“When you are tired of London, you are tired of life”, wrote George Orwell in 1927. I had
been living in London for 4 years and had travelled all over the British Isles, and Europe,
with different friends and in different seasons. “Maybe it is time I returned to Melbourne.”
I’d never had the thought before and it wouldn’t go away. The only thing I really missed in
all this time was the AFL, yet here I was contemplating an Aussie summer. I could feel the
heat and smell the ocean. Most of my friends were married, had kids and dogs,
mortgages, the full catastrophe.
Years earlier, I had travelled to Morocco. Loved the people and the scenery. Loved it
enough to return three more times. I had learned a few words of Arabic and could count to
twenty. So if this was to be my last travel adventure Morocco surely triggered the crazy
idea which was fermenting for days. I wanted to do something a little unusual and
challenging. I’d travel south through France, cross the Mediterranean to Tunisia and then
go East right across North Africa to Egypt and the Red Sea. Just exactly how I’d reach
India from there I didn’t know, but more importantly, I didn’t care. I’d simply keep heading
East.
Going East
“I’ll be in that!” “Far out, I’ll come with you”. “Do you want some company? You can’t do
that alone!” No thanks, everyone. This was going to be a solo trip. All my previous
travelling in Southern Africa and Europe had been by car or van with mates or girlfriends.
In this case I’d travel lightly and wouldn’t have to worry about safety and debating where
to eat or sleep.Two sets of clothes and the ones I was wearing. Toiletries and a pair of
sandals. A sleeping bag tied to the handle of an overnight bag ended the complications.
Didn’t need a map. I’d just keep on heading East. South East or North East perhaps, as
long as it was Easterly.
London to Paris and a midnight train to Marseilles. Ferry to Tunis and Europe was left
behind. I hitched out of the city. My first lift was on a small motorbike. I hung on to my bag
with one hand and held on to the driver with the other for forty kms. A promising start.
Things will get better. Of course, they didn’t. The first car to stop was driven by an excited
Arab who insisted I meet his family and stay the night. The next day another Tunisian
wanted me to meet his entire village. I was a prized novelty. They were showing me off to
their friends! At this rate I’ll take eighteen months to get home! Along the coastline into
southern Tunisia. The traffic has disappeared. The narrow road went East with the
occasional minor road or track turning south into the Sahara. Three hours in the sun and
four cars passed me. Featureless. Flat. Forlorn. That was the scenery. I was feeling
slightly that way too. There was an old sign nearby. Bullet holes through it. Le Caire.
Cairo. 1852 kms. For the first time I thought “I really must be outta my mind!” A car
stopped with 4 men in it. We couldn’t communicate very well but schoolboy French and
sign language did it. We were going East and they drove through the night into Libya and
Tripoli, the capital.
The visa stamp I got in London stated “No Entry to Egypt at Libya Borders. Rocket
installations. Border closed.” I still believed I’d find a way through so I hitched to Benghazi
and then on to Tobruk and El Alamein. Acres of beautifully kept headstones. How many
Australians died here? Days earlier, I had visited the magnificent Roman ruins of Leptis
Magna and there was not a single tourist. No tourists here either. But I couldn’t get into
Egypt. One Libyan guard even had a nephew living in Sydney but he couldn’t help me. So
I went back (West) for 400kms.
Benghazi is beautiful in a dusty, dirty and dilapidated way. Empty buildings everywhere.
Half completed construction sites on every street. Three streets back from the harbour a
where I could see the Mediterranean. So happy with my “hotel” I stayed three nights. The
continuous tension between Israel and Egypt had frightened Europeans away. And
Colonel Gaddaffi was frightening them as well. Arab kids were the only ones to show any
interest in me and they helped guide me around. At this stage I had been averaging 2
showers a week. My concrete “hotel” didn’t have water of course but I learned to enjoy
stand- up-washes using bottled water. Food wasn’t exciting but little lamb kebabs and
salad were plentiful. So food was my only expense apart from the occasional room where
I could shower and wash some clothes.
I spent an entire day trying to find a boat going to Egypt. If there were any they weren’t
interested in taking me. Flying wasn’t on my itinerary but I was forced to fly Libyan Air to
Cairo. A straight line East. Cairo was different. I’d never been in an war zone before
unless you count Belfast and Londonderry! Cairo was on high alert but Ulster had felt
more dangerous and explosive. Sand bagged defences on every corner with heavy
artillery aimed towards Israel. No tourists. I spent a day in the famous Egyptian museum.
