We were on the “hippie trail” to Kathmandu. That was the name given to the journey taken by hordes of youth from the late 50’s to the 70’s. Many traveled overland from Europe to India, Nepal and beyond. So many travelled by thumbing (hitchhiking), many took local busses and some trains that travelled the route. Some drove their beautifully painted VW vans.
I had come to meet my traveling partner while living and working in Austria. He was on his way east and invited me to join him. Although I knew nothing about this “hippie trail” and had never heard of Kathmandu we were headed there. Our intention was to fly to Afghanistan and to slowly overland to Nepal.
There wasn’t much available back then for research. Information flowed mostly via word of mouth. It was quite a sociable way to obtain travel information (though a lot more tedious than flipping on a computer). Whenever we met someone that had been in that part of the world we questioned them until they could bear it no more (though other travelers were typically thrilled to share their stories).
We decided to hop on a train and head to London (which initially didn’t make much sense to me since it was in the opposite direction). It was decided that would be the easiest place to obtain visas and to catch a cheap flight eastward. While in London two important things happened. Firstly, we got word that an American ambassador had been shot in Afghanistan; secondly we went to see the movie entitled “Midnight Express.”
With word of trouble brewing in Afghanistan we decided to reevaluate our plan even though we had just received our Afghan visas and I had notified my parents that I was on my way there. I was up for anything. I had recently received the “Dear John” letter (hey I love you but I have to do my own thing, sorry good bye).
I trusted Richard’s opinions at the time since I felt he was worldlier than I. We met an old burnt out hippie at the Youth Hostel. He told us of a cheap flight to New Delhi, India and where to score the tickets.
Half the morning we hunted down the airline office wandering the back streets of London. One would think that an airline office would be in a busy neighborhood on a prominent street. Not! This office was located a few flights up (walkup, no elevator) an old building in the middle of nowhere. I looked at Richard as if to say “are you kidding”. He shrugged his shoulders and we climbed the stairs to a small room with a desk, phone, a safe, some paperwork scattered around as well as a few rubber stamps.
I stepped back and let Richard do the negotiations though I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. The biggest differences between Rich and I were that he was Rich and I had very limited funds. I was nervous about handing over a few hundred dollars and arriving at the airport with a bogus ticket. We walked out of the fly by night ticket office with two hand written paper tickets for a flight to India for the very next day. I was both excited and trembling. It didn’t occur to me that I should send another letter to my folks letting them know of my change of plans. For a few months they thought I was somewhere in Afghanistan.
After a long question and answer period with the old hippie at the hostel we were off to see the Midnight Express. I knew Richard was a bit of a party man and felt the movie would scare him into caution about his use of drugs during our journey together. I really didn’t care if he chose to get high with locals as long as he wasn’t transporting anything during our travels together. After seeing the flick I was certain that my traveling buddy would use enough caution not to get us thrown into an Indian prison.
We had a layover somewhere in Saudi Arabia. Once we landed I realized this adventure was truly going to be a bit beyond my comfort zone. I had my first taste of feeling out of place I was dressed conservatively but knew I stuck out with my jeans and T shirt. Most everyone was clothed in white flowing garments and white head pieces. I had recently seen the movie “Lawrence of Arabia” and I felt like I was living the set. Although I was typically an independent woman I felt glued to Richard considering all the stares from those passing by. There were only a handful of women in the terminal and I was the only blonde.
Arrival in New Delhi, India was intense. Everything was an explosion of color, smells and people. People everywhere. Any norms of western culture were thrown right out. I was in a new land, a new place and, of course bound by their rules. Lines, what lines! People pushed to get where they needed to go and I tried (somewhat uncomfortably) to do the same. We stuck out like a sore thumb with large backpacks and western clothing. They were signals to street people trying to sell us something, take us somewhere, beg for something or escort us to a hotel.
We had an old and outdated guidebook with a list of budget, mid priced and luxury hotels ranging from 50 cents upwards. The choice of price range was to become a constant source of conflict between us. I wanted the most basic and cheapest complete with cold water and a pit toilet. Richard wanted greater comforts with no price restrictions. I thought he was difficult to deal with, but in retrospect I was also quite stubborn.
