My 1978 “Hippie Trail” Journal: From Mashhad, Iran, to Herat, Afghanistan

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.

Come with me on the bus from Mashhad, Iran, in this journal entry from 1978, to the famous city of Herat in western Afghanistan.

Saturday, July 29, 1978: Mashhad to Herat

My Spanish friend woke me up at 5:45. I think I would have slept all morning if he hadn’t come in. We caught a ride to the station and weakly I looked for breakfast. Half a liter of milk and a small cake was great and we were on our way.

Here was the beginning of a new world. Afghans look more Asian and Mongolian than Iranians and Afghans, and bus stations are packed with their stuff. Our bus left at 7:20 and was quite full of western passengers – the only ones we had seen since the Istanbul-Tehran bus.

Jane and I were quiet and weak. I sat there, the hot wind blowing my face and my hair tossing around, hoping the kilometers would tick by and knowing I was going far away from Europe.

At 10:30 we reached the deserted Iran-Afghanistan border. What a place! Just stuck in the middle of nowhere. We left our passports and went into the building. An interesting museum with a message welcomed us. Many of the glass cases contained the stories and hideouts of many unfortunate drug smugglers. It made for interesting reading — who smuggled what from where and was sent to prison. I have this terrible fear that someone will put some dope in my rucksack and I’ll get stuck. It won’t be fun at all.

We went through Iranian customs very easily and then drove across a windswept desert to a place bordered by abandoned, disassembled VW vans and small orange buses packed with locals. We just stood around. The wind and heat were intense. The barren plain stretched out in all directions and I said to Jane, “So this is Afghanistan”. We found shade in one of the wrecked VW vans and peeled a small apple. Then a bus came and we piled in. Stopping for a quick passport check, I couldn’t believe it was that easy. It wasn’t like that.

A few minutes later our bus pulled into the search yard and we sat down to wait for the bank and doctor’s office to open.

And here I sit. Time is good except for grabbing the journal, which I finally did, and thought. As I brush giant ants off of me and shield my eyes from sand and flying objects, I think about all the fun things I could be doing. I think of my friends back home, of my parents sitting in their boat in cool, green, refreshing British Columbia., And the fun I could have in Europe. I’m glad I’m finally doing it but I’m really looking forward to the end of it all. I am hoping for health, no problems, and a good flight to Europe.

The funny little bank opened and to exchange my 100 franc note I had to sign three times, write down the serial number of the bill and ask several times for the correct change. I have brought 775 afghani.

The next few hours tested my patience as we bounced from one dusty office to another and took care of everything so we could enter Afghanistan. The baggage “search” was little more than a glance, our shot certificates were checked, police and customs officers checked us out, we had Fanta and then finally everyone boarded the orange bus and we were on our way — or so we thought.

After about 100 yards there was a police check and most of the Polish passengers on the bus were turned away and had to go through more red tape. Then we moved into the dusty expanses of Afghanistan’s wasteland.

The countryside was dry and barren, backed by rugged brown mountains and broken every now and then by mud huts, some old ruins or a herd of goats or sheep. It’s always nice to enter a new country. So far this summer I have discovered only two new ones. But what lies ahead is as new as can be.

Just when it seemed like we were getting somewhere, a fight broke out in front of the bus. The Afghans decided to double the fare from 50 to 100 afghanis. We tourists were stubborn and we refused. A rugged-looking Afghan pulls a knife as the driver turns and heads back toward the Iranian border. You could say they did us more than a barrel.

A commotion broke out., And everyone was trying to solve the problem. A soft-spoken but commanding Pakistani urged us to pay, but we were all sure that if we paid, there was no stopping them from doing the same trick again. We made a compromise — give them 60 afghanis now and pay the rest on arrival at Herat. We were all on edge after that episode and I think if they tried to get more money they would have had a lot of trouble with their mundane busload of tough passengers.

