To India and Back
Posted Wednesday, February 6, 2019 02:05 PM

 

 

To India and Back

Copyright ©2016

by

    Alva Smith, Jr.

Stuttgart to Casa Blanca

(Well, Maybe not…)

“Why ya wanna go to Morocco?” Jimmy asked, passing the refilled hash pipe to Gina.

“I just want to write a book and play my guitar,” I replied. “On the beach.”

“I get out of the Army in two months, wanna go together?”

“What do you want to do in Morocco?”

“Smoke hashish.”

“That's what you're doing now.”

“Yeah, but in the day time I have to go on the base and be a Captain in the Army. I'll be a civilian in Morocco.”

I had been working at two jobs for two years, (sleeping on a bunkbed in a store room in the back for the Craft shop where I worked. I had a feeling the previous instructor had slept there. I showered in the gym upstairs.

The Craft Shop had large supplies of clay, glazes, paints, plywood, canvas, a sewing machine, snaps and setting pliers.

Mornings I cooked breakfast in the base snack bar for $1.25 an hour and two meals a day, which is why I took the job over the Craft shop. Then I learned I could do both. I ate breakfast before my morning shift and dinner at 3:00 PM. I opened the Craft Shop at 4:00 PM and closed it at ten. Perfect timing.

Jimmy was a drafted Vietnam survivor who had been deployed to Germany to “finish up his sentence.” He had opted for a “European Out.” The government would ship his personal belongings home. He could fly back to Los Angeles in a year, also at government expense.

We decided to leave for Morocco in March 1971. I had a German Ford Lieferwagen (delivery van) that I had designed to be used by a European Vagabond Hippie. It had a full bed with storage under it, a small kitchen with a pot, a pan and a one-burner propane stove.

A little bigger than a VW van of the day, my Lieferwagen had been used at the Stuttgart Airport by aircraft service workers on the flight line. It had windows all around and curved windows along the length where the sides became the roof because the ground crews had to drive while watching out for wings, jet engines, and things.

In the daytime, the two mattresses could be folded lengthwise, providing seats along the sides above the storage compartments. Two plywood sheets could be put in place to support the center of the bed or affixed to the front of the seat supports to stow them when seats for paying guest travelers were needed.

There was a curtain for each window made out of material the Craft Shop had had in stock for years, held in place by metal snaps. The male parts superglued at the corners of the windows; the female parts were set into the curtains. It was a cozy place to sleep. Guest Travelers camped outside the van.

Sometime in February Jimmy’s friend Mary came to my workplace to tell me she would like to go along on the trip. I explained to her that gas, oil and other car expenses would be shared by the guest riders. Since I provided the van, I was exempt from such costs. Each guest rider would contribute the same amount (such as a one-hundred Deutsche Mark note) to a dedicated wallet. Money from there would be used to buy fuel, etc. When the fund ran low, it would be replenished in the same way, everybody contributing equally. Cost of food would also be shared by all, paid for from a second wallet, dedicated to food. Mary thought that was fair.

“It's going to be boring, Mary. I'm planning to practice guitar and write, little else. Jimmy just wants to smoke weed.”

“I want to sing, edit, smoke weed, and sleep with Jimmy.”

“I assume Jimmy’s okay with this?”

“Of course,” Mary said, indignantly.

“I guess it'll work,” I said.

I had a two-room tent that a couple, leaving for the States, had given me at American Express in Paris. Jimmy and Mary claimed the sleeping room. The extra room became our outside kitchen.

A few days before we were to leave, Jimmy and Mary arrived at my apartment, accompanied by an auburn-haired Irish woman of considerable physical beauty. Her name was Patricia. She was quite personable, glib of tongue, with an intriguing Irish accent.

During the evening she sang folk songs a capella in Gaelic. One could say she held everyone's attention, including mine.

She said she would like to go on the trip. Trying not to sound too anxious, I didn't say “Hell, yes!” Instead, I cautioned her about how boring it would be, citing my plans and (ahem) Jimmy and Mary's.

Patricia had a different idea. She explained that she had a “friend,” a Greek shipping magnate, who owned car ferries that plied the Mediterranean. She could arrange free tickets anywhere in the Med for us and the van.

Her idea was that we could go to Italy, take a free ferry to Greece and a side trip to Israel, thence to Port Said in Egypt. We could then travel across North Africa to Morocco. The actual driving distance would not be much greater than from Germany through France and Spain to Morocco a route we had all seen. [Well, it would be a couple thousand miles farther…]

Her claims turned out to be true but restricted to “Space Available Accommodations” for both people and van. We had to wait if the ferry was booked. In Ancona, Italy, that was the case. We left the van and hitchhiked a side trip to Rome until the ferry’s next call.

It was during that trip that I decided traveling with Patricia might not be a bed of roses. She loved to flirt with the (mostly) men who picked us up, choosing to sit in the front passenger seat. She would entice guys and then expect me to protect her when they squeezed her butt. It provided more than one problem. I’m not a “Knight in Shining Armor” kind of guy.

We did, however, see a lot of Rome. We were sitting on the Spanish Steps one day when a middle-aged American lady approached and asked if she could take a picture of us. We smiled for her camera, then asked why she wanted a picture of two strangers. “It’s the first time I’ve seen real live hippies,” she replied. “I’ll have proof to show my bridge club.” I think we looked more like vagabonds than flower children, but I hope her friends appreciated our weirdness.

Glad to be back in Ancona, with time still to kill, we stayed in an empty campground on the beach. The Mediterranean was too cold to swim, but days on the beach improved our tans, including Jimmy’s, a lighter-skinned black guy.

One day I was walking barefoot on the beach when my toe caught something and tossed it ahead. It was a woman’s ring, gold with a solitary pearl held by pincers.

I rinsed it in fresh water. It was in perfect condition. I put it on my key ring and often looked at it, wondering if the lady had cried when she lost it. Had it been a love gift? That seemed likely. I wished I could return it to her. I tried to feel her grief and write about it.

Patricia, quick to point out that she was providing free travel for us all, didn’t contribute to either wallet and was fond of being served breakfast in bed. She chose to do none of the work required by camping. She liked the ring a lot.

Her attitude continued. Admittedly, on the ferry we sat at the Captain’s table for dinner. It was nice to take a warm shower in the posh cabins. Upon arrival in Athens, Patricia joined her friend for dinner and arrived back at camp mid-morning the next day in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. We had a similar wait for the ferry to Israel. It was Easter. We decided to make a side trip to Turkey.

At a campground outside Istanbul, Jimmy and Mary cornered me and said they’d had enough of serving Patricia. They refused to travel on with her, free ferry tickets be damned. I confessed that I felt similarly. The news was broken to Patricia.

She didn’t understand our chagrin. Tickets for the journey would cost thousands of dollars! We wouldn’t have them without her! She deserved special treatment, including (but not limited to) breakfast in bed and free cigarettes. And a great deal more appreciation! Patricia found a couple who were London bound and hitched a ride.

We were a long way from Morocco. We went to the Pudding Shop across from the Blue Mosque to talk about possible alternatives. That’s when we met Jim, a former reporter for the St. Louis Post Dispatch who was traveling overland to Vietnam to be a free-lance War Correspondent. He was filing stories on his trip but hadn’t had one published for a while.

Jim told us of a person he had met at The American Center for Students and Artists in Paris, a hangout I had enjoyed, particularly on their Jazz Night. That person had told Jim that if he ran short of money (He had. He was awaiting money from home.) on his trip to Vietnam, he could go to Kuwait and easily land a job guarding pipelines. The job paid a lot of money. The downside was that guards sometimes got shot at by men who were tapping the pipeline. Tappers usually ran, he reassured us.

