Michael D.Heath-Caldwell M.Arch.

Diary of Joe Palmer 1972 (Joe’s 2023 comments in italics)

Saturday 1st January 1972 - Karamursel, Turkey
Well it sure is hard to believe '72 is here. Last night we all had a quiet party to celebrate. I can't help but think back over previous New Year celebrations and compare them to my situation now. Last year at this time, I would never have believed I would be in Turkey for this year’s New Year celebration. 

Thinking back on 1971, situations good and bad, my life sure has been a mess lately. Right now it’s hard to work out the benefits of already spending 6 months on the road, but perhaps when I get back to Australia I will understand what happened. All I know now is that I have this great need to be a better person than the one I seem to have become.

We caught the bus to the U.S. Air Force Base where I had a hot shower and we had steaks for 85 cents plus milkshakes and butterscotch nut sundaes. Our U.S. friends are being wonderful to us giving us cookies and sweets and supplying us with booze. Great news - we phoned Istanbul from the Base and it seems that money will be here on Monday - two weeks waiting sure can be a long time.

The U.S. Air Force guys are interested in the girls I brought along of course. Rosemarie (Rose) said she is afraid of what is going on and has told me to sleep with her. This all started at a hotel room party in Athens when we drank too much and found ourselves alone. Since that time Rose seems to think we are really together, but I don’t want to think so.

We seem to be passing most of the time reading ‘Playboy’ magazines - and smoking hash. 

Our U.S. friends have introduced us to an entertainment they call ‘The Zilch’. A Zilch is created from twisted plastic bags knotted together to form a sort of rope that is tied at a safe distance from the roof rafter, and hangs down until it is just above a basin of water on the floor. The idea is to start burning the plastic at the lowest part of it. The lights are turned out - it is very quiet, and the slowly burning plastic eventually forms a flaming lump which whizzes down and splats into the dish of water. The further up the burning goes, the bigger the effect as bigger flaming lumps suddenly streak down and sizzle as they hit the water, the last one is usually the biggest and best - then all is quiet again, in fact there is then zilch (nothing) happening, but we are all smiling. So ends the story of The Zilch.
 

Monday 3 January 1972 - Istanbul.
We struggled from beds, and some from off the floor about midday yesterday, caught a dolmus (a taxi which goes only when filled up - someone told me that dolmus is the Turkish word for ‘to cram’?) to the Base where we listened to a great stereo, and our U.S. friends brought back sandwiches and hamburgers and supplied us with beer from the fridge. 

They are great guys and I can sure sympathize with them being stuck in Turkey after my short experience of working for the U.S. Air Force in Germany. Jerry is just the best person and I won’t ever forget his kindness.

Back at Jerry’s weekender we sat around talking and smoking hash until sleepiness overtook me. 

Today we caught a bus to Yalova and after goulash and rice (50cents) we took a seemingly quick 2 hour ferry trip to Istanbul where it was drizzling and muddy. No money. Ken, Norman and Max who stayed in Istanbul while we were at Karamursel, are going to Baghdad tonight. 

Mary, Liz, Rose, Ken C., and self, plan to head south towards Damascus by bus tomorrow if possible. 

Tuesday 4 January 1972 - Istanbul.
Today Mary, Rose, and Ken caught a bus for the Turkey - Syria border. I stayed here with Liz. Her father called while she was out so she sent a telegram to Sydney and is waiting here in the hotel lobby for him to reply - you cannot make a collect call to Australia from Istanbul (cost Aus$12 or $13 for 3 minutes). A telegram costs about 80 cents per word. 

I'm writing this in the Iraq embassy - Liz already has her visa, so I've been waiting 2 hours now without her for my visa, but have been having a pleasant chat with a Japanese man travelling also to Iraq. He seems to be a professional traveller - he has two good cameras plus a hat covered with badges and ornaments from different countries, and works for a newspaper in Japan with a circulation of 7 million! On the wall is a map of Israel with Arabic writing plus a cartoon showing Golda Meir prime minister of Israel dressed as an ugly pirate being plucked out of a treasure chest - it makes the problems between the Arab states and Israel into some kind of joke!

              Liz attracting the pigeons and some locals in Istanbul
 

9pm - Just returned from having a Turkish bath – white marble pillars and domes give the place real atmosphere. It’s a great experience and no doubt the best part of being in Istanbul. First I sat on marble hot slabs in a steamy room, then after about 10 minutes a masseur rubbed and thumped everything from toes to fingers. After about 10 -15 minutes of this treatment the masseur had a rough glove and rubbed me down again rolling off lumps of black grime - unbelievable! Another soap up, more pans of hot water doused all over and that’s it - costs about Aus$1.30 and I've never felt so clean in my life. 

Tonight we (Liz and self) will sleep in our ‘England - India’ bus to save money - the bus is still parked outside the hotel - it hasn’t moved since we arrived in Istanbul. I feel so relaxed after the Turkish bath I'm sure sleeping will be no trouble. Tomorrow Liz and self will start catching local buses to try and meet up with Mary, Rose and Ken in Aleppo, Syria.
 

Wednesday 5 January 1971 - Istanbul.
At last we are leaving Istanbul on the 17th day after arriving. The only passenger left in Istanbul and waiting with the bus drivers is white haired Mrs Mackie from Scotland, she outlasted us all. I wonder if she will ever reach her India - she is giving it a red hot go, and good luck to her. 

Liz and I are at the moment on board a boat crossing the Bosphorus to the Asian side - as usual a very crowded waterway. The Turks around us with their usual solemn looks all well dressed in old darkish clothes - mostly sipping black tea - they drink more tea here than anywhere else I've seen including England.

It’s just about dark and we intend catching the 5.15pm bus towards Syria. From what we hear the Moslems won't trouble Liz and I in Syria and Iraq if we pretend to be married - but here's hoping we meet up with Mary, Ken and Rose in Aleppo. Today in Istanbul I hustled through the covered bazaar for the last time and bought a puzzle ring for about 30 cents. I ate but Liz didn’t, she hasn't been feeling so well so I hope she recovers soon as I am sure this part of our trip is bigger than either of us could comprehend just yet.

Thursday 6 January 1972 - Turkey to Syria
Early morning sun is steaming over arid plains and bare hills covered in light snow with tufts of yellow grass peeping through. Last night there was a typically frantic scene at the bus station as people harassed us for cheap seats on their buses - we knew where to go however and paid 60 lira (about Aus$4) while drivers and porters were grabbing at bags and shouting at each other. We could see piles of deep snow by the road during the night but the bus has a heater and with my sleeping bag and thermos flask we had no worries. We just passed some squat brown huts built of stone seemingly in the middle of no-where. Some of the Turks on the bus seem friendly to us. 

11am. Just stopped to eat in a clean café, surrounded by rocky hills covered in dark green pines. Two very nice young Turks paid for our meal and even gave LIz a ring - we can't communicate by language but it’s easy to see they are good people - as usual it seems that once you get into the country areas the locals are more open and friendly. 

Just now we're passing through green fields of new grass with snow-capped mountains edging a blue sky. Occasional herds of long haired black goats and a few wild donkeys. Some trees here look like gum trees.

11.45am. Just passed through Adana - almost impossible to describe - such a primitive hive of activity - fascinating looking people rushing everywhere - women with huge piles of sticks on their backs, brightly coloured buggies drawn by lean horses - herds of sheep and goats over the streets, children with trays of bread rings balanced on their heads.

1.pm. One of our Turkish friends just got off the bus - he had invited us to stay at his place tonight but we must push on and meet the others in Aleppo. We have been stopped twice by police with guns so guess they're looking for someone as they examine our passports - I noticed a man with a rifle trained at each vehicle as it arrived, no doubt in anticipation of the wanted person making a run for it.

We are pulling in to Iskenderun, which is the end of our first bus ride - its 1.30pm, the journey taking 20 hours from Istanbul.

Writing now from Aleppo where it’s now 10pm - There was no bus from Iskenderun to the border so we took a dolmus (taxi) costing about Aus$2 each and about one hour to the border. We had met a friendly Iraq doctor and a German fellow so we all shared a dolmus to the Syrian border and from there to Aleppo.

We booked in at a clean looking hotel (about 70 cents per night). At reception they didn’t want to speak English, and expected me to parlé Le Français with them. As poor as my effort was, it seemed to work because they gave Liz and myself a room. 

I rushed down to the Post Office being guided by some friendly Syrians but no message from Ken, Mary or Rose. There I met a Syrian student who was able to describe Rose so we went looking but couldn't find them - at least we know they should be here somewhere.

I returned to the hotel and after tea we (the doctor, the German chap, Liz and self) walked around Aleppo's busy streets - people staring at us all the time. There are more cinemas here than I've ever seen before - dubbed American, Egyptian, French, Italian and Indian films. 

Grilled on a heap of red hot coals, a meal of liver and kidney pieces that we dipped in salt and pepper and wrapped in a kind of pancake shaped bread (sprinkled with lemon juice). Our waiter was a boy of about 11 years old who they told us would spend from 7.am to 12 in school, have about an hour's break, and then work in the café till closing time - he worked hard too, wiping tables, washing glasses, supplying food from the chef (aged about 16) and never smiling even when we joked with him - but the other Syrians smiled. 

              Joe, Liz, and the Doctor soon after we arrived in Aleppo
 

Two events happened which jolted home to me the fact that I will have to be firmer in standing up for myself. The first was when we were arguing with the taxi driver about the price from Iskenderun to the border - we had found out from the bus people that the price was 30 lira each, and when the driver asked for 40 each we refused and beat him down to 30 lira - however, he stopped down the street for 2 more passengers and at the same time enlisted the aid of a man who could speak better English to beat the price up - this man jabbered on about the price to the border being 35 lira but Liz for some strange reason agreed with him while I still said 30 lira - however, with both him and Liz going I said OK, 35 lira - after we left town I explained to Liz that we were paying more than we originally agreed on, and then she understood - perhaps she just wanted to get to the border and didn't care about the money.

At the border we were told a transit visa was cheaper but would only be valid for 3 days. Not knowing our situation at all our Iraqi doctor friend tried to persuade us to take the transit visa but I said that 3 days was just not enough for Syria, but in this case again LIz argued against me and I gave in to them for the sake of peace and quiet. I suppose Liz thought a local person would know better than me, I can understand that. 

It didn't take me long after we left the border to persuade Liz to realise the craziness of only having a 3 day visa for a country this size, and knowing that we have to find Mary, Rose, and Ken - she understands now but it's too late. Perhaps I am just hurt because I didn’t get my own way.

