Four of us, two girls two boys, travelled by train to the Indian-Nepalese border and took the local bus to Kathmandu. Half sleeping along the narrow roads, I watched the rhododendron covered hills loom toward us and woke up again to find that those hills had slipped away and the magnificence of the Himalayas lay almost in snow-capped touching distance.
The city had just one tarmac covered road. From our basic, but clean hostel we would wake to the regular dawn chorus of throat clearing and the olympic level spitting out of congealed phlegm built up from the night. Side streets held the sweet acerbic aroma of fresh urine, and little children happily defaecated where they played. The mountains, snow-topped and majestic beyond the petty wanderings of humankind, surrounded this ancient city; forests below them. Large painted eyes looked out from Buddhist stupas with their ragged flags fluttering in spiritual disarray. There were very few cars.
We walked to a nearby monkey temple high on a hill.
‘Bloody hell! What was that?’
My friends looked pale and shaken. I was pale and shaken.
The Nepalese Army appeared to be indulging in target practice below, and either by design or sheer incompetence a stray bullet passed between us as we looked from the temple over the vast space of green trees, grey rock, and snow-covered peaks. The scarlet robed monks around us appeared unperturbed, and as we climbed further the gentle salute of a tiny novice in his fledgling attire calmed spirits and fears. A couple of days later we hired bicycles and rode into the forest. We cycled through squares that seemed to have only young tourists there.
‘You want acid? Weed? Hash?’
Long haired men and smiling faces of young women proclaimed a narcotic nirvana. What would become of them?
However, other things were taking over. We ate in dimly lit restaurants that played music by Cat Stevens and Carol King, an alternative universe imported by young westerners, the creeping tentacles of global culture. At one restaurant, dark, noisy and friendly, a young Nepalese man came up to me and looked intently into my eyes. My full English reserve was put into play, and I stepped back.
‘It’s OK, man, all cool. But you’d better get to see a doctor quick. Look at your eyes in the mirror. Look at the colour. You’ve got hepatitis.’
I got back to the hotel, and, sure enough the whites of my eyes were a deep, dirty yellow.
That night I woke up with intense stomach pains and only just made it to the toilet to deposit that evening’s meal into the appropriate place. I felt dreadful, all I wanted to do was stay in bed and sleep.
It was time to visit to the local hospital. I was weak and helpless. The doctor, probably driven by experiences of treating young travellers in various states of ill-health, was keen that I should return to whence I came. The war was taking place mostly in what was East Pakistan and hundreds of thousands of Bangladeshi refugees were streaming across the border into Northern India. Commercial flights were still taking place, and I wanted to go home.
Was that weakness, a lack of courage? If I had taken some time to get better and carried on with my travels, what would have happened? My parents had insisted I take out an expensive insurance before I left, and this was to take me home.
An emaciated, yellow tinged body took the train back to Delhi with one of the girls I had been travelling with. The other two friends flew out from Kathmandu to travel further eastward as there were fewer and fewer flights. We shared a four-bunk compartment with two Indian Army officers – their servants would appear from time to time to make sure that they had everything they wanted. My companion was frightened that we were going to be caught up in the war.
‘This will be very short, but there will be much suffering’
The officers sensed our concern.
‘East Pakistan will be no more. And Bangladesh will exist, but there will be many refugees and many deaths’
There was a hint of compassion in the voices of these military men.
‘This war is not necessary.’
My companion was crying quietly, she wanted to go home.
A day later she flew from Delhi. Then it was my turn.
The war lasted under a fortnight, but the cost to Bangladesh was devastating, with an estimated 300,000 to 3,000,000 civilians killed and a further eight to ten million refugees entering India.
This insignificant individual arrived into Heathrow to be greeted by the dank cold of a December day. I was met by a taxi driver who must have seen my condition and offered to take me to Liverpool Street Station. Once in the taxi the driver announced that it would cost twenty pounds (around the value of £100 today). I had £10 and insisted he drop me at the nearest underground station. He did and took £5 from me. I was very ill and disorientated. I took the three-hour ride sitting on the floor of a crowded train full of Christmas shoppers.
I was wearing my Afghan coat, Afghan boots, a shirt I had bought in India and a not so clean pair of trousers.
‘I shall never forget meeting you off the train,’ said my mother. ‘You had hair all over the place, your skin was yellow, and you smelt terrible… I wondered what I was meeting.’
I had been to lands that no longer exist under that name. I had walked in streets which have since been obliterated by bombs and bullets. I had passed along roads where a long look at the beauty of the surroundings was to be imbued with peace. Only for a few years later those very same roads were to be too dangerous to travel. Aleppo is rubble, Baghdad is rubble, much of Afghanistan is also rubble. There has been so much destruction, so much human blood spilt and so much suffering. Kashmir has since been the centre of brutality and cruelty for its inhabitants – a descent from heaven to hell on earth. Kathmandu has suffered a devastating earthquake.
Like many, I question deeply the notion of human progress. I had witnessed such beauty in nature that completely dispossessed me of myself and I was lost in eternity, immortality, for even a few seconds. So often I received the smiles and kindness of strangers.
I was home by Christmas.
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