Jimmy, our Vietnam Vet, felt qualified and was willing to take the risk. I had been a “New Mexico Gunfighter” part time in college, was willing to chance it because of the amount of money involved. Mary was all about love and peace. She was appalled at the very idea.

Now, admittedly Dear Readers, my experience as a gunfighter consisted of robbing the bank and stagecoach at “Little Beaver Town” east of Albuquerque, for the entertainment of tourists, using wax blanks loaded with black powder so the BANGs! were loud with a lot of smoke. I doubted my role as a cavalryman (opposite Burt Lancaster) in “Hallelujah Trail” was relevant.

My Air Force career was spent operating communications gear, (think glorified typewriter here) waiting for a transfer to France that never came. Although I qualified as a Marksman (everybody did) with an M-1 Carbine, my qualifications for guarding anything were iffy at best. I figured Jimmy could teach me.

With high expectations, so to speak, the group went to Ankara, where we obtained visas for the countries we expected to travel through. Jimmy and Mary went together while Jim and I stayed with the van, and vice-versa.

Traveling through Turkey, we passed a lot of Roman ruins and other interesting places, including a village of houses that had been carved into huge boulders. We drove south to the Mediterranean coastal town of Tarsus, the home of Saul, and turned east.

We visited the American Air Force Base at Incirlik where Jimmy, who still had his military I.D. card, got his afro trimmed, went to the base exchange and commissary to resupply the expedition with food, mostly canned, cases of Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew, and a full ration of Marlboro which turned out to be excellent “Baksheesh.”

From Incirlik, we continued east in southern Turkey north of the Syrian border, past Mount Ararat, on a road shown on the map as a solid black line, which would normally indicate that it was paved. On our map, it ran all the way to Mosul, Iraq. It was a decent highway for about a hundred miles before it became unpaved and eventually faded into a dirt track that ran along a fence with signs that read “Achtung! Meinen!” The road veered away from the fence and became fainter and fainter until it was gone. Our expedition found itself in a rock-strewn plain. Confused, we stopped to cook a meal. While eating, a hunting party of Kurdish horsemen approached.

Wearing long white robes and carrying ancient rifles, the group looked like extras from Lawrence of Arabia. None looked like Peter O’Toole. They were friendly when they arrived, smiled and seemed to wonder what these strange people were doing in their hunting grounds. We taught them to say, “Uh-Mer-i-kuh.”

Communication was not without effort. I was interested in their horses. They showed Arabian characteristics with pretty heads, large windpipes and good conformation. I inspected a stallion’s eye and smiled. The horse had a “good eye!”

I pointed at the eye, then my own, grinned foolishly to the rider, and said “Good eye! Good eye!”

The Kurdish rider seemed to understand my smile, if not my words, and grinned broadly.

I looked at the stallion’s teeth, smiled and held up six fingers.

Once again, the rider seemed pleased and probably said, “yes” in Kurdish. With sign language, not the Northern Plains version, the rider probably asked me if I would like to ride the animal.

Three other riders went with me as I gave the stallion his head. The horse was accustomed to picking his way between the boulders as we loped across the plain. The animal’s gait was strong and comfortable. I was impressed! When we returned, tea was being poured.

Sharing tea and a package of Oreo cookies from the base exchange, we laughed and continued to try to communicate. Once I convinced the Kurds that I didn’t want to trade the van for a horse, I showed our map to the stallion’s owner and pointed to a town in Iraq named “Mosul.” The Kurd looked at the map. He turned it upside-down and then sideways. He frowned and seemed to shrug as he returned it.

I pointed at the spot again and said, “Mosul.” The Kurd’s smile brightened. He pronounced a word that sounded something like “Mosul” with a questioning tone.

The Kurd pointed at my chest, then to his right and said “Mosul,” again with a question in his voice. “Yes, Mosul.” I said, uselessly pointing at my chest and then in the direction I hoped Mosul lay.

After an exchange of sign language, I understood that we should drive between two mountains to the north, where we would find a paved road. We should turn right and follow that road to Mosul. I’m not sure, but strongly suspect, that we had taken the wrong fork in the road some distance behind us.

Our expedition bade farewell to our new friends. I watched the Kurds ride away and admit to feeling envy. I aimed the van between the two mountains. Often, we had to stop and roll large rocks out of our path. As the sun was setting, we camped for the night.

Early the next morning we continued to drive north. We came upon a boulder-free dirt path made by horses’ hooves and followed it between the two mountains. Eventually, after eleven hours and sixty kilometers of driving time, we came to a paved road, turned east and eventually found a sign that read, “Mosul” in both Arabic and English script.

We had poured both of our spare cans of fuel into the tank by the time we reached the border crossing, where we found a gas station.

The Iraqi border guards were less than helpful, but I must shoulder some blame. While Jim and I had visas for Iraq, Jimmy and Mary’s were for Iran. Their geography was not so accurate. They had gone to the wrong embassy in Ankara.

After a long conversation (and a pack of Baksheesh) with a man who spoke broken English, Mary and Jimmy had visas for Iraq. That did not end our problems.

I also needed a Carne de Passage, which I learned was a guarantee by the German automobile club to pay the import duty should I sell the van in Iraq. At first, that problem seemed to be unsolvable. Another pack of Baksheesh solved it.

Our final hurdle had to do with a rule that a policeman must ride with us to Baghdad. We decided, in that land of outstretched palms, a cop might be a good hitchhiker. Fortunately, a border guard was taking leave and wanted to visit his family in Baghdad. The problem was solved. I’ve wondered if that rule was made up on the spot.

Dusk settled quickly on the desert. We found ourselves driving through a very dark night. There was an amazing sky full of stars, but they didn’t illuminate much. Suddenly, a wheel appeared in the road. I tried to swerve into the left lane but didn’t do it in time.

The van’s right wheels ran over the wheel. I had steered to the left enough to avoid crashing into a disabled truck which was stopped in the right lane, with no lights at all. Somehow, the van controlled itself without much help from me.

The van wasn’t damaged, but my bravery was. I drove about a half-kilometer ahead and pulled well off the side of the road. To the apparent chagrin of our hanger-on cop, we camped, the four of us sleeping in the camper’s bed, unwilling to chance spreading our sleeping bags on the desert sand. The cop stayed in the passenger’s seat, where he sat when dawn arrived.

We made a drama-free drive on to Baghdad where our cop directed me into a large parking lot filled with cars and trucks in various stages of disassembly. Most had no wheels; many were short of a lot more parts. The cop seemed to be saying that we would park the van and retrieve it when we were ready to leave Iraq.

I was more than ready to leave Iraq, and I’m afraid I was a bit short with the cop. Not caring if he understood me, I repeatedly said, “I must see your boss!” In Sign, I indicated I wanted to see a man with a big hat. “Muy importante!” After repeating this demand many times, the cop directed me to a building in the center of Baghdad. I parked the van between a Mercedes and a BMW. I gave our guide a pack of smokes, never to see him again.

Inside the building, we found a man whose English, though not perfect, made himself understood and seemed to understand us. He was friendly. I became more cordial. Eventually he took us upstairs where we were seated in an air-conditioned waiting room. A pretty lady, who spoke UCLA English, served tea and sweetbreads.

After a short time, she led Jimmy and me into the inner office where a man was standing behind a large desk with a pair of flags behind him. She introduced us. We shook hands. I never understood his name.

“Welcome to Baghdad!” He said with a warm smile. “Is it true you are Americans?”

We assured him we were.

“I did my undergraduate work at the University of Colorado,” he said. He pushed a button and said something in Arabic. Mary and Jim were led into the room and more tea was served. “I understand there is a problem with your visas?”