Shared it with perhaps seven visitors. Even the Pyramids were deserted.
large twelve floor site was boarded up. Weeds growing along the fences and gates. I
went through a hole in the fence and up 4 flights of concrete stairs. Nothing on any floor except debris, concrete blocks and concrete stairs. No windows or doors. I dropped my bag and “camped” behind a large column
Once again going directly East to Suez was impossible so I bussed it to Alexandria and jumped on a boat to Cyprus then East on yet another boat to Beirut. Half of the city had been destroyed by shelling but the other half was thriving. I loved it. No wonder it is called the Paris of the East. I hitched over the mountains to Damascus. One of my lifts was in a
battered old Toyota. Six large bullet holes along one side. My side. My driving
companions were highly amused as I took photos of the car. I was forced to go around
Israel as every Arab country would have barred me when they saw the Israeli stamps.
Hitching was easy as I’m willing to act like a fool whenever a car approached. The Arabs
would stare to see if I was demented or a clown. South from Damascus to Jordan and
Tigris river is magnificent; almost an equal to the Nile. Almost. Nightly sunset walks along
the banks with cooking fires (catch of the day) and lamps. A million palm trees. I’m slowly
becoming an Arab.
A Kuwaiti engineer stopped for me. He is fluent in English. He has a mighty laugh and his
name is Mohammed Ali. He plays The Doors “Light my fire” on rotation for hours as we
drive South East to Basra and then on to Kuwait City. More desert. Oil wells. A new city on
the coast. My modus operandi, when I arrive in a new town, is to leave my bag with the
owner of a coffee house so I can wander around unimpeded. The first thing I search out is
somewhere safe to sleep. The
beach is wider than Bondi and it’s
deserted except for a flotilla of boats
and ships which have been hauled
up on the sand where they sit
forlornly on timber props. I sleep
under one of them. Kuwait City is
less than a km away. No one seems
to live here. New buildings. Beautiful
cars. No people. I was the only
visitor when I saw the sign for blood
donors at the new hospital. They
gave me a cup of tea and $180.
I slept so well under my boat that first night. But the second morning I woke after hearing
noises and movement all around me. Six am. Half-light. “Has trouble come to find me?” I
can’t fight and I can’t run. I peer out and there’s five little kids squatting just metres away.
Wide eyes. Big grins. I try “Good morning” in Arabic but they all run off giggling and
squealing with delight. There’s no crime in Kuwait.
135
The Arabs were great sailors and explorers and designs of some ships haven’t altered in
centuries. It didn’t take me long to find one going across the Arabian Gulf to Iran. The
crew of six slept on the deck. And they cooked on the deck. At the stern there was a long
plank protruding five metres with a safety rope to guide you on the walk above the swell.
A bucket sat on the plank. Go to the toilet. Face into the wind. Drop the bucket into the
sea then haul it up on the rope and wash your bum. Then wash your hands. To finish,
walk back along the plank to the safety of the pitching deck. I waited for the applause but
no-one even noticed.
The most outstanding single memory in all
my travelling is lying on the deck of this
flying two masted Arab dhow and watching
the Arabian stars and the sails and ropes
and spray. Ali Baba and Sinbad, I’m right
with you. Two nights and a day and we
slowly sailed into the Tigris/Euphrates River
to berth at Khoramsharr, a thriving port town
in Iran. A small room. A shower. Bliss. I
didn’t want to leave Khoramsharr. Just
saying the word makes me feel good.
A bus took me East or North East towards
Teheran. Four chickens in a cage sat on the
seat beside me. They had the window seat
.We agreed to swap. Iran is a big country
but I’m impatient to reach the capital. More
buses. Some had more animals on board
than people. I tried to talk to the animals but
they couldn’t understand English either.
Maybe six weeks of travelling so far. Am I at
the half way point on the road home? No
idea but it is starting to get very cold and
the mountains are already white with
October snow. It’s weird to see so many
Europeans but this is the hippy trail. Europe, Istanbul, Teheran to India. For weeks people
have asked me, where am I from and where am I going, but that has stopped now. I’m no
longer a novelty.