We travelled non-stop for 24 hours so perhaps some sleep won’t go astray either. I must try harder to be more tolerant with people and maybe then they won't get me down.
 

Saturday 8 January 1972 - Aleppo, Syria.
Two days since I wrote. Our first full day in Syria yesterday was a holiday (Friday) so there was not much activity in the bazaar, but with the aid of our Iraqi friend (the doctor) were able to talk to some of the locals. The city has a white/grey appearance except where the dust and dirt of age has taken over. 

Joe in protective headgear - Aleppo

Never before have we been stared at so much by the locals - most women in black cloaks and veils and men in typical Arab headgear - most people friendly, especially the university students wanting to practice their English. As was the case in Istanbul, you don't see women in the streets at night so Liz is a real attraction. Some men also find my long hair interesting, and stroke it. I have bought Arab headgear as a shield from their fingers.

Later in the day we met up with Ken, Mary and Rose in a street. We walked around the base of the citadel built on a hill of steep cliffs - apparently it has never been taken by invading forces.

Today was more interesting, especially the bazaar packed with people, bicycles and donkeys loaded with heavy packs - we had to be careful not to be trampled. We are all going to Damascus tomorrow.

Sunday, 9 January 1972 - Aleppo, Syria.
Last night was a bad night for me - I suffered the double distress of first being assaulted and then getting the worst illness yet - I could not control my bodily functions so have some washing to do. I have spent the day in bed exhausted, dosed up on medicine, and cared for by Liz and a deformed looking Syrian student who brought me back to my hotel room from a bad experience he caused me last night, but I think he has tried to make up for it by coming back this morning and helping me for a while. I took help from anybody I could today, even him.

Liz brought Rose who is a nurse over from her hotel - Rose thought I might have cholera, but she said I was too sick to get a vaccination, so she couldn’t give it to me. Rose asked me what this Syrian boy was doing here - what was going on? I just told her that he liked me, nothing to worry about. Rose said that if I wanted a boyfriend, why did I have to choose a cripple, while I thought, why does she have to be so serious. She had no idea what turmoil my mind was in. 

Rose went back to her hotel. Later in the day Liz came back from a visit to Rose’s hotel and told me Rose had left with her bags, crying and saying she was going to Damascus herself - she didn’t even pay her hotel bill. Later I heard Rose was back but not well. Mary, who has had experience with neurotics advised Liz not to go near her while she is now looking after her - I have been told about all these things because I have been too sick today to be there. By this evening I was well enough to go to their hotel and find out things for myself but had no reply from Rose who is not talking, just lying in bed staring at the ceiling with her finger in her mouth. What a shocker of a day.
 

Wednesday 12 January 1972 - Damascus. Syria.
Since my last diary entry 3 days ago things have sorted themselves out again, and my thinking has recovered after my illness.

I need to write down some things that might have contributed to Rose’s distress, but I don’t really know what caused her to flip out. Rose has no idea about real distress, my distress. I am not dismissing her struggle, but for Rosemarie, I believe the hell she suffers is of her own mental creation. If I am not the knight in shining armour that I think she imagines me to be, then she has to accept the fact that we are not going to be together and move on. I am sorry for her, but being sorry for someone while in some kind of relationship with them is really pathetic if that’s all there is to it.

Going back four days to last Saturday in Aleppo, a deformed slightly older than me Syrian who said he was a student was hanging around with us, and ended up guiding me to a local Turkish style bath house. He had said no girls were allowed inside there so I left Liz at the hotel, but it was a very primitive bath house with nowhere to leave my valuables, which I forgot to leave back with Liz. I told my Syrian guide there was nowhere safe to leave my passport there and I went to leave.

An old man inside there wanted to know what was going on, and so my guide stupidly told him that I was afraid to leave my valuables there. Immediately there was a lot of shouting from other men there as they heard the story of my mistrust. I was beginning to wonder if I would get out alive, so I asked my Syrian guide to tell the old man that I would leave my things only with him because I trusted that he would take care of them. This calmed things down, and so I went in. It was a very poor looking place after the one in Istanbul, and this time my guide did the scrubbing. I was glad to leave and with all my things, but not before I sang. A song had been requested by the Syrians in there, and was met with stony silence at the end of my performance. 

Instead of going straight back to the hotel, my guide invited me to drop by his room and made me tea on his stove. There was nothing much else in this tiny room except a mattress on the floor, on which he invited me to sit. The tea tasted unlike any tea I’d had before, he said no he didn’t want to drink any. Next thing I remember becoming vaguely conscious of being face down on his mattress and experiencing the intense pain of him attempting to rape me.

After a brief struggle, he got the message that what he was attempting to do was not on. He was sorry, but not half as much as I was. I felt stunned with the dawning reality of what had just happened. He had forced me to cross a line never to return, but I was wasting my time worrying about this, because this was really not about sex, it was assault. The pleasure was going to be all his, not mine, he didn’t care about me at all. I couldn’t get away because it was now dark and I had no idea where I was. I was then becoming aware that I was back in my hotel bed and unable to control my bodily functions. How he got me there I don’t know, but I remember telling him he had to get me back there. I thought at that time I had contracted some terrible disease, and I was on the way out of this life. 
 
Anyway, he must have taken me back to the hotel, because I had a confused night there being so ill. He came back the next morning and must have been struck by some kind of compassion because he joined Liz in doing what they could to help me, cleaning me up. I had no idea at that time that I was sick because he must have drugged me as well. If I had known about the drug, it would have been even more distressing, but at that time I just thought he was desperate for sex because his deformities made him so unattractive. 

The sex part is not as bad in my mind now as the drugging - he must have been terrified about being discovered for what he had done with the drug, but he wasn’t to know that I would not put his life in the jeopardy he had put mine.

His drug could have killed me, but it didn’t. He also didn’t rob me, so he wasn’t totally bad, but he was bad. Like a curious mouse I walked into his little trap, and I just can’t speak to anyone about it, it’s too humiliating. At least I now understand that in the long run, a mistake doesn’t matter as long as you can get out of it again. As for him, he is like some others I have met on my travels, gone forever I hope.

It was later in the day of my illness that I heard about Rose leaving for Damascus and being returned by Mary and Ken to their hotel in Aleppo. Not only had they advised Rose that it would be dangerous to go on alone in this part of the world, but Mary and Ken even got the Syrians to try and persuade her against it. Apparently Mary and Ken tried unsuccessfully to stop her getting on the bus so they phoned the police in the next big town to get her off.

Mary and Ken took a taxi to that town about 70 k away (50 miles). At the police station they found Rose in a great deal of distress and had to sign for being responsible for her during her stay in Syria. They also tried to persuade Rose to get on a plane at Damascus so that she can fly on home but she wouldn’t do it. All this could have been avoided if Mary and Ken had gone to Damascus with Rose, but they probably didn’t want her with them, especially after she gave them trouble. 

Next day Rose came to Liz and my room and said that Mary and Ken had already gone to Damascus, leaving her behind. Why did Rose let that happen? Perhaps they told Rose that she was not well enough to travel yet, or perhaps they escaped leaving just a note? My main thought was that Rose has chosen Liz and me rather than Mary and Ken to travel with. Anyway Rose, Liz, myself, and another Syrian student hanger-on caught a bus costing Aus$1 each, taking 6 frantically driven hours to reach Damascus, a lot of it in darkness.

We had passed by conical shaped huts in villages and red-orange bare ground devoid of crops - it makes me wonder what supports these people during this time of year, their animals I guess. Back when I was at Karamursel, I remember one day hearing a pathetic noise, and stepping outside, saw a local man finishing off a sheep by hitting it on the head with a rock.

Yesterday and today here in Damascus was wonderfully warm with blue skies - we have had good weather in Syria. Damascus is bordered with barren earth mountains half covered with grey houses. It’s sometimes necessary to look past the dirt to these beautiful hills, especially when brushed with evening shadows. 

We saw glass blowing in a primitive factory - very skillful trade. In fact primitive is the word to describe most activities here - baking pancake shaped bread in old cluttered buildings that look like blacksmiths shops, meat hanging up in the streets, barrels of oranges and fascinating people everywhere. 

I had bought a sheepskin coat in Aleppo for Aus$4 and here in Damascus an inlaid mosaic pattern cigarette case for Aus$1.

I've noticed an incredible number of deformed people here and not only the beggars - people with one eye, one leg, limping, deformed hand, in fact at times I feel overwhelmed by it all. After my experience in Aleppo, I'm careful what I drink and this is helping I'm sure. Our Syrian student hanger-on is still with us. We visited the most beautiful mosque in Damascus - we were allowed 10 minutes to look around. It has a gold mosaic facade on one entrance that is really lovely. 

No sign of Mary and Ken, I think they have left us.

Liz pretends to enjoy a Damascus man’s hookah

Today we spent time at the post office and bank after a breakfast of fried eggs and tea with milk which is a real delicacy for me at the moment. The tea here is strong (tea brewed in the pot) with tons of sugar added whether you want it or not. I had become used to the tea made that way in Turkey so I've been drinking it without milk for a month but it was great to taste the milk again. The coffee is thick black and unpalatable for my taste.

At the post office, I was sitting on a bench waiting for Rose to finish whatever she was doing at the counter. There was an old Arab man sitting near me, and when Rose came back and sat next to me, the old man jumped up and after shouting abuse at Rose and me, took off. It was probably because he was astounded to see a woman sit where her ‘husband’ is sitting, and by doing that, putting herself on the same level as him. He also probably wondered what weak kind of man I was to let my ‘wife’ do that.

They don’t like Americans here, but I have a small piece of paper I tore out of a pocket notebook ages ago which shows a map of Australia. Most people have never heard of Australia or simply don’t understand me, so when locals ask me if I am American, I point to Australia on the map, and they seem to take it that I am not American.

  The piece of paper showing Australia 
 

Liz and Rose have annoyed me lately with all their talk about the lack of respect that men have here for women, suggesting I would have no idea what it is like to be a woman in this country. I suggested that if they wanted to dress me as a woman, I would like to find out if that is really true. They not only dressed me in their clothes, they did my makeup and hair, trying to make me look as womanly as possible. I walked around Damascus for a while with them and I didn’t notice any interest from other men, or as many feels of my hair as I have been getting normally. I guess a woman with long hair is boring compared to a man with it. Anyway, Liz and Rose haven’t complained again so far, but I don’t think I make a very attractive looking woman.