“Two of us have visas for Iran but not Iraq.” I explained how it had happened. He laughed, called his secretary, said something in Arabic and gave our passports to her.

A jovial conversation took place in which we talked about football, our experiences in college, and the sorry state of relations between America and Iraq. We learned that the Shah of Iran and the American government were on friendly terms while Iraq and Iran had armies poised along their common border.

We pointed out that our major political stand was in opposition to the war in Vietnam. We had not known about the problems between Iran and Iraq. I assured him that our only reason for being in Iraq was to get to Kuwait where we hoped to find work.

He called his secretary and spoke to her at length in Arabic. She reappeared with our passports and a letter, which the gentleman signed backwards in Arabic script and gave to me.

“If you run into difficulties, show this letter,” he said. He told us he had enjoyed the conversation and would like to continue but, unfortunately, he had duties he must perform. He encouraged us not to miss Babylon and wished us a pleasant visit in Iraq.

Back in the camper, without the cop, but with a new map, we drove south to Basra, then to the border with Kuwait. The visas in our passports were cancelled and we were sent on. The Kuwaiti officials were ten kilometers farther south.

The Kuwaitis had a man who spoke English quite well but would not let us into the country because we had no visas. We assured him that we had been told at the Kuwaiti Embassy in Ankara that Americans didn’t need visa to enter Kuwait.

He was not persuaded. He said we had to turn around and go back to Iraq. I showed The Letter. He read it, returned it, and told us to go back to Iraq. There seemed to be no choice, so we did.

Back at the Iraqi border station, we were not allowed to enter Iraq because our visas had been cancelled. It was time to play the letter, which worked like a charm. The border guards cancelled the cancellations of our visas and we returned to Basra.

After a disgusting meal in a local restaurant, we decided we wanted nothing more than to leave Iraq, working in Kuwait be damned. We chose starvation over this. Consulting our map, we saw that there was a ferry that crossed the Shatt-al-Arab river, formed some distance north at the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates. The Shatt-al-Arab was the border between Iraq and Iran.

We found only a military post. There was a concrete ramp that led into the river, but no apparent ferry. We were told to return to Basra. I played the Magic Letter.

An officer used the office telephone to read the letter to someone. He listened a short time, disconnected and issued orders.

The soldiers sprang into action. Down the river, close to the western shoreline, came what looked like an ancient car-ferry which had the capacity to carry one car. We were told to load the van on backwards. On the other side of the river, the soldiers shooed us off the ferry quickly, almost frantically. I drove off onto another concrete ramp. The soldiers aboard the ferry left quickly.

There were a few ruined buildings, so we decided to follow a dirt road to the east. We hadn’t driven far when we were surrounded by armed soldiers driving American jeeps. The officer who led them was a University of Ohio graduate. I showed him the Magic Letter.

He explained that, while the letter used the same script, it was written in Arabic and he spoke Farsi (and English). He had no idea what the letter said and didn’t care who wrote it.

He explained that he hadn’t thought that a German Ford delivery van carried an invasion force, which is why he hadn’t ordered his troops to fire artillery rounds at the ferry. He also explained that we were driving toward a mine field when his military unit stopped us.

He instructed me to keep my tires in the tracks made by his jeep. Soldiers, walking with mine detectors, led us to a highway where we followed the jeep to a military installation.

The hospitality was supreme! We were invited to stay in quarters intended for officers, treated to showers and a meal in the Officers’ Mess. During the evening, there was a telephone call for me.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello, Sir,” an obviously American voice said. “Why are you in Iran?”

“Well, one might say we’re lost, Sir.”

“Did you really cross the Shatt-Al-Arab from Iraq?”

He didn’t seem to think my “yes” was plausible. I explained the letter. He asked if I would come to his office (he specified “as a guest”) in the morning and bring the letter. I wondered what other categories might exist but told him we would. He asked to speak to the Captain again.

After their conversation, the officer told me he would lead us to the Consulate tomorrow. We spent the evening laughing and joking with the soldiers, several of whom spoke a little English, all of whom were more interested in Mary. Mary held court like a princess.

The next morning, an Army Jeep led us to the American Consulate in Khorramshahr or Abadan. (I’m not sure which is which. When the Shah of Iran was deposed, city names were changed.)

The man into whose office we were ushered was friendly and said he was pleased to speak English with Americans. He was anxious to hear our story. We showed him the letter, which he looked at, then sent away with his secretary.

He was very interested to know about our adventures in Iraq, and how we had met the man who wrote the letter. We explained.

“This is a rough translation, Sir,” said his American secretary as she handed over our letter. He scanned it.

“Do you know who he is?” he asked.

“Not really,” I answered, “Something bin Something. He told us to call him ‘Ben’. The letter has been helpful when we’ve showed it to people in Iraq.”

“I’m not surprised. Basically, it says you are special guests of” (He pronounced an Unpro-Bin-nounceable name). “The reader must help you in any way you ask or telephone his office for further instructions. You don’t understand who he is?”

“No, Sir. I didn’t understand his name. I just called him ‘Ben’ and ‘Sir’. He seemed important, judging from his office furnishings.”

“Yes, he’s important.” Our not-with-the-CIA host tried to teach me how to pronounce the name. It wasn’t Saddam Hussein. “Why do you think he took a liking to you?”

“Maybe because he’s a football fan? He graduated from Colorado. They’re in the same athletic conference as Oklahoma. He admired Bud Wilkinson.”

“Well, no matter,” he said. “His letter probably kept you out of prison as spies. It may have saved your lives at the river.”

“I often felt inconvenienced, but never in danger,” I said. [Well, there was the tire in the road.] “Why did you ask us to come here?”

“We don’t get many Americans in German delivery vans crossing the Shatt-al-Arab illegally and driving through mine fields these days. Were you aware that Iraq and Iran are on the verge of warfare?”

“No, Sir, we had no idea. We’re behind on the news.” That was true. Four months on the road, we had given up listening to the radio early on. The music was strange and the language not to be understood. We had a nice stereo in the van. We played Crosby, Stills and Nash, Joan Baez and talked to each other. We hadn’t seen an International Herald Tribune since Rome.

“I can’t impress strongly enough how lucky you have been. Did you see any military forces in Iraq?”

Jimmy’s Vietnam experience joined the conversation. “I saw a lot.”

“What did you see?”

“Tanks on flatbeds, deuce and a half’s carrying troops, artillery. Lots of stuff on the move.”

“What kind of tanks?”

“Russian.”

Our host went on to question Jimmy closely about what he had seen. With his service in Vietnam, Jimmy could answer learnedly.

Ending this phase of the conversation, our host once again informed us he was not with the CIA. He asked where we wanted to go from there. We had a tribal talk and decided to join the hippie trek to India instead of backtracking to Morocco. Teheran was on the route.

“Teheran, please,” was the decision.

Our host took us and the Captain to lunch while his secretary solved the problem that only Mary and Jimmy had Iranian visas, having gone to the wrong Embassy in Ankara. In retrospect, Jim and I had gone to the wrong embassy. Iraq had clearly been a mistake. We followed the Captain back to the Army post where we spent another mirthful night with the soldiers, Mary as star-guest.

The next day, minus the magic letter but with a new map, we began an uneventful trip to Teheran, where we found a nice campground with a cold but refreshing swimming pool. Present as well was a California chick who had killer hashish for sale.

Staying in the campground was a 50ish Englishman who was traveling with his 20ish son, making the trek overland to India. I suppose he was feeling rather left out because he said to his son, “I can’t understand a word these young people are saying.”

“They’re speaking American slang, Father. Yes, it’s because you are here. They don’t trust anyone over thirty.”

“Whatever do they need to hide?”

