Overland to India 50 Years ago: Part 2

 Worried about spending too much money, I barely ate for the first few days, aware of the time and space that lay before me. With a significant lack of exposure to the practical details of life, this excursion into the unknown was challenging to this nineteen-year-old, not long out of the cocoon of boarding school, well versed in words, but little else. Various stages of the journey opened diverse doors, revelations of possibilities. There were thirty individuals aged from nineteen, that was me, to an American couple in their sixties. This couple pulled out of the trip in the early stages, unsure of the level of comfort and the actuality of arriving safely at the destination.

 

The first stop was the Munich Beer Festival, not the beginning of a series of spiritual experiences which would deepen my understanding and enable me to go beyond the material world one might expect. Groups of people, mostly, but not exclusively young, from various parts of the world, fuelled with the flow of amber frothing liquid, created a sense of camaraderie that I had not experienced before. It was not long before I began shedding the skin of uneasy and debilitating self-consciousness, quietly becoming friends with everybody. 

 

‘All Pommies are bastards! All Pommies are bastards!’

 

The mellifluous tones of young long-haired drunken Australian men filled the bus returning us to the campsite on the edge of the city.

 

‘Are you a Pom?’

 

 Where this was leading was painfully obvious. What might happen afterwards was a matter of hoping for the best.

 

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re a bastard!’ 

 

Howls of uncontrolled laughter followed.

 

‘Are you a bastard?’ 

 

The Australian’s bearded face loomed towards me.

 

‘Actually, I am not.’ 

 

Oh God, I sounded like someone from the 1950s announcing on the BBC .

 

‘Yes, you are, you’re a Pommy bastard. Because all Pommies are bastards!’ 

 

The two of them proceeded to embrace me and pat me heavily on the back.

 

‘And you are a real Pommy bastard! You’re our mate… mate!’

 

More laughter, more chat. More alcohol fuelled friendship.

 

But alcohol assists in building a window of deception and leaves both physical and mental wounds that over time do not always heal effectively, lubricating false friendships and destroying lives.

 

On our return to the campsite it became clear that one of the bus drivers had disappeared. So, on this mild September night several of us wandered back into the city to look for him – we had no idea where we were going, or how to get back to the campsite. However, it was one of those occasions when all the right things happened – he was found, we returned, and all woke up feeling unsure of ourselves in bright sunlight the following morning

 

Soon we passed through Yugoslavia, a country that now only exists in echoes a shadows of brief unity; and we were becoming conscious of fewer vehicles, more animal traffic and different modes of dress. I realised that I was changing with the journey, a mind being opened by what I saw, although not fully realising the significance of what this meant in terms of the lives of the people we were seeing.

 

We swam off the glorious coast of Greece, camping on the beaches. We walked round the ancient wonders of Athens and then moving on to Turkey. What an assault on my seriously under-developed senses.

 

Istanbul heralded the advent of the East, although already my outlook had moved in synchronisation with the bus towards a slower, more rural aspect of life; peasant farming was still prevalent in most of Europe. In Istanbul I stood outside shops selling the most wonderful cakes and puddings, fully aware my money would not allow such luxuries. 

 

I listened to conversations of the many travellers who gathered in the cafes and outside the shops; tales of drug use, prisons, illness and danger. All the while I breathed the heady air of unwashed bodies, stale cigarette smoke and marijuana, caught in the romance of abandoned youth, dowdy beards, long straggly hair, and the warmth of smiling young women. I was entering another world. Magic was taking place, the magic of infinite possibilities, a magic that was never really to leave me.

A young couple from Wales, who must have been in their early twenties, regaled us with their own tales of sex, drugs, jails, illness encountered through hitchhiking around Europe. She was short with long unkempt, brown hair and a lively, friendly face. He stood taller and they had their arms around each other as they talked; his smiling face framed by darker hair of about the same length as hers, stained teeth shone through strands of wispy beard. Both were clad in dirty denim dungarees with what appeared to be very little underneath. They smiled as they talked of the friends they had met, who had been arrested by the Turkish police, who had been searched for drugs and then beaten up. 

 

They told stories of young Americans they had heard of who had been found with drugs on them and had been thrown into prison and left to rot with no food, sharing cells with murderers and dangerous criminals, only a bucket for a toilet. For some reason Americans were not well-liked in Turkey at that time. What we thought were the exaggerations of these natural story tellers at the time was clearly true.

 

 

 I was used to being with people but was discovering that the tendency to keep my distance from others was still very strong in me. Shyness? Self-protection? To share such a journey in the close proximity of others was both a joy and a challenge. Most of my fellow travellers were under the age of forty. There were young couples from the UK and Australia. Individuals travelling to the Far East and beyond. There were nurses, teachers, students and those who were taking time out from all types of work. We shared laughter, worries, silence and the marvels of the lands we were passing through.

 

An Australian couple from Wollongong took me under their wing. She was small with long dark hair hanging below her waist. He was taller and blond. They both exuded a vitality and openness that entranced me. With them, Steve, a young man from the UK just a few years older than me, and another young couple from the UK became the people I was most friendly with. We were all from different backgrounds, heading towards diverse destinations; and thoroughly enjoying the ride.

 

There were also several girls, one or two travelling alone and others with friends. Despite spending a year in London, I was still very uncertain in the company of young ladies. Nine years in boys only boarding schools and a short lifetime at home with five brothers had firmly placed me in a very male world. I liked the girls I was travelling with, but such close proximity to them made me nervous. 

So much to learn.

 

 

 

 

 

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