suitable for all tastes and pockets. Then there was the souk, the market, packed full of tradesmen selling their wares to tourists mainly, from huge circular brass plates to Turkish fine carpets, and rows and rows of massive water pipes called hookahs, used for smoking scented tobacco.

My group found somewhere to stay, a place called a hotel, and Al shared a room with John and Mike whilst Keith and Marion had their own.

“Man, I just need a smoke,” said Keith, “but we'll have to wait 'til tomorrow. I'm not going out looking for puff at night, not here man– we'll go to the Pudding Shop in the morning, for a smoke!”

Pudding Shop for a smoke; sounded weird; puddings, smoke?!

The Pudding Shop turned out to be just that, a shop, an eating place, selling dozens of different types of pudding, made mostly of rice – some sweet and some savoury. So my team ate.

On the walls were small notices asking for lifts to India, to London, or to places in between. Apparently Istanbul was on the “hippy trail” and the Pudding Shop was full of long-hairs and short hairs on their travels. People talked about where they had been and what they had seen, with both pleasant and less pleasant tales of their experiences in places called Iran, Kabul, Peshawar, Pakistan, India and Nepal. Mostly they were good tales but sometimes bad enough to put one off going anywhere.

I learnt that the Pudding Shop was really called the Lale Pastahanesi and had been opened in 1957 by two brothers, Idris and Namil Colpan. It was on Divanyolu Street in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul, near the Blue Mosque. There was a great view of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia Mosque from the garden. People sat around eating and drinking, playing guitars and singing, and exchanging greetings and news – along with the occasional warnings. It seemed to be a place that attracted a wide variety of travellers. It felt good there. However, nobody was smoking hash and there was none for sale.

 

After we left the Pudding Shop, on foot, we had to cross a big bridge to Asia, across a massive river called the Bosphorus Strait. I had heard about rivers but never about the boats that floated on them, apparently made and guided by people, out for pleasure or business. It was one way to get around. I thought that if I ended in that river, I could get blown or washed away, so I clutched my head tightly. But that never happened. I stayed firmly on Al's head.

Keith said that he had read that the bridge, called the Galata Bridge, separated the European-side of Istanbul from the Asian side. He pulled out his guide book and read: “It was constructed by Machinebau Ausburg Nürnberg on 1912, and connects the two sides of the Haliç district across the Bosphorus Strait.”

There were people walking and people driving across the bridge, and even a few men fishing from it.

John and Al separated from the others and headed along a busy street filled with shops and stalls.

Suddenly, I heard the word “Hasheesh!”

It was a local man and he seemed to be offering John and Al something “to smoke.” I knew that some humans smoked something called tobacco. It did not smell nice to me. That included John and Al and the others, but this man was offering something else, trying to persuade them that they could trust him and go with him to get some but not to tell anyone and to smoke it only in the hotel. It didn't take much persuasion and John and Al were led down through some of the less busy back streets and eventually arrived at – oh no – another barber's shop! I did hope I would not be left there, forgotten again for months.

I also knew that Al and John had smoked hasheesh before.

The man told John and Al to wait inside where they sat watching the jolly barber sharpening his cut-throat razor. John and Al seemed worried and I don't blame them – but soon the man returned. They gave him some money and he gave them some hasheesh. “Keep it in your pocket, there are police about. Just smoke in hotel,” he said. “I wonder if Keith scored,” said John; I wondered if Keith was off playing some sort of game. I had heard about football.

John and Al went back to the hotel and it was not long before there was a knock on the door which seemed to cause some panic. “Open the window.” said Al. “You lean out and I'll open the door and if it's cops, you sling it.”

It was Keith and Mike with Marion. “Any joy man?” asked Keith.

“Yes,” said John, “look what we got.”

John showed the others the small lump of greenish brown hasheesh.

"Aw man, that smells ace” said Keith. “Let's barricade the door and have a joint.”

A joint was made by licking and sticking some small, thin sheets of paper together. They called them "skins” and using them to roll around a mixture of tobacco and hasheesh. A small piece of rolled-cardboard, called a roach, was inserted into one end. In was then sucked at from that end by one of the people and lit at the other with a match. It that way they inhaled the smoke of the burning mix and then passed the joint to somebody else.

