Then
came the day that Diane was given her replacement passport – now
she just needed the entry visa.
That
same day in the morning there was a message at reception for Al to go
back to the embassy.
Off
he went. Things are working out,” he thought. He took a taxi to
the embassy, just to be positive.
Al
arrived at the embassy and was shown in to the office he had been in
previously and met the same embassy official.
The
guy told Al that the authorities had been in touch with Al's parents
and they had sent some money, £170, enough for a flight back to
London and some change.
“Well,”
thought Al, “that's about six weeks wages for Dad.”
Then
he thought: “Well God, if you are there, please let them be able to
afford that, not let them get into debt.” (I can tell you now as
it seems the best time, but Al did not know for weeks afterwards,
that round about that time they had had a small win on the “football
pools” whatever that is – it was in fact as if his prayer had been
answered.)
Al
told the embassy chap that he did not want to spend all that money
getting home and agreed to take seventy pounds in cash, English
money, and leave the rest at the embassy.
“That
way,” he said, “I can get home and get my friend Diane home too.”
He
took the money and arranged that he could get the rest transferred to
any country on route or get it refunded to his parents.
He
already had his visa, Diane had her passport, all that was needed was
to make the return bus ride to the border.
He
went back to meet Diane at Sigis restaurant, that had become their
regular haunt. They would go for a “slap-up” meal.
After
a milk shake and a smoke, Al found the name of a good restaurant and
took Diane for a big meal. Well, it ended up that the only
vegetarian food available in this top restaurant in a big hotel, was
Kabuli rice with vegetables on the side, yoghurt, bread and fruit.
They could have eaten exactly the same in a local cheap restaurant
for a fifth of the price and in a better atmosphere.
Al
said to Diane, “So tomorrow morning we can get the bus to the
border and back and sort out your visa, then we can get tickets and
head back across Iran. It'll be fun.”
“I've
told you loads of times, don't you listen,” she said, “I'm not
going, it's stupid, they know I am here. If
they say I can't get out of the country without a stamp to say I came
in, that's just daft! So what I can't even fly out. What
about if they wanted to kick me out, they'd soon do that. End of!”
The
following morning, Al got himself up and when he woke Diane, told her
if she wanted to go to the border today, get up and go with him.
Diane
refused. They had a noisy row.
Al
realised that she was not going to cooperate.
Al
turned to his "I Ching" and, throwing three Afghani coins,
asked "what should I do? Stay with Diane or make the journey
home alone?"
It
seemed very sound and clear advice from the book that he had to make
the journey home; the alternative suggested led to disaster.
Later
that day he told Diane “Tomorrow I am getting up and going to the
bus station. If you want to come, we will go to the border. If not,
I'm going to catch a bus to Herat
“Look,
here is half my money that's left, thirty pounds” handing her the
English notes and a few Afghani notes.
“So
it's up to you. Fifty pounds should get us both back to London if we
share.”
“Thanks,”
she said, “Maybe I'll see you in England one day. I'm not going to
the Pakistan border and if they aren't going to let me out to Iran,
I'll have to stay here.”
Al
struggled but he could not understand why she was being so stubborn,
it was only a bus ride.
“If
I stay here I am going to die,” he said.
After
that they did not talk about it and drifted back to a day at Sigis
getting high.
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.”
Al
and Keith spent almost a month in Kabul and smoked a great number of
chillums and sat at that spot many times..
Al
enjoyed discovering the city. But Keith was paying his way. There
were no letters at the post office
- the Poste Restante - and no money to collect at the American
Express offices,
Keith
had mentioned several times that he wanted to sell his cheques on the
street so the two of them could go to the Afghan Government building
to apply for visa extensions.
Keith
sold some cheques, without problem. They simply went closer to the
big hotels and waited for a street money-changer to approach them.
Keith
gave Al the equivalent of ten pounds in English money, but Al did not
feel that would get him very far on public transport and with hotel
bills, albeit that it was all so comparatively cheap here. It
certainly would not get him to India.
He
had a couple of cotton shirts that he sold to the two brothers at the
hotel. And a compass set on a plastic base..
Al
went out with his compass and, seeing a small shop that seemed to be
selling junk and second-hand clothes, he entered. Inside was an old
man dressed in a brown gown, sitting behind a counter, Al said hello
but it was obvious that this man spoke no English.