A week prior to leaving London I had transferred some money to a bank in Teheran and
another in Calcutta. I was really low on funds by this stage but I found the bank and my
money was there. A train (the first since Paris) took me East and then I hitched a truck
ride to the border. At ten pm I walked across one hundred metres of no-mans-land and I
was in Afghanistan. Lamps. Horses. Tribesmen. Hovering black mountains. The next few
days were a blur but it was cool, man! I drank lots of tea yet I felt drugged most of the
time. What were they putting in the tea? Everyone I met seemed stoned. Halfway to the
capital, Kabul, I stayed in a small village for a night. Only four or five streets. I even had a
bed on the floor. Into a tea house for some food and tea. Some German guy offered me a
pipe then he left. I felt very strange. Blame the tea! Out in the street it’s a movie scene.
Severe dust storm. Shrieking winds. Panicked horses. Camels. Dogs. People. Chaos. I
can’t find my room. Can’t even find my street! Not for the first time, I think I’m out of my
mind. Blame the tea!
“Everything goes very slowly here”,
says this far-out American hippy.
“Just take your time, Man.” He was
washing some tomatoes, beside the
road, in this mountain village. Took
fifteen minutes to wash four
tomatoes. It was good advice and I
left him to it. I often wonder if he is
still there?
Not sure how but I did reach Kabul.
My passport was close to expiry so I stayed here to update it. I didn’t want to leave. Days
flew. Kites flew. This was the first of the Magical Mystery towns of the Hippies: Kabul,
Kathmandu, Kashmir and Kuta. The further East I travelled the more crowded it became.
Another bus through the Hindu Kush and the Khyber Pass. Into Pakistan. Ramadan
ended as I reached Lahore. Could it get anymore crowded
Took a train into India but couldn’t get a seat. The crowd was insane but after almost getting
into a fight I found a spot. I sat and slept in the overhead luggage rack. Yet another room
with a view as we rolled East into New Delhi.
About two weeks later I actually went North into Nepal and Kathmandu. Over four months
of slow travelling and it’s now December. Numbing Cold. I’d bought a karrukul wool coat in
Afghanistan and it saved my life. I found a room for four nights. No running water. A small
mattress on the floor. It was overlooking a busy street. A room plus a view again. The power
went off and on at random as there was
limited supply. I hadn’t had a decent
wash in three days so I requested a
bucket of hot water from “room service”.
Waited three hours. Finally, I stood
beside the bucket for “a head to toes
stand up wash” with soap and towel
handy. All the dirt ran down but the water
was barely warm and they’d charged me
$2! The next morning I learned that the
wood for the fire to warm the water had
come from four kms away. A girl had
walked to get it. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone carting firewood for my water so I
never requested it again. To this day, I’m full of gratitude when hot water comes out of my
shower. Kathmandu became my home for a short while. Saw my first Buddhist nun (a
chick monk!). Each night I would sit in a little temple, anywhere in the city, and ring a bell
or use finger chimes and chant. I chanted until I became enchanted. Mystical heaven with
the Himalayas watching on for free.
Not so surprising, I went East (or S/E ) again to Calcutta. Very low on money yet again
but found the Bank where I had transferred my money. They had no record. Down to a
few dollars. I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to sleep in the filth of the streets so I
sought out the Salvation Army Hostel. Very clean. Very crowded with travellers. I had to
wait three days for money to arrive so I could book a flight to Melbourne. Couldn’t get to
sleep the first night in the hostel even after a warm shower. My mattress was rumbling
and rustling. The bed was gyrating with bed bugs. I slept on the floor.
Three days later and still no money. I sold my little Super 8mm movie camera so I could
eat. Many Indians and dozens of others along the way asked if I was a rock star. I said
“Yes! Of course!” and signed my autograph. In Calcutta, when they asked, I said, ”Yes!
Have you heard of Johnny and The Bed Bugs?” Most of them knew the Band (?!).
I sent a post card from Kathmandu which read, “Sorry, Mum and Dad but I won’t make it
home for Christmas. See you in mid January.” The card arrived on the 18th December. I
took my last flight East to S/E to Melbourne. A suburban train went East (of course!) and I
walked the last two kilometres with my little bag to the back door of our home at 6.15pm
on Christmas Eve. Exactly as I had planned when I left London. “What’s for tea Mum?”
The shock of seeing me standing there almost killed my Mother, which wasn’t in the plan.
A few tears then buckets of tears. So I was home! Nothing to it! Now after two marriages
and two kids and a few catastrophes of my own, I’m learning Spanish. Next year I’ll start
walking in Santiago, Chile and head North (Norte) without a map. Eventually I’ll reach
Peru, Central America and Mexico. Maybe even Kalifornia.
John A Wilson, December 2015
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