As this procedure continued, it seemed like everyone started to relax and chuckle. To be honest, I was thinking I would gain something like that from the smoke too, but smoking is not for hats – you know, no mouth, no lungs!

It was a while later that there was another knock on the door which was barricaded again, and everyone sat upright – Keith jumped up and moved over to the open window, whilst Mike went to the door and asked who it was.

“Your friend from barbers,” said a voice, “I bring you coca-cola.”

A short conversation and the group decided to open the door, so Mike and Al moved the furniture away from it and let in the visitor. Al said he recognised him and the man entered and placed a few bottles of drink on the floor – I had seen people drinking that whilst hanging from my hook in Thessaloniki. Some humans seemed to drink a lot but others did not like it at all. Bottles were passed around, the visitor first opening them – with his teeth. It was called cola.

He told the group that he also had some hasheesh and would roll some joints.

His way of rolling these joints was different – he made a mix of tobacco, hasheesh and opium and emptied it into some papers he had put together and placed on the floor. The others had put the tobacco in first then added the hasheesh. But the ritual of passing the joint was the same – but the smell was quite different – it was sweeter. So they carried on smoking and drinking until suddenly Al jumped up and ran out of the room.

He ran straight to the toilet – with me still on his head.

The toilet was a hole in the floor and above the hole was a shower for washing. As Al vomited down the hole, water dripped all over me and I made sure some ran down the back of his neck too. He seemed to be trying to hold himself up between the walls!

It all ended well though. Al seemed to recover and the visitor left in high spirits and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

There were now four men and one woman in the party, smoking hasheesh whenever they had the chance, wandering the streets of Istanbul, visiting the markets and eating houses. Then they decided to leave and head down into Turkey and maybe beyond.

With all the warning about hasheesh in Istanbul they were glad to be leaving – heading South.

 

March 24 1972: Entering Greece at Eyzonon - How Al Met MyHat - and the next day

Taken from All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972
ISBN 978-0993210709

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Al and MyHat 1972

Read more:

Let me introduce myself.

I am called Myhat. I was also known as Kapelomou.

I am quite an old hat. I was made decades ago. I had been passed many times to different heads, yet had seldom found one that I felt really comfortable on.

About forty 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 sat on Al's head and witnessed all sorts of strange places and events while we 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 Infectious Hepatitis and also dysentery. Al went to his parent's house in Wales and then to hospital. But after he was in that hospital, I was never on his head so often.

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 I came to find 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. We have 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 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.

Al had travelled from a country called Britain, a place I had never been to and knew little about.

Al, through me, Kapelomou or Myhat, is writing this account in 2014, forty-two years after the events of 1972.

For my younger readers, I'll say that as Al looks back he remembers there were no mobile or cellular phones out there for the public to be able to buy: no Ipads or Ipods, no digital cameras, no microwave ovens, no 'Sat Nav'. Life was slower, sometimes maybe easier, without the 21^st century rush.

In some places there were no telephones at all. And mail was often very slow. Communication was often very difficult outside of the immediate area, especially in the villages and towns of the Middle East.

And Al himself was thinner and fitter if less experienced with the world. I know he doubts whether he could make the same journey now, as he did back in 1971.

Al will tell you, I know, that he feels that apart from the differences in technology and in himself, little has changed. Some things are better, some things are worse.

In his opinion most countries in the world are being run by members of elite families, or Secret Societies or Military men. And almost all of them live lives of luxury at the expense of the people they are supposed to both rule and look after. In even the richest countries there are poor and homeless people sleeping on the streets.

So, on with my account of my first incredible journey into the unknown. It is all about Myhat.

My first meeting with Al took place outside a barber's shop in the Greek town of Thessaloniki.

It was 1972.

At that time, I understood the Greek language, hence my name Kapelomou that means My hat, and I understood just a little English, but that was to change.

It seemed like months since I'd been left on the hook. I had been on the head of a local man who had come to the shop and left me there, never to come back.