After some time seeing the sights in Delhi, getting acclimatized to being a tourist in India, we headed north to Kashmir. We were packed in like sardines traveling through some of the most beautiful scenery on earth. To this day, I am so thankful to have made it there since another bus starting out the same day got overturned and buried by an avalanche. Though we started out in Delhi at warm temps our journey took us to snow country.
What I really want to tell you about is our overland journey from India into Nepal. Every aspect of travel seemed to be extremely draining though wonderfully exhilarating. Although we would obtain bits and pieces of travel info from tourists and locals along the way, it was often hard to piece it all together. Rules and travel options would seem to change from day to day and according to what official one might speak to.
We hopped on a cheap local bus onward towards to boarder of Nepal. Richard seemed to take much longer this morning rearranging items in his backpack. I was fearful of missing our bus. As usual it arrived an hour or so late already packed with passengers. Bags were already piled high on top. The bus was a colorful delight encompassing every color imagionable and painted to perfection, though the tires appeared to be bald and there were numerous scrapes and dents on all sides.
I purposely chose not to sit next to a window. I was growing increasingly weary of Indian bus drivers’ judgement, of close encounters with other vehicles and pedestrians as well. I was sick to my stomach as I looked at some cliffs way below the winding narrow road. We were packed in 3 – 4 to a seat that would typically hold 2 adults back home. I was a spoiled American but I was learning to live a different life and to be more accepting and more flexible. Locals were not only packed into the seats but squatting all over the floor and tightly intertwined with luggage and small animals.
A few miles before the boarder of Nepal the driver stopped and in sign language informed us that we had to get out and walk. We tried to show him our tickets. We thought he would be taking us clear to the Nepal boarder but that was not the case. This was his bus and he ruled it. We grabbed our backpacks and started to walk in the direction he pointed. He must have had droves of other hippies that he had also directed in the past. He knew, even without looking at our ticket, where we were headed. We were just a couple more American kids on the Hippie Trail.
We thumbed through the old, ratty, out of date guidebook and could not find anything about being thrown off the bus and having to march into the next country. It was a bit scary but was just another great part of the adventure, I thought to myself. At my current age of 60 I would have possibly freaked out, but at twenty something I just went with the flow.
Richard stopped for a moment to rearrange his pack once again, wiped an excessive amount of sweat from his brow and doubled his pace. My backpack felt like it was filled with bricks as we hiked in the midday sun. It was quite a contrast to the snow covered hills that we trekked in Kashmir. We had no idea how far the walk would be and encountered not another soul along the way.
Perhaps an hour or so later we came to the boarder. Our passports were briefly looked at; they looked us up and down and up and down again; passports were stamped and we were on our way. With another exotic stamp in my passport I was starting to feel more comfortable and confident as an overlander until Richard’s next statement.
“Whew” he stated, with a sigh of relief, “I am glad we got through the check point without hassle; could have been a bummer.” I wasn’t quite following what he was referring to. He then gave me a lengthy description of where he scored some hashish in Delhi and that he had been carrying it with us ever since then.
I was in freak out mode; totally disgusted with his decision to put my life and freedom at stake. I basically told him that every traveller along the same path knew and that anyone could purchase that shit from multiple sellers on Freak Street in Kathmandu. What the hell was he thinking? Whatever last bit of respect I had for the guy was gone.
I am not saying that I had never tried such stuff years before, but I made two things perfectly clear to him. I told him he could do whatever he wanted on his own by himself but he had no right to put me in danger. Secondly I told him that if I wanted to get high I could have just stayed home and done it. I was there to learn about the locals, see a different way of life and hike the Himalayas. I knew our days together were numbered.
As we started trekking together it became increasingly apparent that we had different interests. He was geared up in party mode; I was blissfully hiking the trails of Nepal and hanging out with the locals. And so we went out own ways.
Although I have never forgiven the guy for putting me at risk, I feel forever indebted to him for inviting me to join him on the Hippie Trail to Kathmandu. Wherever he is (hopefully not in an Indian jail), I wish him well.
(Late seventies story)