Al
showed the compass and tried to explain its function. He took out a
map of Kabul that he had been given by the hotel, and showed it to
the man, pointing to the North on the map and to the compass needle.
He thought that the man had no idea at all what this was about, but
sensed he was fascinated that the needle always pointed the same way,
however the compass was turned – it pointed to the door to his
shop!
Al
knew the symbols for the numbers by now, and gingerly wrote on the
back of the map “2000” and said Afghani. The man immediately
went to a drawer and came back and gave Al a few bank notes – it
was 1200 Afghani. He took it happily, although it was only about six
pounds in English money it would last for ages here. He could give
Keith some money and still have enough to get by for a while – and
strangely enough six pounds was what the compass had cost back in
England.
By
now Al and Keith had found Chicken Street, a street known to be
popular with Western Travellers. There were small hotels and eating
houses that sold food such as pizzas and burgers, milkshakes and a
range of herb teas. Most of the places played Western music,
including from Bob Dylan and The Band to Jimi Hendrix, Janice Joplin,
Joni Mitchell who made Al think of Miriam, The Doors, The Animals,
The Byrds, The Beach Boys, Jefferson Airplane, Captain Beefheart,
Frank Zappa, Cream, The Rolling Stones - all the music Al liked - and
of course The Beatles and Elvis Presley.
There
were several with cushioned rooms and young people smoking joints.
They chatted with many of them – some going East and some going
West, and heard many strange tales of their experiences, some good
and some bad. They heard of a woman supposedly a psychic, at the
Pakistan – India border, who seemed to know who had hash and where
they had hid it, as people went from one country to the other. They
heard bad stories of how those caught “smuggling” were treated
until they paid hefty fines. But they heard worse about the Afghan –
Iran border where anyone caught with a kilo could be taken out and
shot on the spot. Al had thought how strange that was if the Afghan
Customs Officer was selling it!
They
spent many hours sitting in those places.
On
one occasion they had smoked a chillum and gone out wandering and had
found a small restaurant and gone in to eat – they both wanted
boiled eggs.
It
was an upstairs restaurant, quite a large room filled with wooden
tables and metal chairs. They sat near the open window with an
excellent view of the street below: there were several stalls selling
melons and fruits and vegetables, and a couple opposite with smoke
blowing across the street, selling cooked street snacks. The ground
in between was rough and unsteady and the whole place was busy with
men and women, many carrying bundles or pushing wooden carts with big
wheels, several riding or leading donkeys and even one man driving
sheep, maybe for slaughter in the deeper parts of this street market.
Beyond that corner they could see the main street with its various
forms of transport.
A
boy who looked about fourteen approached them and spoke. It was
apparent he spoke very little English but was asking them what they
wanted. “Tea with milk” - that seemed to be understood.
“Two
soft boiled eggs and toast,” said Keith.
The
boy looked dumbfounded.
Al
decided to try to communicate through sign-language.
He
knew the local word for water was “Pani”.
So
he made a shape like a saucepan in the air with his hands, pointed
into the invisible top and said “Pani.”
The
boy nodded.
Feeling
good about that, Al took out a box of matches from his pocket and
made like to strike one and hold it under the imaginary now pot of
water.
The
boy smiled.
Al
made a shape like an egg in the air and pretended to place the
imaginary egg into the imaginary pot of imaginary hot water – he
signalled with two fingers and pointed to himself and Keith.
Meanwhile
Keith had come up with his own idea of how to order eggs.
He
was crouched down and started flapping his arms and making a noise
like a chicken clucking. He pretended to lay and egg and pick it up,
then a second egg. Then he pointed at Al and showed four fingers.
The
boy smiled and bowed and walked off.
Keith
shouted after him”And toast!”
A
short while later the boy returned. He motioned to Al to follow him.
Well
Al already knew that often several eating houses would share a
kitchen and that it could be even 100 yards away.
So
he followed the boy feeling confident he would see eggs and bread in
the kitchen.
Down
the stairs, turning right out of the door, up the market street
passed stalls selling cloths, about 50 yards or so.
The
boy stopped and pointed up a short alley. Al could see that it
opened on to some sort of yard, but he felt a little uneasy about
this. So he motioned the boy to go first, which he did.
When
they came out of the alleyway, Al saw that it was a courtyard with
closed wooden doors all around and two sets of wooden steps leading
up to a wooden veranda with more closed wooden doors. Al looked at
the boy and shrugged.