During my time in the barber's shop, for long periods my vision and hearing had been impaired, but sometimes a young lad would come to the shop and place me on his head – then I could see and hear more clearly, and pick up on his thoughts and ideas to some extent. Later, of course, I realised that the lad's view of the world was very limited. Listening to the barber's shop chat, I learned about football and sport, politics and war, the rich and the poor – but I honestly considered the world to be quite small, and that everything that happened in it was within walking distance. I thought the rich were one side of the shop and the poor on the other and the shop itself was the great division. Much was still a mystery to me.

Most of the time at the barber's shop I was ignored, just left hanging there, waiting for my head to come back, occasionally being picked up and tried on by customers, always after a haircut!

Konstantinos, the barber, occasionally gave me a rough dust off. He used to sometimes put me on his head and stand in his doorway when there was no hair to cut. I cannot say I felt appreciated.

One thing that Konstantinos often said was the have great influence on my life: he used to say “Watch, listen and remember!”

My life was to change in a big way. I watched, I listened and I remembered.

One day, sun-shining, dusty and quiet, with no hair to cut and no chins to shave, Konstantinos was standing in his shop doorway watching the street. I was on his head. He did that a lot on fine dusty days: street watching was almost a local custom and what was seen was often the topic of barber's chair chat. I could see through the open door and some way up the street.

A group of young people was walking towards the outside of the shop, chatting and laughing. Four males and one female. As they approached I saw that two of the males had long hair; I wondered if they would come into the shop to get it cut.

Three of the young men wore hats. Well I cannot say they were as well made as myself, but there they were. Whilst I had been left hanging there for months, those hats were out seeing the world.

Konstantinos shouted something across the road – he was calling over one of the young men. He said to one: “I see you have no hat!” The young man said that he did not have one – and suddenly I found myself taken off my head, briefly dusted, and presented to him by Konstantinos.

The young man, whom I soon learned was called “Al”, put me on his head. I saw the world through his eyes, a world I sensed was very different to my life so far, a world of mystery, strangeness and adventure. A world that Al was exploring with plenty of new experiences, new people and new ideas.

Brilliant! I had a new head.

I instantly understood the new language, English, spoken by my new head. I began to see with different eyes and understand the world in a way new to me.

The others were Keith, John and Mike and the female was called Marion. It doesn't take long to learn those things when all you can do is watch and listen. The fact that the humans did not know that I could watch and listen had the potential of being very useful to me as well as educational.

From the conversations I heard, I was to learn that they had all been students in a country called England, a city called Norwich and most had studied Chemistry. They had finished with schools and had set out to travel and explore, in a small van. At night they huddled together and by day they drove. We were, I gleamed, heading for Turkey, eastwards.

John, Mike and Al had been at a University together for three years, but before that had come from different places. John, Al knew, was from Slough and Mike from London; Al himself was from South Wales. Marion had studied Biology at the same University and Keith, the oldest of them, from Birmingham, was Marion's boyfriend. Of them all, Al regarded Keith as the only experienced traveller. He seemed much more confident than the others, although Al did not know much about him and had only known him for about a year. Al felt safe with all of them, feeling that they were honest and non-violent people like himself

So, I found myself saying goodbye to what had been my home for several months, wondering what the future had in stall for us all. Wondering how long I would be staying with my new head, called Al. Wondering if he too would forget me, leave me on another hook, in some dark place maybe or would I get to travel far?

It wasn't long before we all piled into the van – they had bought some of the local sweet 'Halva' and were saying how good it was, crumbling all over, getting in my brim. I did not care, I felt free.

We were heading for Istanbul, a large city in a country called Turkey.

That evening we pulled up along the sea front near the town of Alexandroupoli. Keith read from his book that this town was an important port and the capital of the Evros region in the Thrace region of Greece.

Keith read aloud:

“It was originally called Dedeagach Dedeagatsh . The name was based on a local tradition of a wise dervish who spent much of his time in the shade of a local tree and was eventually buried beside it. Dedeagach remained the official name of the city throughout the Ottoman period, and the name used for it in the West until the establishment of the Hellenic Republic. In 1920 it was renamed Alexandroupoli in honour of King Alexander.