We took a bus costing 20 cents to visit Maloula this afternoon about 40 miles away. At first the bare mountains were a pleasant background to rural scenery, but before long we passed through military installations, guns poking out of the ground, soldiers everywhere, tanks, and fortifications. 

I was too afraid to take any photos - it was scary - it makes you realise how hot the situation is here - our student friends believe the situation between the Arab states and Israel will blow up within a year. After all, we are only about 50 miles from the Israeli border here, but I have no intention of going there. I have been told that as soon as you have an Israeli stamp on your passport, you cannot enter any Arab country after that. Only yesterday we heard of border trouble and today of a tank being blown up in a minefield - it seems to be commonplace here. Anyway, we arrived at Maloula on dusk, a town set in a valley under rocky outcrops. We were misinformed about buses and had to get a taxi back costing luckily only a dollar each for the return 40 miles. 

Rose has given me a combined cholera/typhoid vaccination last night and it's been difficult moving my arm today but don't feel sick as yet. Tomorrow Rose, Liz and I catch the bus for Baghdad.
 

Friday 14 January 1972 - Baghdad.
I am writing now from Baghdad at a comfortable youth hostel surrounded with palm trees after a 23 hour bus trip from Damascus. We had our passports taken by the driver before leaving Damascus ( I didn’t like it at all but had no choice) and given back after we left, only to be removed for examination a total of 5 times during the journey - however not to complain as we have arrived safe and well. 

We left Damascus (and glad to be leaving) about 1.30pm and soon passed into flat desert without any vegetation. A well concealed air-base only visible when a plane seemingly landed in the desert. A camel train loaded with sticks. Luckily our seats were fairly comfortable. There was a sort of rest room in the back (a hole in the floor), children crying, and passengers cambering in and out, stepping over a floor littered with orange peels. There was a 2½ hour wait at the border while everything which included what looked like the total belongings of some people had to be removed from all over the bus and thoroughly examined - a frantic scene - those poor women with babies. 

At Baghdad the bus stopped in in the middle of a mud-heap - slipping and dodging the pools of water we argued with persistent taxi drivers and got a ride for $1 to the youth hostel - of course when we set out the price went up to double but we were persistent - you have to be in these countries.

Sunday 16 January 1972 - Baghdad
The last 2 days in Baghdad have been warm and sunny. The youth hostel here is set in open grounds with date palms and it is relaxing to be sitting on the patio in the sunshine. It rains a lot but luckily in the night time mostly. Baghdad is a pleasant surprise after Damascus. The city has a more open aspect with wide pavements plus a few impressive monuments and fountains. 

There is a $10 fine for jay-walking which makes the city far more ordered and western. In fact most city-people wear western clothes and generally look a good class of person. Occasionally I will be stopped and asked where I come from, and when I tell them Australia, the usual reply is ‘Welcome to Baghdad’. The city is a lot cleaner than previous towns in Syria too - a few oil wells sure make a difference to a country.

The exchange rate for travellers cheques plus commission charged on each cheque is very bad here. The official rate should be one English pound equals one Iraqi dinar, however we have tried everywhere and the banks here will give only 4 dinars for 5 pounds. I am losing 1 pound in every 5 changed!

Back in Turkey I was told that in an Arab country just south of here they will pay US$30 for every pint of blood donated (drained from you), but the more I think about it, the more I think it is just another ridiculous bit of travelers gossip. Let’s face it, there would be plenty of local people who would give blood - I can’t believe how gullible I am sometimes.

Tons of fresh dates in barrels - western food here is available but expensive - I almost bought a can of baked beans for $1. The local food is good but we have to be careful money-wise. Baghdad is not cheap.

Yesterday we caught a bus 60 miles to Babylon. We walked about a mile from the main road and came across a lot of excavations and date palms - this is Babylon or what is left of it. There is a small museum with some 4,000 year old pottery etc. If it hadn't been for the sign saying the ruins before our eyes were the hanging gardens we would never have guessed. There were some brick walls remaining, depicting animals with lion’s feet in front and eagle rear, plus ancient writings on some bricks - part of the original paved road into the city and one of the two original lions of Babylon carved from solid granite. 

Rose, Joe, and Liz at Babylon

Everywhere we walked over piles of excavated bricks and stone. At one part men were digging out some old ruin - it made me glad I never went in for archeology – it’s just not me that’s for sure! 

We caught a mini bus to go back to Baghdad, asking the usual destination question when we got in, ‘Baghdad’? Someone said ‘Basrah’ which is the opposite direction. We panicked and called the driver to stop, while all the Iraqi’s started laughing. It was great to be part of their joke.

We became lost when we returned to Baghdad in darkness and walked for miles on empty stomachs but after two meals in two restaurants on the way, we felt a lot better. 

Today we have been relaxing here at the hostel before we push on any further - I've learnt it doesn't pay to overdo things.

We have met up again with Mary, who with Ken left us in Syria. I was cooking with her at the youth hostel when she said she couldn’t understand why a nice guy like me, as she put it, was with Rose. Mary is also a nurse, and she told me that Rose in her opinion is schizophrenic, and that she will eventually exhaust me if I stay with her. I had a talk with Liz about it, and we have decided to travel on without her. After all, she is in Baghdad, and can easily fly out from here if she can’t find anyone to travel with.

Monday 17 January 1972 - Khanaqin.
Liz and I are in a dingy hotel room just inside the Iraq border with Iran. This morning I boiled some eggs at the youth hostel in Baghdad to take with us, and after many directions and 2 buses found the main bus stop with buses going to the border - some friendly Iraqis helped us with our bags on the way. As usual a man grabbed my bag and before I knew what was going on had slung it into his taxi - after arguments I retrieved it and headed for the cheaper mini-buses.

We waited about half an hour while the bus filled up - just when it was full Rose appeared and they wouldn't let her in as it was full and leaving. This may be hard for anyone to understand but Liz and myself did not get out of the bus to wait with her for the next one. In fact Liz was signaling to the bus driver to get moving, and I was secretly glad she did. 

How did Rose find us? She must have been given my goodbye note soon after Liz and I had left - they probably didn’t want her with them either, poor girl. 

The last sight we saw, was Rose sitting on her bags in the middle of a mud heap crying her eyes out. It was such a pathetic sight that I felt sure I could never forgive myself if I ever heard that she suffered because of me leaving her behind. Until that moment, I had no idea I could be so cruel.

Although I haven't made much reference to it we have been having trouble with Rose - she is an impossible person to live with and believe me I consider myself fairly tolerant. I have had so many talks trying to help her sort things out but when we start to get somewhere she asks me to go or tells me she needs some sleep.

She has had so many attacks of pain and then after sympathy tells us she was fooling us - I just don't know what to believe - all I know is that she is the pain. 

As we left her at the bus stop I couldn't help but think back to when she left me in Aleppo - she said I might have cholera but that didn’t stop her from leaving me to my fate. How could she do that to me? I think she is one of those people who get a fixed idea in their mind and cannot change it when circumstances change. I found it hard to forgive her for leaving me, but my leaving her today is no payback, it’s just that I don’t feel any obligation to stay with her as she tends to depress me.

Liz and I travelled through lifeless country for 100 approx. miles with the occasional clump of date palms and mud huts - a slippery narrow but sealed road - an overturned Toyota.

Sitting in a hotel near the border with weird people wandering around, Liz and I really felt worried for Rose's safety, so after locking Liz into our room I went down to the muddy street and waited for the next mini-bus, hopefully with Rose on it. In the mean-time I ordered some shish kabob being grilled over glowing coals. The coals were being stimulated into life by an electric fan, sending sparks flying - a heartening sight. I was as usual, surrounded by chatty locals. Two free teas later plus the usual offered cigarette I spotted Rose and got her into a room at our hotel. 

Not long before seeing Rose, an American from Baghdad youth hostel arrived, so Liz and I are going to eat with him. Rose doesn’t want to join us, she is in a bad way again and says she is too scared to go to the toilet by herself - she is lying on her bed and just informed us that she has taken ‘600 milligrams’ - of what we don't know - she is so pathetic really.

Wednesday 19 January 1972 - Tehran, Iran.
After Liz and I ate with the American guy, we went to bed and soon I heard Rose shouting. I said to Liz I have to see what’s wrong, and she said don’t you dare leave this room. Soon Rose’s voice was joined by Arab voices outside our door. A voice said he was the manager. Liz got up and opened the door. From the bed I could see the manager and lots of Arabs outside the door. Rose rushed in and jumped on top of me, pinning my arms under the blanket with her legs while yanking handfuls of my hair and screaming in my face - I thought she would surely yank my hair out - I shouted at Liz to get her off me which she did after a struggle from all three of us.

After Rose calmed down, she told us that she would be sleeping in our room, so Liz and I left her there and walked to a late night place down the road to drink coffee and talk about it. When we went back to the room Rose looked to be unconscious. She had written a note, and was lying on the bed with that note on top of her. It stated that she had taken “all” her pills. I said to Liz “Get her up”. We dragged her off the bed and around the room trying to revive her. When she recovered enough we took her by the arms and led her to the street café where we made her drink coffee one after the other.

We returned to our room to walk Rose up and down the floor - she was in a strange mood and kept trying to hit me and had another go at pulling my hair out - Liz slapped her to try and bring some sense to her - we couldn't keep her quiet from abusing us and it was some hours before we got any sleep. 

At 6am we all struggled down into the slushy street with the American (David) and found a car to take us to the border for Aus$1 (about 6 miles). At the border, and after the driver had to open the border barrier himself, we were greeted by a lone official dressed in pyjamas. No sign of any transport across no-man's land to the Iran frontier just visible 2 miles away across the desert. 

We started sliding through the clayey mud with the weight of our bags. At least it was a good chance to observe the surrounding country - it looks like one huge construction site - strange mounds of reddish clay about 30-50ft high rounded and conical.

We managed to find some patches of grass to walk on along the way - the first half mile was O.K. for me but after that I had to stop every 50 yards. Amazingly it took only a little over 1 hour to reach Iran passport and customs but the last 100 or so yards were difficult. I had LIz's suitcase as well as my own plus the airline bag - no vehicles came through during our crossing - it's not surprising as the border is closed for Iranians and Iraqis apparently because of Iran’s seizure of the Persian Gulf Islands. 

It was somehow civilizing to arrive at the Iran border, where we were met by armed soldiers immaculately dressed - no pyjamas here no, it’s more formal, with portraits of the Shah watching over officials in military uniform at their desks. 

