RECURRING ILLNESSES - a NEW video reading by Alun Buffry

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August - September 1972: Hospital in Tehran

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

The next morning, Al awoke and had a good breakfast at a small café. He decided to head off to the American Express offices to see if they could get any money that was waiting for him in Delhi sent to him that day in Tehran. Then, he planned, he would organise transport somehow to Istanbul. From there he would seek a lift closer to the UK at the Pudding Shop.

He thought a lot about Diane, hoping she was OK, but that was her choice. Al believed in freedom of choice. “Well,” he thought, “She was penniless when he had first met her in Delhi, now at least she had money and a passport again and if she hangs about at Sigis she'll probably get a lift. She'll be OK, she's a survivor and it wasn't her that was dying from dysentery and Infectious Hepatitis.

He was given directions to the American Express Offices, left his bag in the room and with me upon his head, started to walk the busy streets.

But it was getting hotter and hotter. Al was feeling weaker and weaker. He had to sit down.

The only place to sit was on the dirty pavement.

He must have looked terrible. His long hair and his clothing was dirty. He was very thin. It turned out that he had lost about a third of his body weight, now being a little over ninety pounds.

He sat there a while. The street was crowded, the road full of traffic, as usual a great honking of horns as cars, taxis, buses and trucks fought to some space to drive into. The traffic was very slow.

Nobody seemed to care about Al – he thought about the “Good Samaritan” story in the New Testament. Would there be one here?

He tried to stand up and almost fainted. He tried getting the attention of a passer-by for ages, to no avail. Then, when he had stopped trying to get help, it came in the form of a young guy, probably Iranian, in jeans and shirt.

The chap asked Al if he was OK.

“No, I am not and thanks for stopping. I think I have to go to the British Embassy, do you know where it is please?”, said Al.

“Sorry my friend, I do not know, but the American Embassy is around the next corner and you will see it, not far my friend, I will show you,” said the guy and with that helped Al stand up and took him to the street and pointed.

“There is U S Embassy,” he said, pointing.

But what Al saw was the Union Jack, the British flag! It was the UK Embassy building after all.

Al said thanks and goodbye and headed down the street, crossing over and going in through what looked like an entrance. At the gate stood a large security guard in some sort of ceremonial costume.

As Al approached the guard said “Embassy closed today!”

“I'm British,” aid Al, “I am ill, you cannot stop me coming on to British soil can you? I want to see somebody for help.”

“You can go inside but there is nobody here to see you today – come back tomorrow, Sir,” stressed the guard.

So Al walked in, the guard following saying again to come back tomorrow.

Al saw a wooden door and it opened so he went in. Inside was a large room with wooden tables and chairs, some wooden benches by the wall, and at the far end what looked like a reception office with a closed shutter.

He headed for a bench and lay on it.

"I will wait here until somebody comes and please bring me some good water to drink.”

The guard went off and a few minutes later he came back with two sealed glass bottles full of water.

Al drank almost a whole bottle, lay down again on the wooden bench and fell asleep.

Some time later, probably several hours, an embassy official arrived.

He seemed a pleasant and sympathetic chap and Al explained his situation.

“Well, you can't stay here. I think we should get you to the hospital so they can do some tests!”

Al agreed and the official led him out to a car and took him a few miles to the outskirts of Tehran where the hospital was.

Once inside the hospital, the embassy official stayed until an English-speaking doctor came and Al had explained his problems. Then he left saying that he would stay in touch.

The doctor said Al should stay at least one night and they would do tests. He took Al's pulse and blood pressure, listened through his stethoscope at Al’s chest, pressed on his abdomen and took a sample of blood.

Al was then told to lay on a bed trolley and with me in his hand, was taken to a small ward and led to a bed. Of course he did not have clothing to change into, but they brought him some over-sized pyjamas. They also brought Al a hot meal but it had meat in it. Al explained that he did not eat flesh and, although he felt that the nurse really did not understand either what he was saying or why he did not eat meat, the meal was soon replaced with rice and vegetables and no meat. It was delicious and felt wholesome.

Al was shown where the wash room with shower and quickly stripped off, washed his body and hair and washed his clothes, all at the same time. He did not wash me though. I think I needed it to rain, I was dirty too.

He went back to his bed. He was feeling a lot better now. He fell asleep. I was on a small cabinet next to his bed, next to some bottles of water and a small vase with flowers in!

Some time later, a male nurse woke Al up and handed his some tablets, which he swallowed. He went back to sleep.

It was the following morning that he awoke. They served him a breakfast of some sort of porridge, eggs and bread, yoghurt and a rice pudding.

The doctor came and explained to Al that they had the results of the tests and that he should stay a few nights and take the tablets.

“When you go it is very important. You must not drink alcohol and you must not eat fried food or fresh fruit or salad.”

Later that day the embassy official came to visit Al.

He told Al that the best action for him was to take a flight home.

