My 1978 “Hippie Trail” Journal: The fabled Khyber Pass from Kabul to Pakistan

With Afghanistan in decline, I’m reflecting on my experiences traveling there as a 23-year-old backpacker on the “Hippie Trail” from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Yesterday and today, it is a poor but strong land that foreign powers misunderstand and insist on undermining.

In this final journal entry from 1978, bear with me as I travel from Kabul through the Khyber Pass to Pakistan.

Friday, August 4, 1978: Kabul to Rawalpindi, Pakistan

This was the morning I was psyched for. I don’t think I could have woken up feeling bad and I didn’t. Jane and I both enjoyed it. We had a last big Sina Hotel breakfast and caught our short 8:30 bus to Pakistan.

This was the only route by which I wanted to pass Khyber. I had dreamed of crossing this romantically wild and historically dangerous pass for years and it was high on my list of things to do in life – definitely in the top five. Now I was sitting on this kinky old shiny, but badly painted, window with a magnificent open window that would have let me lean half my body out if I wanted to. Our seats were big and high but crowded and the bus was full of Pakistanis and “road to India” passengers.

I was glad to leave Kabul and almost immediately we were in a beautiful mountain pass. From here to the border, while nothing by Pacific Northwest standards, was the closest thing to greenery we’ve seen in Afghanistan. We even passed a lake, but I saw no boat. I wondered how many, or how few, Afghans were ever on a boat.

Stopping at Jalalabad for a hasty lunch break, we were back on the road in 20 minutes. We were close to the border and the apprehensions grew. We hoped it wouldn’t be too much trouble, but nothing has surprised us so far.

The Afghanistan border station, time consuming, was easy. We just sat around eating melons and wishing we had coke money. Actually, we had planned our cash reserves very well and were going without any Afghanis. We waited our turn to be searched, filled out the forms, got our passports stamped—the usual process, and stopped only 100 yards away for an introduction to Pakistan.

The place was quite disorganized. We piled into a room and one by one we were called to a table. The customs official “hunted and snagged” our vital statistics in his register and stamped our passports.

Passports in hand, we knew we were halfway through the process, but we weren’t sure where to go next. We wandered into a building, and in a dark room, two men jumped from two cots and welcomed us to lie down. No thanks! We left and were overwhelmed by dope dealers and black market money chargers. Everything was so open and frank that it almost seemed legal. We bought 10 dollars or Pakistani rupees and then tried to search our bags so that we were done. Frustrated at the chaos, we boarded the bus and skipped the baggage check. We were entertained by the many hash sellers at our window and especially one regular guy with a small bottle of cocaine—4 grams for $30. I took his picture and told him to get lost.

At last we were loaded and ready to do it—to pass the Khyber. I was excited. Physically, it was just like any other rocky mountain pass, but when you’ve thought, dreamed, and thought about something for years, it becomes special. Up and got on the bus. Hanging out the window, I tried to take in everything—every wild bend in the road, every fort-like hill, every stray goat, every brightly colored truck that passed us, and every mud hut. I looked at the rugged people who inhabited this treacherous pass and wondered who they were, how they lived, what stories they could tell. Dry, rocky cemeteries with wind-torn flags littered the hillsides. The clouds threatened. We were moving out of the arid Arabian part of South Asia into the wet subcontinent. From now on we’ll feel dirty – but enjoy the green countryside.

We crossed the Khyber Pass and passed a tribal village to pay the privilege toll. I could see men nearby with rifles overlooking the bus and trading both goods and stories.

Within minutes we were in Peshawar and found out that a direct train to Lahore was leaving in an hour. Nothing seemed to keep us in Peshawar and the magnetism of India grew stronger and stronger as we drew nearer. We were confused trying to decide how, what, and where to buy our tickets. It was a new experience — learning how to handle the Pakistani train system. A little bewildered and unsure of our best move, we bought a $3.50 ticket (first class) for the 12-hour trip, ate a 60-cent fast food, and got a spot on the substandard first-class car.

The only difference between first and second class was the padded seats and $1.50. We thought for 12 hours it would be good to have a pad. Our car was very crowded. I was glad to be near a window that was blowing in the hot, muggy air. We got out almost on time at 5:50, and I enjoyed the breeze.

The countryside was smooth, lush and interesting. After a while, I started reading Orwell’s Animal Farm. It was good and time was well spent. Then it got dark, and the bugs came. The lights worked like my old bike — the faster you went, the brighter they got. It was not a very bright train. The bugs swarmed me and I made a bloody proclamation “death by merciless killing of any bugs that come upon me from now on”. I decided I would just rub them in with my thumb or fingers and twirl them through my arm and leg hair until they disappeared—either rub off or fall out.

The ride dragged on. We decided to leave the ride to Lahore at Rawalpindi, the halfway point, catch an early morning train to complete the journey.

It was almost midnight when we stepped into the muddy streets of Rawalpindi. There was a 5:15 train to Lahore in the morning so we could get a good four hours of sleep — if we could get a hotel. It looked awful—everyone was full and other people looking for a place were also disappointed. Luckily, I found a guy next door with an open and shower (Jane didn’t tell me about the lizards until later). Otherwise, it was barely worth the 10 rupees ($1) we paid. But it served its purpose. I took a cooling shower and found a comfortable spot between the slats and curves of my bed and soon worked myself to sleep. Today was a good day — lots of miles covered, a new country and I had crossed the Khyber Pass.

(This is journal entry #5 of a five-part series. If you miss something along the way, return to my Facebook page by Tuesday, August 17.)