“Someone was able to “score” (buy) some “shit” (Hashish) today, Father. They worry you might be offended if they smoke.”

“Quite the contrary!” He said. “I should very much like to try it! I’ll be happy to contribute to the cost.” The California chick was quick to accept many currencies, British pounds among them.

Soon, the group was giggling, including “Father” (called “Dad” by the Americans and “Vater” by the Germans).  Dad seemed to have more fun than anybody and turned out to be a valued teammate.

The “Hooka” is a study in teamwork. A large pipe-bowl is fitted with a tube that reaches to the bottom of a container filled with water. Some use wine, but we were in Iran. Hoses are attached to the top of the container, above the water level.

The pipe bowl is filled with Hashish, shaved into slivers, the thinner the better. Glowing charcoal is placed on top. Five people suck on the mouthpieces simultaneously and with the same amount of force. Otherwise the smoke will not be drawn into the container with enough force to filter it through the water. Practice was required.

Those folks too involved in their thoughts to remember to draw on their mouthpieces, were dropped from the team, but they didn’t seem to care. Hashish has a way of telling people when to stop. Like Bill Clinton, I didn’t inhale, of course.

The swimming pool was in a constant state of being flushed with fresh well water. It was fed at the shallow end and drained at the deep end into a stream running downhill. A quick dip left one feeling a wonderful level of clean when shivering ebbed. A young Swedish woman thought the water was perfect for swimming. She was perfect for a bikini. The campground didn’t seem to enforce an Islamic dress code.

Westerners made the campground-oasis a stop no matter which direction they were going. We visited in the evenings with trekkers returning to Europe and learned what lay ahead of us.

The thing we heard most was probably, “Don’t miss Kashmir.” The West-bound trekkers’ description of the road from Teheran to the Afghan border did not fill us with confidence.

“A road under construction, with little sign of work crews” would be a good definition. A wide path had been graded. Gravel, some pieces six-inches across and jagged, had been dumped on it. Fortunately, towns and villages existed along the way. We were able to refuel as necessary. The route ran six hundred miles east.

At one village, we were invited to camp in the town square. We took the mattresses from the van and placed them away from the fountain to avoid being in the paths of villagers coming for water. Mary felt safe in her sleeping bag between Jimmy and me.

During the night, Mary was groggily wondering why I was stroking her tummy. She came fully awake, looked into a pair of smiling but unknown Iranian eyes, and screamed.

I awoke in time to see a man in white robes fleeing between two buildings. Jimmy turned over. In the morning he had no memory of the incident.

At the Afghan border a two-lane highway with a paved surface led into Herat. An Afghan there invited us to go to an Afghan night club. It sounded interesting. Our “guide” summoned a Tonga, which is a single-horse drawn chariot, much like the one Charleston Heston raced in Ben Hur, but bigger and drawn by one horse. It had two wheels and two seats, each for three people with a common backrest. Our guide sat in front with the driver; Mary between them. Jim, Jimmy, and I sat in back.

The front seat faced forward and leaned backward which made it comfortable with no need to hold on. The back seat leaned and faced toward the rear, which made holding on challenging. We found it best to reach behind us, hook our elbows over a bar with our feet braced on another bar. I’ve had more comfortable perches at breakneck speeds. The horse deftly avoided the sewer that ran down the center of the street.

The show at the Night Club was much like a high-school talent show without Russell Bridges, Anita Bryant or David Gates. I guess one of the performers was a stand-up comic because the audience laughed during his performance. I didn’t get the jokes. There were both male and female singers. None sounded like Crystal Gayle or Gene Autry. At nine o’clock, the lights went out, not just in the Night Club but in all of Herat. The show was over.

The ride back to our economy hotel was through picturesque dark streets. Shops, lighted by kerosene lanterns, were filled with people wandering between them. We saw no need to shop or party after our evening of debauchery at the Night Club.

The next morning, we were off to Kandahar on the Russian road. We learned that, at the time the road had been built, the American government was courting the Afghan government in competition with the Soviet Union. Each Country built a stretch of the highway to endear themselves to those in charge. Your Foreign Aid at work.

To cope with the harsh environment, the Soviets used concrete slabs. The Americans brought in a construction company from Arizona who built their highway using asphalt. Each section had its charm. The Soviet’s concrete section rewarded the driver with a rhythmic, “Kawump! Kawump! Kawump!” The tires sang on the American stretch but featured longitudinal ruts worn into the soft asphalt by the summer sun. It was like driving on a railroad track with missing spikes from time to time. We were not warned to stay off the road during the hot part of the day. The tires, softened by the amazingly hot concrete, wore quickly.

Located between Herat and Kandahar stood a recently completed complex called “The Russian Hotel.” The U.S. road, built by the Arizona company, had survived the Afghan weather better. (I remain unconvinced.) To atone for their less-than-laudable efforts, the Soviets had built a super-modern hotel in the desert. We had been encouraged by westbound travelers to stop because it had a swimming pool. Afghan afternoons are hot!

The hotel looked very nice. It was equipped with a shiny stainless-steel electric kitchen. Unfortunately, the nearest electric power was unreliable and in Herat to the west and Kandahar to the east. Impressed, with the décor, we decided to splurge on a meal to break the monotony of Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew over rice. The waiter, Ali, spoke some English and brought expensive-looking leather bound menus which had more pages than we cared to count. Food from around the world was listed, Chinese, Russian, French, German and many others. I was impressed!

I chose General Tso’s chicken.

“We ain’t got none,” said the waiter, with an unmistakable West Texas drawl.

I chose Cordon Bleu.

“We ain’t got none,” Ali repeated. [I wondered if Ali learned his English at rodeos in Texas or from the cook on “Rawhide.”]

I chose Zigeuner Schnitzel. They ain’t had none o’ that, neither. “Wha’ chew got?” I asked in my Mother-tongue.

“Rice n’ meat,” he replied. [Your writer is not a betting man, Dear Readers, but a wager that Ali knew how to say, “rice n meat” and “We ain’t got none,” in at least seven different languages might have played well.] Afghan restaurants normally served rice and meat. Only rice and meat. We ordered rice and meat.

As the waiter opened the swinging doors to the kitchen, we saw gleaming stainless-steel appliances. Moment later, we saw (through the window by our table) Ali exit the building via a side-door, cross the lawn and scale a ladder over the stucco wall, carrying a glass-domed stainless-steel tray.

He wasn’t gone long when he came back over the wall, into the same door, and into the dining room, where he placed our food before us in fine china (made in China) bowls. He poured water from an elegant ewer into our glasses but none of us liked the color which was a pale ecru. We still had well-water from Teheran treated with purification tablets Jimmy had liberated back in Germany.

After eating, my curiosity having gotten the better of me, I went out into the garden and climbed the ladder. On the other side of the wall was an adobe hut with an iron kettle suspended over a fire where dinner had obviously been prepared. It was attended by a lone Afghan wearing a turban. He smiled and waved with the back of his hand. I later learn that it is an insult to show the palm of one’s hand. It’s much like giving the finger, I suppose.

There were three Afghans fishing in the algae-green swimming pool. We chose not to swim.

That’s about it for the Russian Hotel. Back on the highway the following morning, we aimed toward Kandahar.

 

Kandahar, Afghanistan

We found a hotel that, for a few Afghanis, allowed us to camp in their gardens. (The monetary unit is the “Afghani,” Dear Readers, the people are “Afghans”.) Mary and Jimmy pitched my two-room tent. Jim pitched Jimmy’s army pup tent. We shared.