We stopped at a deserted tea shop with a well and a group of locals skinning a hot goat. There was a sign reading “Hotel” and I expected the worst. Many people are notorious for “highly recommending” certain hotels. However, it was just an innocent tea stop, and it gave Jane and I our first good look at Afghanistan. A leaking well provided everyone with cold, dirty water. I wallowed in it, really cool. We shared a 25 cent melon and my weak, hungry body wolfed it down. I felt that I had really abused myself by not eating much. For two days I have given up any real food and just drank pop and sucked on melons. I have decided from now on that I will eat well and stay in good hotels and keep my spirits high for my mental and physical health.

The tea house was exactly the image I had of a tea house in Afghanistan. Old men in traditional dress, who look like they’ve worked hard but who never do anything but sit idle, sit on carpets on the floor, drink tea and smoke hashish. The room filled with smoke and his glassy black eyes were smiling. A few of us tourists joined them and I stood on my melon rind looking out the window like I was watching a documentary on TV. The word spread – our driver was more and the staff would be quite lenient. What a strange society. I guess when you’re so far behind materially, you just give up — sit in the shade and eat melons, drink tea., and smoking hash.

Back in the hot bus we reached Herat and dawn dawned on us., “You know, this place looks great.” We were definitely in a new and different culture and Jane and I both worked. I patted him on the shoulder, “Okay, now our journey begins!”

Herat, as the minimal information in our guidebook put it, “wasn’t hard to like.” Very green, As far as cities in this part of the world are concerned., And with so many parks, I immediately loved Herat. Sick of the cheap, shabby holes, I lobbied for a first-class hotel. We found a nugget.

Hotel Moffaq, Herat’s most luxurious hotel in the heart of the city, was just what we needed. Centrally located, showers, swimming pool, clean restaurant, And free of all the criminals that plague cheap hotels, it will make us feel human again. I feel a bit squeamish, but I like a place where I can leave my stuff without worry and walk around barefoot and find comfort in comfort when I need to. Our double cost only 200 Afghanis ($5) and we were prepared to spend more.

We had a Sprite and wandered around the main square of Herat, stopping at a small clothing store where Jane and I could get some local clothes so we could go “native” for the rest of the trip. Local baggy clothes make a lot more sense., And they will be fun gifts too. Jane bought a piece of marijuana from the guy for about $1. We’ll wait and see what we do with it.

Now we were ready for cleaning and feasting. A lovely cold shower and an enjoyable and highly successful time on a real sit-down toilet (you don’t appreciate the little things in life like sitting on the toilet until you have to). As I walked out of the bathroom I thought, “Well, the diarrhea I had yesterday was just a small punishment for bragging that I’d been traveling with solid stool for two months, and now I’m a new man.”

Below we ordered two of the local specialties they serve on Saturday and we noticed that the menu had a little note on each page. All prices have been reduced by 10 afghanis since the People’s Revolution. It costs just 50 afghanis ($1.25) per meal for soup, bread, rice, meat and cold water. We were both thirsty and the cold water attacked our self-control like a forbidden fruit. We fought it and it was good. I couldn’t help feeling “iffy” about it like I always do when I drink questionable water but that didn’t detract from its initial goodness. Black and green tea in good sized pots finished the meal off nicely and I couldn’t believe how everything turned out so wonderfully.

The people here are amazing, the military and police are on the streets in the wake of the recent revolution. Horse-drawn chariot-like flower-decorated taxis ply the streets. We stood on the airy balcony under the stars thinking that the only thing not different about this place was the tower.

My hair is fluffy, there is air conditioning in the hall, and there is a big screen on our open window. The light is on, my teeth are clean, my stomach is full, I feel healthy (and hopefully will be tomorrow) and I think I’m going to sleep early tonight. It is very important to live well and enjoy yourself and, without going through periods of suffering and pain, you cannot really know what it is to enjoy it.

 

(This is journal #1 of a five-part series. Stay tuned for another excerpt later today, as 23-year-old me explores Herat, a well-known city in western Afghanistan.)