Suddenly I remembered being told how in Iran they don’t muck about if they find drugs on you, they just take you out the back and shoot you. We were actually having our bags searched as I remembered Rose giving me the cholera vaccination in Damascus, and asking me to keep the syringe in my bag in case I needed another vaccination. There was nothing now I could do except freeze, thinking about my trusting foolishness, and maybe this time I would pay the ultimate price. Oh God, please give me another chance to learn. The officer searched every bag, but not my airline bag. I considered myself saved from my innocent stupidity yet again.

We were lucky we had obtained visas in Istanbul. About the only people allowed to cross between Iran and Iraq at the moment are pilgrims heading to Mecca for the Moslem 'Christmas.' 

We caught a taxi, I threw the syringe out the window as soon as I secretly could. In the first town we were literally shoved into a waiting bus and after cruising around town with the driver shouting for more passengers, headed for the next big town about 3 hours away through mountains capped in snow. Soon snow was blanketing everything.

The usual stops by army police who would check inside the bus. A lot of troops, as there were on the Iraq side as well, and a convoy of 8 tanks heading down the road towards us. 

In Hamedan (I think) we had to wait about 4 hours for the 6pm bus to Tehran so we walked up and down the main street looking at shops and for food in particular - hard to get anything to eat at that time of day. 

Rose put on another scene in the public street crying most of the time, begging me not to desert her and clutching onto my arm, abusing me one minute and saying how sorry she was the next.

She has been so strange over the past few days in particular, I was determined that travelling with us would be disaster and tried to convince her to fly from Tehran to Delhi and then on to New Zealand but there was nothing I could say that was any good. She has this fear that every man who looks at her wants to rape her and after actually leaving us to travel by herself in Syria is terrified to go to the toilet by herself?!! Does she expect me to hold her hand all the way home?

An uncomfortable 12 hour bus ride to Tehran - cramped seating that didn't recline and a gap between seats and back rest - in the dark I could sense fingers searching for valuables in my back pocket, but I have learnt to keep nothing valuable there. Difficult to sleep when you are tormented by a radio the driver insisted on playing from time to time through the loudspeaker system - I think the Persian music is even worse than the Iraqi and Syrian - it really sounds like a person crying out in pain! You had to have been born here to appreciate it I guess.

At six in the morning in Tehran we sheltered in a bus waiting room till daylight and went looking for a hotel. We settled on the 'Fars' close by. After a cleanup we found the post office and collected welcome mail - a meal of chicken and rice (70c) - caught a bus and eventually found the tourist office. From there to the main bank where Liz was able to collect the $150 sent by her dad from Australia and Rose was able to somehow buy travellers cheques. 

We went into a travel office, but I could not persuade Rose to buy a flight ticket home, she defeated me again - she is very intelligent.

Tehran is such a sprawling city - you travel for miles on a bus and there seems no change in the city - no mud on the streets and pavements which is a pleasant change for us - shops with beautiful clothes and shoes. 

The actual city of Tehran seems out of place in the East - it is a western type modern city with bright lights and fancy shops but seems to lack life - perhaps the cold doesn't help either – it’s a bit of a shock experiencing snow falling after the warmth of Baghdad. 

Two students started talking to us and invited us to their place for tea and nuts while they played some music on their record player for us. They wanted to take us to a dance but we were too tired, and knew we had to walk a fair distance back to the hotel, where we have a kerosene heater making life very comfortable for us tonight.

Rose is being really nice to us now, has been on her absolute best behaviour all day - I hope she does try because I would feel bad about her travelling through Afghanistan alone - she will surely get into deep trouble if she is alone in this part of the world . Is it her bravery or is it just plain stupidity when she leaves her legs uncovered in a country that forbids such a thing? Rose takes no notice of such beliefs, and while there is a part of me that admires her individuality, common sense says to just cover up and not offend anyone. Fortunately the days are now so cold she has to cover up anyway. 

No one can see the totality of what’s coming, but I made a big mistake if I gave Rose the impression in the beginning that I had any feelings for her, I never meant to do that, and if I did I am sorry for it, but I can’t love someone who turns out to be violent, although I have forgiven her for attacking me after I left her in Baghdad, I can understand her anger. 

It was wrong of me to leave her in Baghdad, but because Rose and Mary seemed to get on in Baghdad even after Mary left Rose back in Aleppo, I had at that time the false impression that I too could leave Rose without repercussions, but I was wrong. I won’t leave her again because I don’t want to feel guilty again, and perhaps if I stay with her I won’t suffer any more abuse. The day will come when our time together will end, everything does, and I can’t wait for that to happen. I can’t think of any more curious aspect of love than the person who wants it punishing the one who won’t give it. To me it is a cry to be believed gone wrong. The abuser hurts the person they love in order to let them know how much they are suffering without them. I am not going to play that game.
 

Thursday 20 January 1972 - Tehran, Iran.
After a welcome sleep we caught the bus to the Afghanistan Embassy and filled in 3 visa application forms. We walked past modern shops, then bus 103 to the post office where Liz wanted to make a phone call to her parents to tell them she had received the money they sent O.K. but it costs $15 for 3 minutes so she sent a $9 telegram instead.

A meal of steak and rice for 60 cents (good) in a restaurant near the hotel that we have been using for every meal - Tehran has an amazing shortage of restaurants and generally places to buy any kind of food, in fact with all our walking around I haven't noticed any other restaurants (crazy!) but it demonstrates how few tourists come here - lots of pastry shops but we haven't had much success with our pastry buying - the cream is more like tasteless pudding but the biscuits are nice.

For some reason my appetite has increased amazingly over the last few days, my digestive system is better than it has been for a month so I must be on the mend. We all still have coughs and wake up each morning talking to each other by barking. Having a cold for a month, I bought some vitamin C. tablets plus nose drops and cough drops in an effort to improve. We all need to be rested and in better health before heading through Afghanistan and Pakistan, Indian areas. 

Saturday 22 January 1972 - Tehran, Iran.
Yesterday, Friday, being a holiday, was a quiet, cold day in Tehran. We walked a long way to the train station to find out about trains to Mashad in eastern Iran. This was a poorer part of town towards the bazaar - a group of women washing in the street around a tap - a man being shaved by an unshaved barber on the footpath.

The bazaar was deserted as we had feared, so walked by a blue mosaic mosque with the usual few old men praying in corners of the courtyard. We returned to the hotel and I fell on the bed exhausted and depressed. 

Liz and Rose went out to buy something and came back with a cigar and tablets for me - they are thoughtful. During their walk they had been accosted several times – it’s not safe for western women here. 

A local chap who seemed very nice when we met in a restaurant, had offered to take us all to a dance last night - I didn’t want to get out of bed at the time so Liz and Rose went with him - they flung themselves on my bed and indeed me at 2.am after a difficult night - it was a great disco but he expected them to pay for everything (taxis, food, drinks) and danced with them in a suggestive way. 

They had got away and tried to get a taxi - getting one just in time to avoid being hit by him and then on the way back the driver and his passenger attempted to molest them - no respect for women here - I think somehow men here believe that all western women have loose morals, and probably some do compared to downtrodden and controlled Iranian women. 

What kind of society is it that continues to make half the population subordinate? Perhaps they think women are not quite as human as men?

I hope Liz and Rose don't attempt to go anywhere at night without me anymore. Even during the day if they are not holding on to my arm they are pinched or touched up in some way. I'll turn around to see a man talking to one of them and some are really hard to shake off. 

Liz slides through Tehran

Today it was beautiful to see the snow blanketing everything - it sure covers a multitude of sins making even old buildings romantic. We dashed with Liz and Rose sliding along (I was glad of my deep tread Spanish boots) and sometimes hanging onto me, to the bank for more money and then to the Afghanistan Embassy to pick up our visas. 

The buses were few and far between because of the weather, and taxis were impossible to get so we hitched a ride part of the way. We stopped a mail van heading towards the post office and paid him about 10 cents each to cart us (me in the back with the mail) to the post office. 

It was a real rush and by the time we returned to the hotel it was too late to catch the train to Mashad , so we booked in for another night. 

After resting a while we trudged up Ferdowsi Avenue to see the Iranian crown jewels. After paying Aus$1 entry fee we walked into a vault about 100 feet square and were absolutely dazzled by what must be the finest and richest collection of jewels in the whole world - it is said to be greater than those of England, Turkey and Russia combined. I have never seen such a wealth of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires in such a variety of settings - tiaras, necklaces, crowns, even a globe of the world about 3ft wide encrusted in jewels and a huge throne ablaze with precious stones - must be worth billions. 

Monday 24 January 1972 - Mashad, Iran.
Here we are in Mashad, one of the coldest places in Iran. Two days ago the temperature here was apparently -16° F (-26C). It's absolutely freezing here now as we sit around a kero heater in our room. 

Yesterday in Tehran with snow still falling we piled into a mini-van, an Iranian student friend and me in the back, and waited in a long queue at the station. A kind official called Liz out of the queue, took her back to the ticket office and gave us seats - otherwise we would not have been able to get on the train. We left at 12.30pm and arrived in Mashad which is the end of the railway to the east from London at 8.am this morning - a 19½ hour trip. 

It was 3rd class for about Aus$4 each on wooden seats in a surprisingly comfortable and warm train - sat on my sleeping bag and later spread it out in the isle along with the Iranians, and after becoming used to people jumping over me, gained a few hours’ sleep.

From what I could see, nothing but driving snow and wastes all the way. At Neyshabur (I think) in pre- dawn darkness we pulled into a modern looking station where I was amazed to see rows of taps over troughs. When the train stopped, practically everyone rushed out into the freezing cold, rolling up sleeves and taking off shoes all in the snow to wash, before a few quick prayers in the mosque while the train waited 20 minutes. In the meantime our Iranian friend and I dragged Liz and Rose sliding up and down the icy platform to the stares of the Iranians. 

We stepped out all rugged up into a surprisingly modern station at Mashad and were guided by bus then taxi to a hotel where we left our bags and checked out the buses to the border - our worst fears were realised - no buses. 

We returned and found a cheaper hotel (50 cents) and spent the rest of the day trying to ward off people trying to sell us turquoise and Persian carpets (both local industries). 

There’s a beautiful golden domed mosque here, but were not allowed past the gate. It really is a fairy-land of snow here and with the sun appearing this afternoon there is hope that the buses will be running tomorrow. 