The
boy smiled and pointed at one of the doors up the stairs.
“Strange
place to have a kitchen!,” said Al; the boy obviously did not
understand.
The
boy waved Al towards the steps, so he ascended and walked along to
the door and knocked.
There
was no answer. He knocked again, with greater force.
Still
no answer. The boy was shouting something.
When
Al looked down he saw the boy seemed to be motioning Al to go in, so
he slowly opened the door.
He
was expecting to see a number of cooks at hot steaming stoves.
Instead
he saw a hole-in-the floor toilet!
Al
laughed out loud– so much for his eggs in hot water act – so much
for Keith's flapping and clucking!
So
much for boiled eggs on toast.
He
resigned himself to going back to the restaurant with nothing. He
didn't even feel the need to use the toilet..
But
as he and the boy were walking back up the street passed the stalls
selling cloth, the boy shouted something at the stall-holder and
gestured towards Al.
The
stall-holder motioned for Al to approach and suddenly produced a
telephone, on which he spoke. He handed the phone to Al.
A
voice on the other end said “Hello, Kann
ich Ihnen helfen, was Sie wollen?”
Al
recognised that as German. Something like “can I help what do you
want”. They had tried to teach him German in school for two years
but he had had no interest and failed the exams. But he inevitably
knew some words and that included the words for four, eggs, water and
bread.
“ Er
… vier Eier in Wasser mit Brod, bitte” - meaning 'four eggs in
water with bread, please.'
“Yah,
gut!”
Al
handed the phone back to the stall-holder who then listed and told
the boy.
The
boy laughed and pointed back up the street to the alley where the
toilet was again, then at Al.
As
they walked back to the restaurant the boy kept laughing - he was
making a clucking sound!
As
it turned out, after Al had returned to Keith and they had laughed
about the adventure, they were pleased to see the boy return with tea
along with four eggs and a pile of toast. Albeit the eggs were hard
boiled but the lads did not care.
https://youtu.be/dIr29pzBwAQ
Most
of their time in Kabul they ate meat-free Kabuli rice, pizzas, pastas
and the lovely baked and spiced potatoes from the street stalls, and
plenty of bread and onions and fruit and yoghurt.
They
had been in Kabul for three weeks when they heard about the opium
den. One evening they decided to try it. Apparently they did not
allow cannabis or tobacco to be smoked inside, just opium pipes.
It
was a rather dingy looking place off a small courtyard off a dirty
back street. There was a man on the door that simply said “Twenty
each” and let Al and Keith inside. It was quite dark but Al could
see men sitting or laying round on cushions. In the centre of the
room was the pipe-maker, sat on the floor, applying a light to the
opium on the end of the long pipe that another man was sucking on.
The sickly sweet smell of smoked opium reminded Al of that time in
Iran and he thought once again he would enjoy it.
Here,
however, there was no friendly feeling. It was just a commodity they
had to pay for.
They
smoked two pipes each and left. Little did anyone know the
consequences that were to come weeks later, but I will reveal that at
the right time. For now you can only guess.
Instead,
they went to Chicken Street to meet friendlier people and smoke some
hash.
Chicken
Street consisted of stalls and two story buildings occupied by cheap
westernised restaurants and shops selling trinkets, clothing wall
hangings and mats, Afghan coats, breads and pancakes, even antique
guns and swords – and hats and head scarves – it was where people
went to meet and eat or to buy their souvenirs.
“Sigis”
was a popular eating house that we visited many times. It had a
courtyard with a giant chessboard.
Other
restaurants we visited and sat about in were the Marco Polo and the
Khyber.
At
the end of Chicken Street was Flower Street where one could buy
flowers, fruit and vegetables.
In
the restaurants and so-called hippy bars one could meet people with
advice on where to stay and they learned of the Hotel Rainbow in
Peshawar, in Pakistan, their next planned stop.
We
also learned that the Pakistan – India border was closed due to
fighting but there was talk of it re-opening soon,
With
all those chillums the days passed quickly and before we knew it Al
and Keith had bought tickets for a bus through the Khyber pass into
Pakistan and Peshawar. That region of Pakistan was called the
North-West Frontier and was populated by tribes very different to
most Pakistanis.
It
was 180 miles from Kabul to Peshawar, across the Khyber Pass.