“Alexandroupoli is about 9 miles west of the delta of the river Evros, forty miles from the border with Turkey, 215 miles from Thessaloniki on the newly constructed Egnatia highway."

Keith also read bits about the many wars this city had been involved in. We did not go into the city itself though, as it was getting late, so stopped and built a camp fire then everyone went to sleep.

The next morning, when Al woke up, Keith and Marion were already awake and making tea, which they all drank with milk added, unlike the Greek people I had seen. They were also cooking eggs for breakfast.

As Al was pouring himself some of this tea, along came a weathered and aged looking man with a donkey, smiling broadly, he pointed at the fire and the tea.

“I think he wants some tea,” said Al, and he got up and poured another cup, adding some milk and sugar, and passed the mug to the old man.

“The old man first said thank you, then sipped the hot tea – only to spit it out shouting “Baba, baba!” Clearly, he did not like it. Then he opened his bag and pulled out a bottle of Ouzo.

I knew about "ouzo", an aniseed-flavoured alcohol much liked in Greece and usually mixed with water. It's meant to be taken before meals but many people seemed to like it at any time of the day. Konstantinos had been one of them, but not on the days that he had to cut hair – people got very drunk and loud on that stuff, sometimes.

So the old chap offered the lads some ouzo. Al and Mike were the only two to try it and both said they liked it. It had an aniseed taste and was strong is alcohol, making Al's head spin slightly. I had never experienced that before.

Later Keith read out about ouzo from his book:

“It was made originally in the 14th century by monks living in a monastery on Mount Athos. Ouzo is traditionally served with a small plate of a variety of appetizers called “mezes”, usually small fresh fish, fries, olives and feta cheese. Ouzo can be described to have a similar taste to absinthe which is liquorice-like, but smoother.”

We left for Turkey the later that morning. It was March 24, 1972.

Keith was telling them that sometimes on the border of this place Turkey, the guards took people off and cut their hair, so Al was saying he did not like that thought and maybe he would not even go to Turkey if he had known that before, but now they were on the way.

"Don't worry, man”, said Keith, “just put your hair up inside your new hat.

“Great idea,” said Al, “good job that barber gave me Myhat!”

“Yeah man, cool,” said Keith.

I felt useful, wanted, even maybe loved, elated enough to almost fly off my new head; I didn't of course, I wanted to fit well and be kept. I wanted to stay with these people, they seemed like fun, lots of laughter and good conversation to listen to.

It did not take a day before we arrived at the border, near a place called Ibala, and Al stuffed his hair up inside me with John doing the same with his own hair and hat. Marion, also with long hair, did not have to. Apparently border guards did not object to long hair on females.

The guards, however, simply looked at the documents, the passports as they were called and waved us through. No hat inspections, no hair inspections, no questions, just grins. As soon as we were through, the hair came down again.

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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.

"All About My Hat - The Hippy Trail 1972" by Alun Buffry NOW ON KINDLE AT AMAZON

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

Ann C, Norwich: "This is a fascinatng book packed with stories about adventures on the "Hippy Trail" in all its reality.It was harsh with extreme discomfort.heat and dust and sometimes illness. It took strength and endurance .but then. the rewards were a rich awareness of other cultures and beliefs. I recommend it warmly.and did I mention, it is so funny!"

Roger W E, Swansea: "My Hat is becoming an independent friend, as I read on - he/she/it is competing with you! Roger WE"

Chris P, Essex: "Awesome read fella, most enjoyable."

Ian L, Norfolk: "Read it before Christmas, liked it, very entertaining, definitely a good read, well done Alun."

Frank K, W Sussex: "Loved the book Alun and have shown friends, also travellers with a Hippie hat. Great days to remember for you I bet. I like the way you laid out the text too, great read."

Mark S, Norfolk: "Loving the book."

Melissa D, Italy "I really enjoyed this book..... but I have to admit I skipped some of the travel book descriptions. My favourite part is..... No, I won't spoil it for you!

Simon B, Norwich: "You were lucky to survive.  Loved the book."

TASTERS

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.

AVAILABLE AT  http://www.buffry.org.uk/allaboutmyhat.html

NOW AVAILABLE ON KINDLE AT AMAZON