Our room in Mashad, Iran - Rose, Liz, and friend from Tehran.

We've just returned from shish kabob and fried eggs - an icy walk (or run) to the restaurant and back through head high corridors of snow, scarf wrapped around my face but still getting sharp pains in my chest with every breath - I'm sure it’s not 16°F below as before but it's cold enough for me. Our heater ran out of fuel earlier and rather than paying another 15 cents for more fuel tried to do without but about an hour later gave in, shivering even in bed with all our clothes on.

The windows of our room are iced up but we're fairly comfortable and gaining straight backs again on rigid beds.

Tuesday 25 January - Islam Qala.
Who would believe the scene here as I write in a dingy eating room on the Afghan side of the border - Afghans rushing around getting chai (tea) plus rice and potatoes - nothing else to eat, but at least we are now in Afghanistan.

Joe in Eastern Iran
 

Earlier we left Mashad in a comfortable bus towards the border through wastelands of snow. 

We transferred into a mini-bus to the actual border on the Iran side where I stepped into a bog of ice and mud making feet colder than normal - a large group of friendly young Japanese guys on the bus. 

In a kind of waiting room getting through passport control, a German fellow came over to us and asked me if I'd drive one of his covered trucks 10 miles across no man’s land to the Afghan border. Strangely enough, I didn't hesitate to agree although I suppose he could have waited for someone else to arrive. 

Without asking questions I jumped in the truck with Rose and wrestled with the heavy-duty gears, pedals and steering. We drove totally alone without other traffic on a straight road through the now dark desert to the Afghan border, while Liz stayed with the bus, the Jap boys and luggage. I have no idea what my cargo was and didn’t ask.

Chaos here at Islam Qala finding a room in this Afghan border town, where we were directed to a building that could best be described as a shack out the back - no toilets or water, so a 50 yard trek needed through the snow to go and do the business in the open and freezing air, needing to stand between one of the girls and our building across the snow to give them some kind of privacy. 

A few sticks of wood costing 20 Afghanis (about 25 cents) in our cold cave of 3 beds, a stove, and nothing else in a room charged at 40 Afghanis each - we must ask for more wood as they haven't been over-generous. It is like a flat wasteland of white here, so haven’t a clue where the wood comes from.

                                 Our hotel on the western border of Afghanistan

Wednesday 26 January 1972 - Herat, Afghanistan.

We spent the rest of the last night with other young travellers in another hotel (which had electricity). They were leaving Afghanistan and eating up their hash cakes before entering Iran - it passed the time away. They had bunked down on the floor much cheaper, but had the irate, scruffy looking hotel manager rushing in and out saying ‘Give me money’ his favourite English words - accusing people of not paying for chai or wood. 

We had just about burnt all the wood so we sat down blocking up the corridor and threatened not to move until he gave us more - it worked. We've found you have to be so persistent here to get anything. In the meantime the lights were dimming up and down until they went out altogether, so we used lanterns. 

There was a hassle getting through customs and police next morning with the most untrustworthy looking border people I've ever seen. We handed the man behind the desk our carefully obtained visas which he immediately and without looking at them, slung over his shoulder onto the mountain of papers already on the floor. 

We piled into a mini-bus with wooden seats and headed off at a top speed of about 20 miles per hour, having to almost stop every mile or so to slide through corridors of snow or cross muddy steams - a really lifeless looking country, stretching through nothing towards the U.S.S.R. in the north and Afghan mountains in the south. A ragged Afghani wandering along these wastes to where who knows - maybe to the cluster of mud huts we would see from time to time. What do these people live on? Perhaps the flocks of sheep or goats near these lonely dwellings. A few camels dotting the landscape made the scenery a little more interesting. 

We stopped for chai and food (for those game enough to have it), at what could be described as the worst eating place yet. Outside, a man drawing water from a well, another washing in a puddle - inside, a dark and dirty room of two dusty tables and the smell of a public convenience - a facility that they didn’t have. As I walked round the back to look for what didn’t exist, there were 4 men squatting around in the desert. The people in this part of the world have the advantage of using their robes to cover themselves at such times - and to think I have been complaining about the fact that no hotel from Istanbul onwards had supplied any loo paper - at least there was somewhere to go. 

I am trying not to be critical or to sound superior - this is just the reality forced on these long suffering people.

Some mountains looked even beautiful as they were surrounded by a blanket of mist, however visibility was reduced when we entered the mist further on. Arrival at Herat was not a pleasant experience as we seemed to be entering a grotto of mud hills and huts along a slushy pot-holed road lined by a few rubbishy pine trees. We dragged off our luggage to be greeted by the usual “Change money, cheap hotel”, and so on. We soon found it best to walk on the road as the footpaths are a quagmire of mud and dung, as transport is mainly by horse-drawn vehicles. 

Rose suddenly said she'd left a bag on the bus, which had already left us - she and I ran down the road, catching up with the bus, and bag. In all this depressing poverty it was uplifting to find honesty. The banks we find are closed for 3 days as this is the Afghan ‘Christmas’. I was able to change only 3 U.S. dollars cash on the black market, they won't take travellers cheques here. We booked on a bus to Kabul, the capital right away in the hope of better services there but they are not leaving tonight, so after more arguing we have a free hotel room plus wood for the fire - it looks like a cold night but it could never be as cold as Mashad. 

Friday 28 January, 1971 - Kabul, Afghanistan.
We caught up again that night in Herat with the group of Jap guys. I joined them in a room to smoke hash, which they had never done before. Pretty soon one of them started laughing, which only encouraged the rest of them and soon the whole lot of them were rolling around the floor unable to stop laughing. I have never seen anything like it, a crazy out of control night.

Too tired to write last night after an exhausting bus ride from Herat to Kandahar over a bumpy road taking all day 13 hours. The bus broke down several times and at one stage near dusk - most of the Afghanis left the bus and lay down in the desert nearby to pray - we weren't sure if it was the usual time or if it was a prayer for the bus to start. By the end of the day we had become used to the locals piling in and out with their cloth sacks of possessions. No water at the hotel in Kandahar and the only food to be found at that time being cold rice, I went straight to bed rubbing life back into cold feet. 

I thought yesterday's bus was bad until today's. We were hauled from sleep about 7.am and trudged down the muddy street into the worst bus I've ever ridden in ever. Like yesterday's bus, rock hard seats and suspension but with some panes of glass missing or broken giving a cool ride to say the least as we travelled through snow the whole day. 

Soon after leaving Kandahar we broke down so I had to get out and help push start it. Soon it started snowing but as the bus has no windscreen wipers a man opened a window over the driver and proceeded to scrape the snow away with an implement on route - in the meantime we were being blasted by freezing winds and whirling snow - eventually someone shoved a piece of clothing in the space while he took turns with another to operate the makeshift windscreen wiper.

It wasn't long before there was a loud bang and the bus began to lurch around on the slippery road - the driver calmly brought the vehicle to a halt and one of the rear tyres (worn to the canvas) was replaced. I took a photo of them changing the tyre - they didn’t like me taking it.

Changing the tyre on an Afghan bus.

It's hard to describe the atmosphere of travelling on an Afghan bus - firstly the seats are rock hard and so narrow that it is necessary to sit sideways sometimes as you'd be half on the floor if you didn't. 

Secondly the bus is airy as I have described earlier and filthy dirty added to by the spitting all over the place by the Afghanis - a habit which is really beginning to get me down. To add to this there was a terribly under-privileged looking old woman and child on the seat behind us today who didn't leave the bus all day - the result was a sea of wee running over the floor - it may be hard to believe but these are really primitive people here. 

Last night an old man who had earlier been kindly offering us eggs to eat was grabbing at Rose's legs in the dark, or so she said, who knows - the amount of people they can cram in these buses is incredible - no time for manners, just push and stamp on you in order to squash in with their usual sacks of poverty - one man today brought in a live chicken and invited Liz to nurse and pat it. Liz has teamed up with one of the Jap guys, a nice boy named Sap.

Liz and Sap pat a chicken on the bus
 

My feet, which are constantly cold these days began to pain increasingly as we forged on - they were like ice to the touch almost up to the knees and I had to keep standing up to exercise my legs and to try and force my toes to move - painfully, but necessary. 

Most times today there was no horizon - just snow blending into a ceiling of white mist. Practically no traffic - as night fell I hoped and prayed the bus would keep going - the least we would get would be frostbite staying out there waiting for help probably 'till the next day.

Yesterday while the bus was broken down I walked to the side of the road for a pee but had all the Afghanis looking and laughing - because when they go they assume a sitting, almost praying position so it must be unusual to see a man standing up and open about it - they get a laugh out of the most ordinary things - and to think I used to believe they were praying... 

                          Joe on the road to Kabul

Rose today pointed out a man in the bus who she said had V.D. It’s a worry coming into contact with all these diseases and I sure hope we get out of all this without bringing home an unwanted souvenir. 

Liz was one of the first out of the bus tonight in Kabul just in time to see my suitcase flung from the top of the bus - we were angry and made sure the rest came down O.K. but what could I say - they really have no respect for anything here. Luckily only a corner is bent in as it landed in the mud. 

We trooped off being hassled by people wanting to carry suitcases and trying to literally drag us to their hotels. Liz hit one who tried to grab Rose's case and tried to get one who was bothering me but he cleared out in time. 

We left our bags with the Japanese boys who have been with us more or less since the border while Rose and I checked out some hotels - we settled on The Metropol at Aus$2 per night for 3 persons which is expensive for this part of the world, but we're promised free heaters and hot water laid on. 

However, when we arrived back with our friends and luggage there was an argument with the manager whom unknowingly we had not spoken to previously - we threatened to walk out so we have our room at the original price but no free heater, plus Liz has just had a shower about half an hour ago and there seems to be a delay in the water heating up for the next shower.

We really thought it would be great here but it further goes to show that you can't trust people anywhere. Anyhow, we've had a good feed here and hopefully after a hot shower, a good rest will do no harm.

                         View from our hotel in Kabul

Saturday 29 January 1972 - Kabul, Afghanistan

We are used to muddy cities and Kabul is no exception - better to walk on the street to avoid the quagmire of most pavements. No skyscrapers in this capital city - simply a mixture of western type hotels and black run down looking shops crammed with Afghan coats - the rage at the moment. 

Today I must have looked and tried on hundreds of colourfully stitched leather coats - it’s amazing how expert you can become at depicting flaws in these coats after a time. I'll look at more tomorrow but must buy one. They are such good value in this poor country - however, I bargained for and bought hand stitched slippers (Aus$2) and jacket (Aus$3).