I don’t know if that hotel had a dining room or not. If we wanted to order dinner (rice and meat) or tea, we just called Ali or Ben and he fetched it. All Muslim men are named Ben or Ali, it seems. [Actually, “Ali” is a common Muslim name for both boys and girls. “Ben” mean’s “son of” in Arabic and is used throughout the Muslim world.]

Mary and Jimmy were running low on hashish, but Ben quickly solved their problem. During that transaction, he invited us to visit the farm where it had been produced. We took the van.

The farm was about an hour from Kandahar, the last few kilometers through fields of two-meter-tall cannabis. There was a “village” of adobe buildings, some with walls and some with only roofs.

Workers carried bundles of hemp plants and beat them heartily on what looked to have been a Persian carpet, freeing the pollen and, I suppose, some oils. The workers then hung the plants to dry and went for another load.

Hanging them upside down, Ben explained, lets the sap run down into the leaves, leaving the fibers (used to make rope) less sticky. When dry, the buds and leaves would be made into different kinds of hashish, cheaper but less potent than that made from the residue on the carpet. Mary and Jimmie reported that it worked just like pot. [Did this writer mention that he, like Bill Clinton, did not inhale?]

Men sat flat on their feet, their knees bent upward and scraped the carpet with both hands. The hands of the scrapers were cracked and calloused but moved with surprising speed. Then they picked up a block of hashish and worked their new collections into it. The block grew until it reached a certain size, I imagine one kilogram. The scrapers seemed to know when to stop. It was then collected by others, wrapped in burlap and packed in crates for shipment. Henry Ford would have envied their production line.

 

Kabul, Afghanistan

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kabul

In Kabul, we found another hotel that charged vans a few Afghanis to camp in their gardens. There was a small tile-lined building that housed a toilet (two footprints and a hole) and a shower which drained into the toilet. One needed to watch one’s step. To “drifters” like us, it was luxury.

Most of our meals were prepared in our two-room tent. Mary and Jimmy claimed the “bedroom,” but one room was designated “the kitchen.” We moved the cooking stuff from the van to the tent, which may have been a mistake. We became quite comfortable.

I was able to get some writing and guitar time while the others entertained themselves. Eventually, comfort became a problem.

Denny Moore’s Beef Stew was common on our diet, and we found different ways to serve it with rice. A favorite was to make a mound of rice with a depression in the center, into which two fried eggs were placed with a serving of Denny Moore’s.

I have never found the food Americans call “French Toast” anywhere except in the United States and Kabul, Afghanistan. Someone must have brought the recipe to the Afghans. [Perhaps the same person who taught English at the Russian Hotel?] One morning we went to the Green Hotel for breakfast, since we had a gallon of pure maple syrup that Jimmy had liberated from the Army back in Germany.

The French toast was surprisingly like the version we knew and loved in America. The bread was different.

Afghan hotels didn’t have (so far as I know) dining rooms. Tables and chairs were placed in appropriate places. We found one on the front veranda. The table had a large pile of hashish in the center. An Afghan worker was cleaning the front porch with a hand brush and a dustpan. He started at the end of the porch and swept in our direction. When he reached our table, we all rose to give him room. He placed the blocks of hashish in the dustpan, swept the crumbs into it, and emptied the contents in a trash can.

He then took our order. About the time we were finishing our French Toast, a young American came out of the hotel and joined us. “Party’s still going on, huh?” he said. His eyes didn’t seem to focus.

“We’re not the same people,” I told him. “We came for breakfast.”

“French Toast, huh? Wow! Is that real maple syrup?” He became more alert. We told him that it was and offered to share. Jimmy had found the syrup in the supply depot he commanded in Germany in gallon containers. We had plenty.

“I thought I left some hash on this table,” The American said. We assured him someone had.

“Did Ali sweep it out again?” We confirmed his fear.

He went to the trash can and pulled out a rather large chunk, shook the dust off and, mixing hashish crumbs with tobacco, rolled a joint. His expertise was apparent.

The usual, “Where are you from?” conversation took place. We learned that the young man was the son of an American diplomat assigned to Indonesia. He had received his draft notice and had been pronounced “1-A” by the Embassy doctor. He was on his way to New York and likely to be sent to die in Vietnam.

In Afghanistan, he had bought ten kilograms of hashish. His plan was to carry it in his luggage to New York. If he got “busted” he would be a felon and not eligible for the draft. If he slipped through, his plan was to sell the dope and flee to Canada on the proceeds.

Unfortunately, he had been searched on the street by the Afghan police who found a small chunk in his pocket. He was released but the police kept his red passport. He was to report to police headquarters at ten o’clock that morning to be deported.

“You’re late,” pointed out Jimmy who, for some reason, still wore a watch. Maybe because it still worked.

“You don’t think I’m going to help them? I’m gonna sit here, smoke joints, and wait for them to come and get me.”

He was still sitting there when we left. It has been forty-seven years since then. I’ve wondered how he fared.

Kabul sprawls across mountain foothills in the Hindu Kush range, next door to the Himalayas. Streams that once flowed through the foothills have been diverted to flow through gutters beside the city streets. Pristine water once flowed. Not so in 1971.

At the top, the water was spring-fed and pure. As water flowed downhill it got polluted. Sewage was dumped into the stream and water for tea taken out. I once saw a man squatting over the stream washing his privates after having relieved himself.

We camped in the garden of a hotel that was supplied by a deep well of pure (if icy cold) water, from which we got our drinking water. We were able to pitch the tent near the van.

Nearby was an adobe building, about two meters square, with a fifty-gallon steel drum, painted black, on the roof. At night, the barrel was filled with water from the well. The shower it fed warmed to “tolerable” by noon and to “intolerably hot” by three. About one o’clock was best, but there was a line. Those who worked in our hotel always attended to whatever we needed.

Ali was no different. Jimmy and I, having discussed the shower problem at length, shared our diagnosis. The barrel, after sitting empty overnight, was filled in the morning with cold well water which took a long time to warm. Then it was used quickly, leaving a small amount in the late afternoon which got too hot to use.

Our solution was to top off the barrel at one-hour increments. That could be done by simply turning on a faucet where a hose was connected to the top of the barrel.

Ali seemed astounded by our scientific know-how. He called Ben and shared the idea. Ben seemed as impressed as Ali. After a quick trip somewhere together, they returned to tell us we had permission to turn the water on and off any time we chose.

While that wasn’t exactly what Jimmy and I had in mind, our schedule was not overloaded. [We had suspended all appointments with Heads-of-State.] The good news is that the system evolved for the better. Soon the hippies who were camped in the garden joined in the duty and the barrel was kept full most of the time.

By keeping the barrel full during the best solar hours, it stayed warm. The morning sun started with warmer water, expanding the hours we could take a shower.

Mary and Jimmy celebrated by sharing a joint.

 

Horst’s Soup Kitchen

There was sort-of a restaurant (call it a soup-kitchen) not far from the hotel, run by a German ex-patriot named Horst. The rumor was that Horst had fled the Fatherland, having been an early member of the Baader-Meinhof Gang also known as The Red Army Faction.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Army_Faction

The most fascinating people were along the route to the east that year. One was Horst. Like most of the folks I met in those years, he didn’t use another name. Horst lived by selling bowls of soup for five Afghanis each. At the rate of exchange, that amounted to seven or eight cents. The soup was never heavy with meat but was spiced to taste good and staved off hunger. His place of business was not far from our hotel. He lived in the back room of his “restaurant.”

Each morning Horst made a large pot of thick soup, using well water (we checked) and served it in bowls made of Afghan bread (tan) baked with the edges curled up. Think Panera Bread. Sort of. One had to eat it quickly or the bowl sprang leaks. Horst had spoons but no plates. The bread, especially when soaked with Horst’s soup was one of the incentives to eat there.