Al explained his lack of money but that he had money in Kabul and maybe some at the American Express if he could get it sent from Delhi offices.

The guy left and came back about an hour later.

He said that if Al signed a paper giving authority, the embassy could arrange with the embassy in Kabul and the American Express in Delhi. Al could stay at the hospital another four nights and then the Embassy would arrange for a car to pick him up and he would be able to fly to London.

Al told him yes but his bag was at the hotel and he had to pay the extra bill.

So the official said “OK, we will pick you up by car and take you to your hotel, you stay only for one night, OK? Then we take you to the airport.”

Al agreed. That was the last he saw of the official. But for four more days and nights he felt warm and clean and was well fed and medicated.

 

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.

April 1972: A Few Days in Tehran

Taken From All About My Hat The Hippy Trail 1972

Next thing I knew it was morning, April 18 1972, and we were sitting outside at a wooden table with Abdullah and a few others, eating yoghurt and bread and figs with cheeses and pickles – and marmalade! Abdullah's son came out with a camera and happy photos were taken . Al never got to see them though.

Al and Keith left and walked for about half an hour to the border where they changed money, went through formalities, and then boarded a bus to Tehran in Iran. The small village where they caught the bus, not far from the border, was the opposite of the town Al had hated the night before.

The street and its buildings were clean and almost modern, people saying hello and smiling, It looked quite busy with cars and trucks and quite welcoming. Al wondered why it was so close but so different to the other place he realised now that he did not even know the name of the place. He thought for a moment that Abdullah and his house may have been a dream.

But almost a soon as they found the bus station office, it was time to get on the bus to Tehran which would take all day again.

Iran was being ruled by Shah Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlav, basically a king.

This time there were no Europeans but there was a Russian man on the next seat and as soon as he found out that Al and Keith spoke English he started talking loudly to them and did so for most of the day. He had food to share, fruit and bread and cheeses, so everyone was happy.

We arrived in Tehran just as it was getting dark again and immediately spotted a hostel near the main bus station and booked into a dormitory which already housed several Europeans on their way to or from India.

One of them was American John whom they had last seen in Greece before Al and I met – he was the guitar player that they had picked up in their van.

Although they seemed to see each other, the meeting was brief, and Al being tired, went to his bed.

Next morning when Al awoke and put me back on his head, we went outside into a large courtyard and Al joined Keith who was already sat at a table drinking tea and eating bread and fruits. Al sat down and almost immediately a young teenage boy brought him tea, bread, fruit and yoghurt.

As Al was eating, Keith started reading from his guide book again.

“Listen to this, man!” said Keith, “We're. in the biggest city in this part of the world.

“Tehran is Iran's largest city and urban area, and the largest city in Western Asia.

“There's a lot more stuff here,” said Keith, “more history, culture, climate, religion but I'm not fucking reading all that out, you can read it later if you want, man.”

Al never did read that. Later we went out into the busy street outside the hostel in order to get something to eat. We walked for about half an hour towards the city centre before we found a small eating house. It was a very noisy street and the eatery was just as noisy inside as outside. But inside, everyone seemed to be shouting at everyone else, so Al and Keith decided to sit outside at a wooden table with a plastic table cloth.

There was a menu printed on card but nothing in English, but luckily the waiter spoke English and was able to direct them to some vegetarian food. This consisted of falafels wrapped with flat bread and served with spring onions, bowls of hot and spicy noodles, bean and vegetable stew, a dish of hot broad beans and salads and dips with more bread. They ate their fill. Al felt pleased to get so much food and thought it cheap. Most of the eating places they had passed seemed to be serving mainly meats in bread, or meat in rice. Afterwards they ate a sticky cake with strong black coffee.

“Actually, I wouldn't mind a beer, it's been months!!”, said Al.

“Iran is alcohol-free,” laughed Keith, “Fuck, you've picked a bad time to want beer man, all these countries are alcohol free and you can get sent to prison for being drunk”

“I guess I'll have to wait 'til we get back to Istanbul then,” said Al.

“We'll have to talk about that, man,” said Keith, “I know we said we would meet up with Mike and John but that's still weeks away, and I think we should head east across Iran and spend a week or two in Afghanistan it will be a fantastic place with great hash!”

Al and Keith discussed that on their walk back to the hostel. I could tell Al was really keen on getting out of Tehran but at the same time thinking more of an adventure in Afghanistan – which he knew nothing about except they grew cannabis and made strong hash in the mountain areas and yes they did have enough time.

“I haven't got much money left,” said Al. “I don't want to end up stranded somewhere I don't know anything about, it could be like getting stuck 2000 years ago!”

“Well the best thing is to get some money sent to American Express in Kabul, the capital. If you write a letter now if should be there by the time we get there. It should take a few days.

“We could get a bus to the outskirts tomorrow. We can get a visa in the morning and be hitching a lift by about two o'clock.”

 

"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