Today we found that flights to India have just re-commenced after stopping for two months so perhaps the delays encountered during our journey from London were for a good purpose after all.

We hope to fly to New Delhi the day after tomorrow - it costs about Aus$60 but well worth it from what we hear of the dangerous happenings in Pakistan. One American girl said she saw people at the border shot for not supplying identification which I find hard to believe, but I know that things are far from wonderful in Pakistan. 

The far border between Pakistan and India is definitely closed so if we want to head further east there seems to be no alternative but to fly out from here. We have seen war scenes posted outside the newspaper office here in Kabul and judging from the bodies and destruction I will try to avoid these problem areas at all costs. 

Luckily I have enough money to fly out as long as there are planes flying - not like some Europeans stranded here and have been for months waiting to get into India and subsisting on what? There are so many bedraggled looking young people stranded here mostly in dirty torn clothes. 

Believe me it is such a shattering experience when you are approached by a westerner like yourself begging for money - it had such a depressing effect on me today when I was asked for 10 Afghani (about 10 cents). He said that it wasn't much to me but it would mean a lot to him. I really don't know how I have become so hard hearted because I gave him nothing except a cup of tea. I felt like buying him a meal which would have cost a lot more but he looked well feed so I walked away. 

Maybe I'm just so tired of being asked for money all the time. Liz tells me she was asked for 2 Afghani (3 or 4 cents) by an English fellow also - it just seems so desperate when people reach such a low standard of existence.
 
Travellers just like us come up to you when you are eating and ask you to leave something on your plate for them. It is the fact that they look like us and seem part of us that make it so distressing.    

We had previously been given the name of a German fellow who would help us get an International Student Card - illegal but handy for reductions on trains - no good anymore for air-fare reductions - the major airlines have become wise.  

I checked around with Rose and eventually tracked him down in a dingy room crowded with other hippies smoking hash. I paid Aus$1.50 for a card while the hash was passed around. They were far from clean but so was the room - walls covered in the scrawl of musings and art works, floors covered in the signs of human habitation, or to put it in other words - rubbish, which we had to wade through. How could these people live like this in this place? I was shown a small plastic packet with two small wafers inside - L.S.D. and enough for two 'trips'. I was told it was from the U.S. and about how wonderful it was costing only 75 cent each trip. I said we didn’t want it but Rose bought it anyway.   

Glad to conclude the Student Card business and get out. I wish these people would do something about the mess that their lives must be and get out too. I felt like saying this to the traveler who asked me for money today but was too scared to say it. It’s not only Afghans, there are so many Europeans who should and need to get help here but somehow I feel that it's no value worrying about them anymore as most seem to be resolved to the situation. At least they know they are not alone, it’s like a brotherhood of suffering here.

Perhaps they have no-one from their home country willing to help them with money? Their future is bleak - I'm just so fortunate to be getting out.

After an uncomfortable night last night I demanded (politely of course) another mattress plus we now have the free heater originally promised. It really is worth the extra bit to live in a clean hotel with the basics - water, heat and a comfortable bed - we are so fortunate. 
 

Monday 31 January 1972 - Kabul Airport, Afghanistan.
I'm writing this in the Ariana Airlines plane waiting to take off from Kabul Airport to New Delhi. I was with my friends at the airport check-in when for some reason I was selected, and hauled away by men in uniform. An officer led me to a separate room where everything was opened, inspected and probed - my bags and my body, humiliating stuff. I am still a shaking mess after it, and so angry that people in these places can seemingly do whatever they like to you. The whole forensic search gets more ridiculous with the knowledge that just outside the door the whole country is riddled with drugs and no one seems to care, in fact it’s the only trade that keeps many people alive here, as rotten as it all is. They may also have thought I was a hijacker connected with the India-Pakistan war - who knows or really cares, it’s over and I am back with my friends again on the plane. Two compensations, I saved my photos - he let me rewind my film before he opened the camera, and he didn’t find anything inside the tin of sardines he opened. I had carried that tin for a long time, so I asked if I could now eat the contents, which he permitted.

Officials seem to think poorly dressed people with long hair must be drug addicts or terrorists, and I know I could possibly avoid being mistreated if I smarted up my image, but I don’t want to do that in these countries because I don’t want to attract robbers or worse - people who think I might be worth bowling over. I always remember the story my dad told me of his step-father Dr. Bridgford, a strong man who looked like a cripple because he used a walking stick - a result of having been badly injured during his service in the Boer War. One evening in London, two thugs tried to rob him thinking he was an easy target, but later when asked to identify them, Dr. Bridgford advised the police to look out for two young blokes with black eyes.

The girls and Sap didn’t have anything happen to them. They thought I was going to miss the flight and indeed in my confusion after the search I went through the wrong gate and almost took the flight to Tashkent in the Soviet Union.

Yesterday I made no entry in this diary as I was exhausted after looking at hundreds of Afghan coats in many shops - because I was mainly interested in getting one for Primrose - my youngest sister. I had Rose trying them all on, and finally settled on one but had a desperate struggle haggling about the price - they weren't sure of the exchange rate of Sterling and I wanted to pay them in pound notes, (we have just taken off) so I had left there very disappointed. Today I got up at 7.am and waited for him to open after borrowing an extra dollar from our Japanese friend Sap. He accepted the extra dollar O.K. and I felt the happiest person in the world to be getting what I think is such a good coat for Aus$14. (That coat was later confiscated at Sydney airport, because it was made from animal skins, however they allowed me to have it forwarded to Ros Attwood in England, which she later received.)

Outside the shop I grabbed a taxi, picked up Rose, Liz and Sap at the hotel, dashed to the airport and after customs, police, medical, and of course the search, we gladly bordered our jet to get away to India and what we hope will be a better and at least warmer chapter in our journey.

Tuesday 1 February 1972 - New Delhi, India.
One and a half days in India and I love it already. We stepped out of our Ariana Airlines 727 yesterday into sunshine and warm air - friendly and civilized people everywhere in immigration and customs all speaking English beautifully - in fact many Indians here seem to speak English among themselves. 

We took the free bus into the city and after inquiring at American Express found what must be the cheapest accommodation in New Delhi - Mrs. Thelma Colago’s Guest House at 7 rupees (75 cents) per night - its clean and we can lock up our room of 4 beds - a cold shower area but who cares in this warm climate. 

We've done nothing specific today except stroll around New Delhi's wide tree lined streets - we changed money and stacked up on literature from the tourist office. No mail for me at the post office. Liz and Rose caught a mini-type taxi when we lost our way back to the centre of town - these mini-taxis are basically a motor bike converted with a bit of leather and metal to carry 2 passengers.

There is a greater British influence here than I could ever have imagined - all signs and advertising is in English and everyone seems to speak it. The Indians here are always so polite and helpful. We've been eating cheaply and well but the service is very slow, the girls getting a little impatient - in fact the Indians seem to be a much more placid race than those of the previous Asian countries.

It’s also nice being able to converse politely with the locals and be understood rather than using sign language and having to demand things. I had a wake-up call on our first Indian restaurant visit - something was missing and I yelled out across the restaurant for it - immediately the Indian customers all looked at me, and it dawned on me that I was not in Afghanistan now.

I bought a small peacock feather fan for 25 cents. The curry so far not too hot just as long as you have a coke or cup of tea handy - the tea here is the best since England - they even serve milk to have with it as well – in fact it’s just so British here it's like civilization again - they don't like Americans after their attitude during the recent war with Pakistan so I am quick to say I’m from Australia.

Sap, Liz, and Rose at one of our favored restaurants in New Delhi

The only ones that annoy are the beggars and street sellers but even these are tolerable after previous experiences.

We met a student who thinks western women are decadent - he had visited the U.S. A. Compared with Indian women I guess they are decadent if Indian girls are as virtuous as he describes - it makes me wonder what they think when they see groups of boys and girls like us travelling together. I also wonder if our student friend was hinting to find out if one of us was interested to team up with him.

I've seen some beautiful Indian women today, and they really know how to dress well in those colourful saris - perhaps it’s also because you can see goodness and honesty in their faces. They probably have to be faithful wives anyway because there is no other choice in a man’s world. 

     New Delhi’s stray puppies are fair game for Liz 
 

We went to the main train office to get our International Student Cards validated for Indian railways, and handed them over to a gentleman behind a large desk, who took one look at our cards and threatened to call the police. He shouted that we were breaking the law by attempting to use fake cards. It was quite a show, and it made me wonder how many times he has done this kind of performance already. We left quickly, my criminality finally dawning on me. The LSD Rose bought at the same time from that same German man in Kabul was also fake. What a clever business that German has, selling fake products to travelers unlikely to return and complain. I see it all now, what a fool I was to fall for it.

Joe’s International Student Card (fake)

Almost forgot to mention that Rose and I went to the cinema last night to see a Western - it was boring, but before it there was a documentary about discrimination against a certain sect in India and how all these old-fashioned discrimination barriers should be removed if India is going to pull together to make a better and modern society. After its conclusion everybody clapped which goes to show how keen people are to improve themselves here.

Wednesday 2 February 1972 - New Delhi, India
Rose and I caught a scooter-taxi to the Thai Embassy - a fair ride past magnificent government buildings, probably built by British architects, and then further past large and impressive embassies in spacious tree lined grounds. We found a visa unnecessary provided we stay less than 6 days in Thailand.

When we walked out of the embassy we were greeted by a palmist who told our fortunes for about Aus$2 in about 20 minutes - a fair profit for this part of the world, however, we didn't mind being 'taken' as we have been looking forward to meeting a palmist somewhere. I am to have two wives, an improvement in my profession in 4 months and inherit a property in a few years. He said I had one eye like a snake and one eye like a tiger, likely to flare up momentarily but calm down quickly - in fact he said plenty of nice things about us which naturally he says to everybody. 

We walked back past the embassies and government buildings - had a good Chinese meal for Aus$1 each and located the Nepalese embassy where we hope to pick up a visa next Saturday. Their King died a few days ago so the embassy is closed for a few days.  

There is a raging black market here - today it was 25 rupees to the pound sterling while the bank remains around 18 to the pound. At this difference everybody uses the black market although it is illegal to do so - apparently when you leave the country you must show receipts for money changed so guess I'll have to change some more in the bank sometime.