Normally, Afghan bread is round, like a thick flour tortilla. It is baked in a half-sphere community oven (tandoor) which is preheated with a wood fire. The dough is stuck to the inner walls of the oven where it bakes and falls off when finished. Horst simply curled-up the edges before sticking the dough in place. He had made a special tool to do it with, which (he said), avoided baking his arm during the process.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT1du6GGzxM

Horst was quick to point out that his water came from a deep well and was boiled in the process of making his soup, which usually contained lamb, was tasty, hearty and, (so far as we knew) didn’t make anyone sick.

The “kids” as the ex-patriots called themselves regardless of age, ate there. An interesting conversation was always available. Many of the wanderers, myself included, were aging out of the “Kids” category but we didn’t admit it openly.

 

A Horseback Ride

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=the+afghan+horse&qpvt=The+Afghan+Horse&FORM=IGRE

One morning, after a breakfast of French Toast with Maple Syrup and un-inhaled (like Bill Clinton) hashish, an Afghan tied a horse to a fence in front of the hotel and went inside. Horses have always attracted my attention. I had to go look at that one. It was pretty, a dapple-grey gelding, had a chiseled face and a “good eye.” His musculature was not as built-up as a quarter horse; slender, like a mustang even, or an Arabian. He looked like a mount that could cover a lot of distance in a day.

I would never touch another person’s horse without his permission. [It ain’t healthy! Both the owner and horse might not see it as a friendly gesture.] I was still inspecting when the rider emerged from the hotel. He offered a friendly smile. Through sign language, he told me that the horse was for sale.

I pointed at my eye and then at the horse’s mouth. He understood right away and pried open the lips and teeth. Not yet six years old, I guessed. I held up five fingers. He agreed.

He offered that I ride the horse. The saddle was a lot like a western saddle, with a much larger saddle (horn?) and a higher cantle. The owner offered his laced fingers as a step up, but I wondered if I could still do it on my own. My short legs have never allowed me to step into a stirrup to mount the way John Wayne did. If the stirrups are adjusted short enough for me to ride, they’re too high above the ground to mount. I had developed a pretty-good jump.

I held the saddle horn and, like I had done for years, sprang and threw my leg across the animal’s back, pulling myself into the saddle with my arms and right leg behind the cantle, and no small amount of pride. It had been two years.

The horse didn’t neck rein like western-trained horses do, causing a bit of confusion, but the gelding soon taught me that an easy harness-rein worked well. If I held the reins, running the opposite directions in my left fist. I needed only to twist my wrist to get him to turn. He had a pleasant gait, a fast walk, that covered lots of distance quickly. Our little trip together didn’t seem to phase the horse. He was very gentle. Played well with humans. I decided I had to have that horse when the owner offered him and the tack for the equivalent of eighty dollars.

My initial plan was to ride the horse back to Europe and decide what to do with him upon arrival. There was the problem of the van, but I hoped to find a volunteer driver (or two) to haul hay and grain and meet me daily on the trip. Unsure if the van could leave the country without me, thereby rendering a twelve-thousand-mile horseback ride impossible, I asked the owner to come back the next day.

I went to the American Embassy where I learned I did have to accompany the van and that it was a felony in Afghanistan to export an Afghan horse or an Afghan dog. It was also illegal to leave the country without a car that has been imported under a Carnet de Passage. The proof was stamped in my passport. I was considering breaking enough laws to extend my stay in Afghanistan for most of my remaining years, a lady at the Embassy assured me.

Not to mention a couple of deserts to cross between Afghanistan and Europe… I abandoned that adventure. The Embassy people agreed my decision was a wise one.

Shore was a fine-lookin’ horse, though!

There was a game played in Afghanistan which was popularly called (by Trekkers) “Afghan Polo,” or Buzkashi. Starting with a live goat, teams of horsemen attempt to carry it to their goal. The goat (and, more rarely, players) does not survive the game. Historically, the goat has provided dinner for the surviving competitors.

Buzkashi is an ancient game. I don’t know if it’s played today. The article below says the Taliban outlawed it when they came to power, but the game was brought back when they were deposed.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buzkashi

 

 

The Buddhas at Bamiyan

While we were in Kabul, we decided to go to Bamiyan in the Hindukush Mountains to see the largest statues in the world.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhas_of_Bamiyan

There was a stairway carved into the cliffs beside the statues which allowed us to climb to the top and sit on the Buddhas’ heads. The view was quite humbling, looking out over the Bamiyan valley.

What a pity that the Taliban destroyed them in 2001! I understand there is an effort to restore the Buddhas. I’d be interested in learning how that is possible. They were blown up with cannons.

Unfortunately, the road to Bamiyan was atrocious. By the time we got there the right-side main spring on the back of the bus was broken. For that reason, we didn’t go on to Band-e Amir, which we had been told was spectacular.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Band-e_Amir_National_Park

Of course, remote Bamiyan had no facilities to repair my broken spring. I had to slowly limp the van back to Kabul, by which time the spring on the other side was broken. Surprisingly, the assembly held together with the clamps.

Ali rode with me to a part of Kabul where an automotive salvage yard (the likes of which I had never seen) existed. When a salvaged car or truck was brought it, it was totally disassembled, right down to the suspension leaf springs which were taken apart. Each leaf in the spring could be bought separately.

Of course, they had none to fit my German Taunus Lieferwagen. The rear springs on my van were taken off, disassembled, and the broken one removed. A considerably thicker one was chosen, cut to length, heated on the ends to glowing red and a bolt-eye twisted into the end to fit my vehicle with the original unbroken springs assembled to it. The van sat higher and rode rougher, but I never worried about breaking a spring.

 

Roll Another One

The border station at the top of the Khyber Pass closed daily at 6:00 P.M. We had been warned of this problem by west-bound travelers. Additionally, it was not like other passes where a road goes between two mountains. Instead, the road drops off the Afghan plateau, descending into Pakistan by negotiating an uncountable number of switchbacks, for thousands of feet.

To be allowed to descend the pass, it was necessary to be at the border station near Jalalabad early enough to make the trip before darkness. Between Kabul and the Khyber Pass ran a road though the Kabul Gorge, which was just as demanding of the driver. We had to rise early to make it to the pass before it closed.

Morning after morning I tried unsuccessfully to get the group on the road by eleven in the morning to arrive at the pass in time.

Mary and Jimmy could not tolerate a day that began before noon. Each night they rolled a joint which they left beside their pillows and lit first thing in the morning. By the time they were awake and organized to leave it was too late. I think they saw no reason to go.

We overstayed our visas, which resulted in trips to the U.S. Embassy and the Afghan police. We finally got the paperwork done and on the road by eleven the next morning. I made sure nobody had drugs in the van.

The drive was wonderful! (Well, the road was primitive.) It followed the Kabul River and wound around mountain sides, sometimes through tunnels, with the river far below us. It was beautiful, but the road was challenging. The photos I found show the road much improved since 1971. If you’d like to see current pictures of the Kabul Gorge depress ctrl and click here:

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=kabul+gorge+road&qpvt=kabul+gorge+road&FORM=IGRE

We didn’t make it. The border was closed. It was too late to start the trip down the Khyber Pass. We weren’t the only wanders who were too late.

The situation was not that dire. The Afghan Border Police suggested that we pitch our camp on a concrete slab foundation which looked like it had at one time served to hold up a building. We couldn’t decide how to drive our stakes into a concrete slab, so the others inflated their air mattresses and left the tent in the van. There were too many stars to expect rain. I laid the van’s mattresses and sleeping bags on the slab in a circle surrounding my one-burner stove.

We cooked our dinner, after which the guards came to visit. They used our stove to make green tea. The fellow who seemed to be in charge spoke some English.

“Do you have any hashish?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” replied Jimmy. He was right. I had made certain of that.

“Are you sure?”

We assured him we had none.

“Come with me,” he said and led us to a building. We expected a body search, probably more complete of Mary. As we filed in, our host held his kerosene lantern high and said, “I have a lot!” The room was stacked to the ceiling with hashish that the border guards had confiscated from smugglers. He picked a large chunk, went back to the camp and rolled joints for the rest of the evening.

Some other “troops” brought melons and passed servings around. The fruit had been chilled in a spring nearby. It was a perfect dessert after a dinner of Dinty Moore’s Beef Stew served over rice.

In the morning I drove the twisty path down the Khyber Pass. Third was the ideal gear, using second from time to time.

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=photos+of+the+khyber+pass&qpvt=Photos+of+the+Khyber+Pass&FORM=IGRE

 

Islamabad, Pakistan

We arrived in the late afternoon in the Islamabad/Rawalpindi area and were looking for a place to camp. We were directed to a lake.

There was a party going on! Pakistani Christian teenagers were having a cookout, a youth group from their church. There was a couple, not much older than the kids, probably in their early twenties, who were the leaders. It reminded me of Chi Rho at Sheridan Avenue Christian Church in Tulsa.

The kids spoke English with American accents and smiled a lot. Their favorite pastime was watching American movies to improve their English. There were some western movie fans who had Texas drawls.

The Youth Leaders showed us where to camp and invited us for hamburgers. What a great bunch of kids! It was not a typical American-like party. They didn’t seem to be paired off into couples. A few smoked cigarettes (it was 1971), but there was no booze and no drugs.

They were fascinated by us and had a lot of questions to ask, especially of Jimmy. Most had never met an Afro-American nor a person from California. Jimmy was both. Their knowledge of Los Angeles, Hollywood, and even Orange County was surprising, although none had been there. Each seemed to have an opinion on the Vietnam War, not all the same. No one knew where Oklahoma might be. They had a “boom box” and seemed to be up-to-date on the latest Rock music and dances. At about ten o’clock the party broke up as the teens left to be home by their curfew.

By the time we arrived in Islamabad, chord was frighteningly showing through the tires. A bump told me there was a bubble on a tire. There was no choice but to replace them. We were lucky to have negotiated the Khyber Pass without plunging thousands of feet down the side of the mountain. There had been plenty of wrecked cars that had done just that.

I found the American Embassy and asked where I might buy tires. I don’t know why, but they refused to help, going so far as to refuse to tell me where tires were sold. Was it my hair? Jeans and T-shirt? Oklahoma accent? I had just taken a bath in the lake.

Not far away I found the British High Commission. They were very friendly, glad to help with the problem, and even provided an English-speaking Pakistani employee to go with us.

Our guide negotiated a surprisingly low price for five new tires (made in China) which were mounted. We were sent on our way with smiles. Back at the British High Commission, our guide refused the tip I offered him. He was kind in his refusal but firmly told me it was an insult to him and that I shouldn’t offer “bribes” to British High Commission employees. Since I didn’t know, and had just come from Afghanistan, where (he was aware) everyone had a hand out, he understood and would not hold it against me. “Cheerio,” he said. “Jolly good trip to all!”

The entry into India at Lahore was eased by visas we’d obtained in Kabul. We stayed in a hotel more luxurious than the concrete slab at the top of the Khyber Pass. We ate at a Chinese Restaurant.

The restaurant was on the roof. The food was wonderful. During dinner, fireworks were going off around us. Jimmy was not surprised. His watch said it was July 4th. I doubted Indians, even real ones from Asia, celebrated American Independence Day, so I asked the waiter what the occasion was. He explained that it happened most evenings, more so in summer months, and was part of weddings that were being celebrated around the city.

In the morning we turned north toward Jammu, Kashmir and the Himalayas.

In India, it was much easier to communicate since the language brought to the sub-continent by the British was widely spoken, albeit it with some unusual (to us) turns of phrase. A common question we were asked, “What is your mission in India?”

On the way to Kashmir, we came across an unusual Hindu temple. It was dedicated to fish. Built into the side of a mountain, we thought it was a fish hatchery. We were assured that the fish were not harvested and shipped away to appear on people’s tables, although Hindu’s are known to eat fish. Hinduism is a philosophy, a way of life, not a religion as we know Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. There are no “Thou shalt nots.” So long as nobody is harmed, Hindu devotees are pretty much left to their own devices.

The little Kastenwagen continued to climb in altitude until we entered a tunnel at about 10,000 feet. The tunnel was long but well lighted. At the end, we emerged into sunlight and probably the most beautiful scene of natural beauty these eyes have witnessed. We were able to park at a “turn out” and look down into the valley.

Dal Lake is in a basin surrounded by high mountains, their snowy peaks piercing an azure sky. Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, is built at the edge of the lake. The shallow water is crystal-clear and fed by melting snow from the snow-capped peaks. I’m not qualified to describe it, so I will post a link:

http://www.kashmirtravelportal.com/dal-lake.asp

https://www.gettyimages.com/photos/dal-lake?sort=mostpopular&mediatype=photography&phrase=dal%20lake

Shikara’s are used like taxicabs in that one can take them anywhere on the lake. As the reader can see, the middle is covered with a roof. Under that roof, ours had two seats that faced each other with room for two people in each. At the aft end, our paddler sat and propelled the boat to our destination. At the forward end, on a charcoal-burning hibachi-type-thing, Ali made Kashmiri Green tea, and stoked the hookah.

Some Shikaras are outfitted to be retail businesses. They come to the houseboats to sell flowers, groceries, clothing, baked goods, etc. Together the Shikaras make a lake-bound shopping center. If one needed toothpaste, he simply waited until the personal grooming Shikara came. There were no beer Shikaras in Muslim Kashmir.

We stayed in a houseboat named, “Holiday Inn of Kashmir.” It had a large living room, three bedrooms (each with a bath), a room used by the servants from which to serve food, which was prepared on a houseboat moored next to ours and owned by our host family. Jimmy and Mary shared a bedroom while Jim and I each had one.

The rate of exchange was officially four Rupees to one American Dollar. A Rupee was about a quarter. On the Black Market, which was everywhere, one could buy twenty Rupees for a Dollar. A Pisa was one one-hundredth of a Rupee. I still have some in my collection of coins from my travels. Using the black-market rate of exchange, our house boat, with a morning meal, an evening meal, afternoon tea, and full-time Shikara paddler, (a member of the host-family) cost $1.80 per person. Due to the bargain priced (not to mention pampered) life we stayed well into the month of August.

July and August are the months that Lotuses are in blossom on the lake. Not only is the lake’s beauty enhanced, the air is alive with a wonderful aroma. We had not planned that; it just happened.

https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=lotus+blossoms+in+kashmir&qpvt=Lotus+blossoms+in+Kashmir&FORM=IGRE

One lovely day we went trout fishing in the mountains. Everybody except myself caught fish. Our hosts prepared a trout dinner that evening. I never met the cook but was told by Ben that she was his mother. We called Ben (not to his face) our “head servant.” The push of a button in the living/dining room would make Ben appear, “You rang, Sahib?” Mary was called “Memsahib.”

One beautiful day we were drinking Kashmiri green tea and sunning on the roof’s sun deck. There was not a cloud in the sky. Vapor trails, however, were being formed high above the surrounding mountain tops. There was only a faint whoosh of jet engines. I asked Ben about it.

He explained that the Indian and the Pakistan Air Forces were “playing games” in the sky. He said they were practicing dog fighting, not shooting at each other yet. I asked if they might start.