It’s so easy to use the black market - walking in the streets you hear a voice behind you saying “Hashish?  Change money”? The moment you look, you are committed and will never get away. Following our man, we are usually led to a shop with an innocuous name such as ‘Joe’s Dry Cleaners’. Inside, there are signs of business, but our man leads us straight through another doorway to where the real action happens, and we come face to face with a man behind a desk. There are no displays of currency rates or anything else because this is an illegal business. 

After a word or two of welcome, it’s down to business and with the acknowledgment that we are here to change money, and then it’s just a question of “What do you want to change U.S. Dollar Pound Sterling Cash Travel Cheque?”. My response is usually “How much for U.S. Dollar cash today? - Oh no that is too low what about Pound Sterling cash?” And so on. The funny thing is that all this heavy bargaining usually leads to only a few dollars or pounds changed, but everyone is happy, business has been done.

The British influence can be seen in the many comfortable old mansions in spacious grounds, many no doubt now occupied by wealthy Indians. Just looking around New Delhi, the huge amount of money Britain must have returned into this country is visible. I guess the British thought they would be here forever. 

At night many of the roadside stalls are occupied by sleeping people and not much remains open after dark. The weather is beautiful but there doesn't seem to be many tourists here - perhaps the current war with Pakistan scared them off. 

Liz rang her parents for more money and Rose somehow obtained more travellers cheques - my finances seem to be going well - I've learnt how to handle money a lot better in the past 8 months I'm sure. Hunger has been striking again so I've been buying cakes and biscuits plus fruit - pawpaw and bananas are cheap here.

Friday 4 February 1972 - Agra, India
Writing now on the train returning from Agra to Delhi. Yesterday was a bit of a flat day for me - after a succession of poor nights’ sleep I woke up feeling weak and terrible so went with Rose to the doctor who said I was physically OK and gave me some vitamin syrup and tranquillisers. 

Returning to the guest house and feeling short tempered I had an argument with Liz and got into bed while Liz, Rose and Sap went to see Old Delhi. They returned that night but I had been only able to get about 1 hour of sleep and spent the rest of the time more or less in a daze. 

Rose had come back with some barbiturate sleeping pills not normally obtainable without a prescription so I took these but no effect so more of the ordinary sleeping pills I've been taking. I went for a walk with Rose to have coffee and returned getting to sleep easily. 

This morning I dragged myself out with the others at 6.am and walked to the train station - I really felt woeful and felt I couldn't make it, let alone enjoy the day. I longed to turn back but was in such a daze that I wasn't sure what was happening - who cares about the Taj Mahal when all you can think about is getting home to Australia alive.

We had breakfast on the train which I can hardly remember. I felt nauseated and had a desperate need to go to the boys club - after which I more or less collapsed on Rose's lap and slept for 1½ hours, after which I felt much better.

Today was truly worth all the pain and effort of its beginning for I saw some of the most magnificent and pure architecture that I'm sure I could ever see. 

By bus we went first to Fatehpur Sikri, an almost perfectly preserved city of deep red stone about 400 years old but lived in for only 16 years through lack of water. The Diwan-I-Khas looked like a temple but inside in the centre was an ornate pillar which spread out at the top into 4 directions like the branches of a tree - the central column embossed with figures from each faith showing one supreme truth. 

In the vast courtyard of the mosque there is a small but beautiful while marble mausoleum with intricately designed marble screens and a canopy inlaid with mother-of-pearl. 

We left to have lunch - we were late and missed the bus so hired a rickshaw and caught up to the party at the Red Fort, a massive construction holding many beautiful marble buildings and mosques. An octagonal tower with columns inlaid with semi-precious stones overlooking the Taj Mahal and the river where the Emperor in his last days was able to look towards the tomb of his wife from whom he had in the end been separated for 36 years. 

So much lovely architecture - except for a pit at least 100 feet deep where many were thrown. 

From the fort to the incomparable Taj Mahal - purity and simplicity could only begin to describe its beauty. It took 20,000 labourers, masons and jewellers 12 years to complete the central mausoleum using a 2 mile long ramp to the dome. Although the Empress was buried in a vault beneath the floor of the mausoleum an exact replica of her tomb was placed above so that she would not be disturbed below. She is buried directly beneath the dome while her husband is placed beside her in a slightly larger tomb, both covered in flower designs of semi-precious stones. The intricate marble screen surrounding the tombs is not the original - it was once gold inlaid with precious stones but was removed for fear of vandalism and theft. 

             Joe and Liz at the Taj Mahal 

Sunday 6 February 1972 - New Delhi, India

The cistern has been annoying me in our guest house because of it not flushing properly so I set to work and used bits of an old aluminium frame of a broken pack I found in an effort to get it working. I had one of the Indians working here looking on in amazement as I bashed away with bits of wood or anything I could find. The others returned from breakfast and seemed a little disgusted to see me still mucking around with it but I felt I was doing something constructive. It has had to have several adjustments but seems to be going OK now. 

We walked to the Nepal Embassy and filled in visa forms and we hope to collect our visas tomorrow. Rosemarie is running out of time being due home on the 20th so spent the time rushing around airline agencies while I looked at Indian goods. I bought a fine silk scarf embroidered with gold thread for Aus$14. Cousin Pat is a great scarf wearer and hope she will like it.

Rose and I talked to two Australians over coffee milk shakes making me feel more inspired about returning home - just talking to an Australian fresh from there makes me realise how much Australia has to offer. 

At night we took a taxi scooter to Old Delhi and the Red Fort where there was an excellent sound and light display tracing the history of India from Moghul times to the present day. I had no idea India had such a glorious past - they made it clear how much they didn’t like British rule. 

Today back to Old Delhi in daylight to see some of the most amazing and decrepit sights possible - diseased and thin people lying on the steps of the mosque - men catching pigeons and putting them in baskets and selling them (for food or pets?) Scooters, bikes, rickshaws, everywhere people in ragged clothes, cluttered run down shops, beggars, rotten fruit, junk jewellery, food stirred in pots and nobody minding me taking pictures of anything - so different to the middle east where I was afraid to take such scenes.

                           A street therapist in Old Delhi

A look at Mahatma Gandhi's memorial and nearby museum showing the life and times of this amazing man - it left me feeling weak when I realised what a great and yet so humble a man he really was - his policy of passive resistance against amazing odds, and persecution especially by the British, his love for his country and its under-privileged citizens. 

I'm sure the Indian people look on him now as a kind of saviour. He believed that rightful desires can only be obtained through peaceful (but determined) means even if it necessitates losing one's life in the process, which it eventually did for him. He was assassinated exactly 24 years ago this week.

Tuesday 8 February 1972 - Benares (Varanasi), India.
Another two-day entry in this diary - yesterday morning we picked up Kathmandu (Nepal) visas from the embassy near India Gate and searched through the government approved ‘Cottage Industries’ shop in Janpath Road buying beautiful ‘souvenirs’ - in my case ‘gifts’ from India. 

It would have cost almost half as much again if I had changed my money through the bank, so with the small amount I have changed in the bank I hope to get through customs without problems. When I entered India I was given a piece of paper on which the authorised bank makes an entry each time I change money - I have to show this form on leaving the country. 

No wonder there is a raging black-market, it’s so generous that you get the feeling India pays you for being here. I've changed Aus$12 in banks so here's hoping no problems at the border. 

After my buying spree Rose and I grabbed a taxi for the station after saying good-bye to Liz and Sap - I couldn't let Rose travel on Indian train by herself and besides I had seen enough of Delhi after a week though I could have stayed as it appealed to me. 

Liz should be OK with friend Sap until her money comes anytime, but if left on her own I strongly advised her to fly direct to Kathmandu where I could meet her. 

After just catching the 4.10.pm train (we almost hopped on the train to Bombay) we had a hard time trying to get a seat as we hadn't booked, and apparently it was necessary on this train. Some Indians were helpful in giving us room to sit on the wooden seats (3rd class) but after some hours travel we were taken off the train and had to walk up some unknown platform in darkness and scramble into a carriage at the other end of the train - this was far worse - rubbish and water on the floor, light so dim impossible to read and packed with people everywhere.

I somehow made a kind of bed for Rose by putting the bags on the end of the seat while the other occupant half sat up. I slept on the floor - perhaps slept is the wrong word but miraculously I was not trodden on and my sleeping bag kept me warm with the plastic ground sheet between bag and floor. 

Our destination was Benares or Varanasi as it is now called but we were hustled out at some junction station warding off taxi drivers wanting to take us to Benares while I found out about a train which would take us there soon leaving at 5.30am.

We located the goods train on platform 4 with a black carriage bang on the rear - it was empty and no lights would work but after some asking around were fairly satisfied the train would be going in the right direction. 

I realise now why women should never travel on these trains alone - it was eerie sitting in that dirty black carriage with bars over the windows and bricks to keep the doors shut while two suspicious men (but who wouldn't look suspicious) slipped in an sat down in our silently dark box car. 

I had been reading in a guide book that the bars are to keep unwanted characters from jumping on the trains - it said to make sure windows and door catches are fastened. We really couldn't say we've had any trouble but now I can really believe how easily bad things could happen. 

The sun was up by the time we moved on slowly for the 20 mile trip to Benares passing flat fields, mud and pools of water with the occasional Indian squatting near the railway lines, no conveniences here. 

Stepping out of Benares Station we were pestered by myriads of rickshaw drivers and in fact this has been the story of the whole day. We are paying twice as much for our hotel here as Mrs. Calacoe's Guest House in Delhi but we can get buckets of hot water which we sure need as we haven't washed clothes for over a week. 

I know we are being over-charged but didn't want to hassle over prices this morning. I guess our foam rubber mattresses alone are worth the extra.

A so-called guide introduced himself to us and although we knew he was up to something followed him through winding narrow old streets choked with bikes and rickshaws plus the usual interesting and varied populace - bits and pieces of temples mainly hidden behind broken down old buildings or billboards surrounding the famous Vishwanath Golden Temple - it kind of takes away any of the charm I expected to find in these old temples.

We were led into a silk shop on the pretense of being taken to the tourist bureau - we went along with it all for the fun and were shown dozens of gold embroidered silks (was it silk?) and far more expensive than the beautiful silk in Delhi. 

We dashed out when his back was turned to catch a rickshaw unsuccessfully, and after arduous dodging of similar vehicles and false directions found ourselves at the Tourist Bungalow. 

However, they were unable to help us with information, and after a Chinese meal of sweet and sour doubtful chicken we walked back over to the railway, booked our seats for tomorrow's train out and headed for the tourist bureau, still constantly harassed by rickshaw drivers on every side wanting us for tours and never giving up. 