“Yes, Sahib,” was his reply. “It’s a question of when. That is the reason there are so few Indian vacationers on the lake and why our houseboat is so cheap.”

He explained that the coming war would be fought over Kashmir. India laid claim based on the days of the Raj. Pakistan, because Kashmir is predominately Muslim. There was yet a third group who sought Kashmiri independence. Ben supported that faction.

We held a tribal counsel and decided we needed to get the hell out of Kashmir. We left the next day, bound for New Delhi.

 

Helene White

My people stayed in Mama Colacas’ Youth Hostel in New Delhi. We called it our “Hippy Hotel.” It was low-status, especially so after our luxurious stay in Kashmir. Rooms were furnished with eight army cots without linen, much like those in Army Surplus stores. Before bedtime, in a futile effort to control bedbugs, Mama Colacas would make the rounds with a hand-pumped chemical sprayer like the ones my parents had when I was a child.

Insects own India. I reckon they allow humans to live there for the blood supply. Most of us slept in our clothing and made extreme efforts to not take pests out to the van. We succeeded in that.

Mama Colacas and her man, who may have been her husband, maintained an on-going soap opera seemingly to amuse the hippies. They engaged in shouting matches (in English) almost daily. She would accuse him of living on her work and he would counter that she could not have reached her level of success without him. I don’t think they ever settled an issue.

One day I was chatting with an unreasonably-beautiful young (age 25 at the time) woman from New York named Helene. She had flown to Istanbul with her boyfriend and traveled overland to Kashmir and then Nepal. By the time they had arrived in India their relationship was troubled. I never met him. He had gone home.

Helene and I had something in common. We were broke. She had to return to Istanbul to take a prepaid return flight to New York.

Jim decided to go on to Vietnam. Mary and Jimmy chose to go to Nepal. Months later Jimmy returned to Germany alone on his way to Los Angeles. Mary had stayed to teach English in a remote Nepalese village, fleeing when irate villagers had stoned her. Her students intervened and saved her life. Our paths never crossed again.

Helene and I went to American Express daily to see if the money we were expecting had arrived. In the humid afternoon we visited an air-conditioned hotel that had an indoor swimming pool. Nobody seemed to object if we swam. I blamed that on Helene’s bikini.

One day, not long after we met, I took the keys out of my pocket to go somewhere. Helene saw the pearl ring on my key chain (Recall the beach in Ancona, Italy?) and asked why I had it. I told her about finding in on the beach and showed it to her. She tried it on. It fit. She agreed the woman who lost it must have cried.

“I love pearls; it’s my birthstone,” she remarked and handed it back. “It’s very pretty. You could sell that ring for a lot of money.”

I looked at the ring, then gave it to her. “It looks good on you.” That was in 1971, Dear Readers, forty-seven years ago at this writing. Helene still wears that ring almost daily. When our money arrived, coincidentally on the same day, we made plans to return to Europe.

Helene and I carried on a three-year love affair. She visited me in Germany and on the island of Ibiza when I was “retired” and living there. After she came to Spain in 1973, I didn’t hear from her again. My aerograms were returned unopened.

In 2010, eighteen months after Laura’s death, when Helene found me on Facebook, she sent a message, “Are you the same Alva Smith I traveled with from New Delhi to Istanbul in 1971?”

My reply was, “Are you the same Helene White with whom I was captured by the Pakistan Army and held captive in the dead of night?” I visited her in Boynton Beach.

In Florida, she confessed that she had traveled to Spain to help in making an important decision. She had received a marriage proposal. She wanted to see me another time before making her decision. She hadn’t shared that information in Spain.

While on Ibiza, she had reluctantly decided that a good Jewish boy from New York, who happened to be a lawyer, would be a better marriage prospect than an unemployed wandering ex-cowboy-hippie with an Oklahoma drawl who showed no sign of settling down. Years later, when they were divorced, she thought she had made the wrong decision, but it was too late. She couldn’t find me. I was living and working in Germany. Facebook didn’t exist.

 

The Road Back

When we arrived at the India/Pakistan border we faced a sea of humanity. Hindus were returning to India; Moslems were fleeing west. I inched the van through the crowd toward a hanging sign that read, “Tourists.” There were two bored people at the table with nothing to do. The paperwork took only minutes. Under “occupation” I wrote “Rodeo Cowboy.” Passports stamped, we headed toward another suspended sign which read, “Pakistan.”

The formalities at the Pakistan side entailed a lot of paperwork and more stamps in our passports. Dusk was beginning to settle when we were free to go. My plan was to go back to Lahore and the hotel next door to the Chinese Restaurant.

I had avoided driving at night during the overland trip. [Remember Iraq?] Twilight-time didn’t last long. The night got very dark. My mind was toying with the idea of pulling over and sleeping in the van when the headlights illuminated a soldier standing in the middle of the road with a submachine gun aimed at us. I stopped, turned on the interior lights and raised my hands, as did Helene. We were surrounded by fifteen men, all totin’ Thompsons.

I guessed that the man who approached the driver’s window was a sergeant. He wanted our passports, which we gave him. He didn’t seem to learn much while looking through them. I had doubts that he could read English, since he didn’t seem to speak it.

He returned my passport but kept Helene’s. Through sign language and an occasional English word (India was one.) he made it clear that Helene was to stay there while I turned around and drove back to India. I thought that was a bad idea and explained to Helene what I’d guessed he meant. The sergeant seemed to think Helene was not the same woman whose picture was in the passport. I suppose he thought she was a spy for India. I made a mental note to not tell him she is Jewish.

About that time, below my window, out of Helene’s sight, he made a circle with the fingers of one hand and thrust one finger into. He then indicated all the men there and Helene. He signed we could then cross the bridge. I thought that was an even worse idea.

Helene decided that her hair in the passport picture was loose and combed past her shoulders; she had it in a pony tail that day. She began to brush it down. That was a mistake. Soon the soldiers were gathered around the passenger window, tongues hanging out, panting as they watched her. Did they think she was preparing herself for group sex? She started to cry. “Oh my God,” she remarked. “What are we going to do?”

I shared my opinion that there wasn’t much we could do except make it a lot of work for them to kill us and get rid of our bodies. She knew how the locks on the doors and windows worked. I told her, “When I say ‘now’ I want you to lock the door and window while I do the same. They’ll either kill us or they won’t. There isn’t much we can do to alter the outcome.” Battening down the hatches went as planned. We sat there while I smiled and told the sergeant what I thought of his mother’s morals. He seemed confused.

I don’t know how long the stand-off lasted. Finally, though, a jeep pulled in behind the van and an officer got out. He spoke to the sergeant who (probably) explained his version of what was going on. The officer came to the window and said, “Speak any English?”

“YES!” I said. I opened the window and explained what had happened. The officer screamed for a while. The sergeant cowered while the men went back to the bridge they had been guarding.

He explained that the men were from the “frontier,” near the Afghan border, had probably not seen a woman’s face before (except their mothers, sisters and in porn films) and had never watched one brush her hair, which was erotic. Helene wasn’t all that turned on.

I explained that we were leaving India before hostilities began and hoped to get to Lahore that night. He said it was fortunate that he’d arrived. I agreed completely. He explained that the soldiers were guarding the barricaded bridge and under orders to stop all traffic. I wondered if they were under orders to rape western women.

The officer ordered the barricade removed. As I started the van, he offered to assign a squad of soldiers to protect us during the drive to Lahore. I declined his kind offer. We had dinner at the roof-top Chinese restaurant and left early in the morning, anxious to get the hell out of Pakistan.

This story is not finished, Dear Readers. Helene kept a daily journal which will supply accurate dates and other information. We’ve not yet managed to write “the rest of the story,” but we shall.