We were offered 23 rupees to the pound on the black market (25½ in Delhi) so refused and as by this time the banks were shut (shut at 2pm) we visited the luxurious Clarks Hotel where we were able to change money legally. 

Greeted by the usual (and same) crowd of rickshaw loafers as we exited from Clarks, we escaped into the relative peace of the Protestant Church grounds where an Indian unlocked the church door. A plaque stating that the church was attended by Queen Elizabeth and the Duke in 1961. It is reputed to be one of the earliest English churches in India after Calcutta. 

Leaving there, we kept as far off the road as possible, ignoring the repeated cries of the rickshaw drivers. They all eventually left us as the hot red sun set across the railway tracks.

We relaxed in the security of our hotel after a meal in the attached restaurant of egg, curry and tandoori. Some of the Japanese boys we met in Afghanistan are staying in this hotel - it truly is amazing how many times travelers cross paths. 

Now I have to tell the man at reception we are leaving tomorrow so can he take care of our bags after we get up at 5.30.am for our sunrise boat trip down the Ganges, the main attraction of a visit to Benares, holy city of India (the day was actually a shambles from beginning to end!)

Friday 11 February 1972 - Near Kathmandu.
As I write, Rose and I are surrounded by small laughing Nepalese children - they appeared from nowhere and are all sitting side by side in a semi-circle around us. We have been admiring a view over a wide valley with some peaks of the Himalayas in the background. The reason for this is that we are waiting for our broken down taxi (which is a near new Russian built type of jeep) to be fixed. 

Jeep trouble

Nepalese children visiting us while our jeep has broken down

It has broken down somewhere between the Indian border and Kathmandu, and we have been waiting here in the middle of nowhere for about an hour while potential help has come and gone, but I wonder if we might be just out of petrol. 

It is 3 days since I last wrote - our second day in Benares started at 5.30am when we boarded a small raft with a handful of other tourists for a cruise down the Ganges at sunrise - no doubt the best time and way to see Benares, as the sun rose over the water, and out of the darkness emerged holy men sitting cross-legged praying in the rising light, people plunging into the comparatively warm water and even drinking the greenish-grey liquid, rubbing their stomachs in satisfaction. 

Our guide explained that despite the dead cow and dogs floating there the dead bodies dipped into it, the water contained plenty of sulphur and did them no harm!? A maze of temples and ghats - ones for washing, ones for cleaning (swimming) and ones of course for burning of the deceased.

       Benares from our boat on the Ganges 

Leaving our raft we visited various temples including the Golden Temple with a supposed ton of gold on its roof and ‘Monkey’ Temple with pestering monkeys clambering over its idols and rafters.

In the afternoon we returned through the usual crowded alleys to see a close up of the burning ghat - a terrible experience that only those hardened to this culture should witness. Plenty of mosquitoes so am glad to be taking malaria tablets just in case.

We met up with Liz and Sap arriving OK from Delhi. Rose and I were surely glad to board the train out of Benares that night. I never had such a struggle to get on a train in my life - a surge of people pushing and treading on each other to get a berth for the night's journey. Benares is a place where people come to die, so I interpreted the stampede as an indication that many had decided they didn’t want to.

Rose was very upset, shouting at people that this was no way to treat an ‘English’ lady. This made me upset and upset with her and her arrogance - however, it made me realise that Rose can actually take care of herself very well. 

After getting our respective berths we felt better. I told Rose to get in the top bunk saying it was safer for a woman up there but she wanted the lower one. This also meant I had to tie the bags around me on the top bunk for safety. Sure enough I awoke to hear Rose screaming that she was being molested. The commotion reached the conductor, who took Rose, and padlocked her in a wire cage with other women. Later in the journey I made my way to see how she was getting on - she was having an animated conversation with her lady companions, and ignored me. I was woken again at 5.am by the conductor who was leaving the train - he suggested that I watch our luggage as the train would be stopping a lot. It did, and with people in and out I was glad that I managed to stay awake. 

We crawled along through flat boring country until midday and changed trains after waiting about 3 hours on the platform. I've never ridden such a crowded train. We eventually managed to sit on our bags with miserable people all around - they reminded me of the old portraits of Australian aborigines with a cloth covering scaly brown skin and frail old bones. Fortunately most of the children seem well fed but the old ones seem to have given up or don't care any longer - as usual many beggars, they don't concern us anymore. A girl looked to be only just a young teenager feeding her baby - she seemed to have conjunctivitis and could hardly see I'm sure. When you leave Delhi you surely see the real India.

        Sagauli Junction - Rose talks with some Japanese travellers
 

Our first train had been an hour late so we missed our connections after that - we made the last one at the deserted looking Sagauli Junction (different track gauges) and arrived at Raxaul the border town about 2 hours later. We crossed over by rickshaw with myriads of pilgrims - it seemed we had struck another religious festival and they were all on their way to Kathmandu. 

Crossing over the border was a surreal experience for me. We were in separate rickshaws, and as we crossed the featureless plain in the fading glow of a yellow sunset, I became separated from the others. Not a sound except for the moving rickshaw, no-one and nothing to be seen in any direction, as if I was coming from nowhere and going nowhere endlessly. I just knew this was one of those moments that I would never forget.

The town on the Nepal border was inhabited by some of the meanest dogs yet. Luckily there were plenty of stones to keep them away. No room anywhere so we slept on a lobby floor for about 15 cents - by that time it was about midnight so after we had 5 hours rest had to search for a bus - it was difficult as the small town was crowded with people cramming to get on all the buses, trucks or whatever available. Eventually we paid about Aus$4 each for the ride to Kathmandu in the back of a Russian jeep. 

   We stop for food and a rest on the way to Kathmandu, the white Himalayas in the distance.
 

I had read that the road rises 6,000 feet in 100 miles and there are about 2,000 bends. We have been feeling sick most of the way with the bumpy road and bends every 50 or so yards. At last I could see what I thought was a wide stretch of white cloud stretching across the horizon, until it dawned on me that it was actually the incredible immensity of the snow-capped Himalayas. 

Crossing over a high pass, it felt as if we were the only ones in this world of jungle and breathtaking views. Our ill-fated jeep had slowed down over the pass, enough for it to be chased by small raggedly clothed children holding red bouquets of rhododendrons in their little hands. Where did these kids come from? They ran along so near me just behind the open back of the jeep calling out to us, arms outstretched to us with their flowers, but dropped back as the jeep pulled away - the red flowers, the white Himalayas, and the struggled look on their earnest little faces - I'll never forget it - for those few moments they really did try hard. I didn’t even throw out any money, no-one did - it was all over so soon.

We have been travelling since then near paddy fields and people working them. We are still waiting for help and it is getting so dark I can hardly see to write at all so must stop while we wait for help. Our visiting kids have long gone.

11.30pm. Before it broke down, Rosemarie and I had been squeezed into the back of the jeep with 3 Indian pilgrims and 3 hippies. When darkness came we tried stopping anything that came along, which were usually buses or trucks loaded with pilgrims. If they did stop, they would invariably say there was no room and drive off again. I'm sure most could have squeezed some of us on. 

Eventually the Indians and driver climbed into a truck (leaving us westerners to our fate), and about ½ an hour later a bus came and had room for 3 so the hippies hopped on that, leaving just Rose and me alone in the mountains. It was starting to get dark.

We were feeling desperate as it gets cold in the mountains at night. I thought soon I would need to find something to burn for warmth, but not this diary if I could help it. Two Toyotas appeared and although it was difficult to squeeze us and our bags in as they were loaded with pilgrims already, they fitted Rose in one and me in the other. 

About twenty miles and a bumpy pot-holed road later we were in Kathmandu - one of the drivers of the Toyotas spoke English - he is the manager of Toyota sales here and seems like a good bloke. When we arrived we thanked him profusely but he explained that he felt he had to fit us in somehow as he knew there was practically no traffic behind him, if any.

He stopped a taxi for us and we could tell he was warning the driver not to over-charge. As I've said before, it's the unexpected help from understanding people that means so much when travelling, or for that matter in just plain getting from day to day. 

The Toyota man had told the taxi driver to take us here where we have settled in comfortably into the Oriental Lodge Hotel at about 50 cents per night. 

Since having a cheese omelette, I'm ready for bed and a decent sleep for the first time in days. The water here is I have been told not the best, the fellow in the next room doesn't even clean his teeth in it he said - somehow I feel my system is toughened to this by now and haven't had much stomach trouble since Syria through being careful what I drink, I'm sure. Apart from my illness in New Delhi and one day in Benares things have settled down again it seems - perhaps Kathmandu will be a really good test. 

My mosquito bites are raised and itching on my hands and arm which usually does not happen - but there should be no worries if those mozzies are the malaria type as I am taking the malaria tablets.

Tuesday 15 February 1972 - Kathmandu, Nepal
We have been in Kathmandu 4 days since my last diary entry. I have tummy trouble but the mosquito bites cleared up. We never saw the jeep driver again, he might have been worried that we ask for a refund. 

For the first 2 days here I was very tired and spending the afternoons in bed. It rained on one of them so it was no real loss. I thought about what Mary told me in Baghdad, that Rose would eventually exhaust me. Yes I felt done in, while Rose hired a bike and looked around. She said she didn’t understand why I didn’t want to join her. 

It seems that I said and did, or not did, things which upset Rose. She gave me a full slap across my face in front of everybody in Kathmandu’s crowded main street, and later said sorry for it - the same old pattern, a violent outburst then another attempt to win me over. Rose again spoiled all the nice things she had done, such as her care for me when I was sick in New Delhi. She is not the first however to lash out when they don’t get what they think they are going to get from me.

The slap was a shock to me, because I had the arrogance to believe that the weeks I had spent caring for her was making a difference, but I was wrong. I would have been better off if I had put that effort into making myself a better person, and not worry about what others want to make of their lives. 

I failed to convert Rose from her storms, she also failed to convert me from the reticent person I am into the he-man she expected me to be. Sooner or later she might choose to have either a nice ordinary life or a battle, as she rushes with the rest of us to our shared final destination of nothingness. Anyway, it’s up to her. From today I’m moving on without her.

Now that Rose has left, I must not be too uncharitable to her. I learnt a lot about myself through our association, and will always be grateful to her for having that forced upon me. Her medical knowledge probably saved my life more than once. I will never forget her.

We said our formal goodbyes yesterday when Rose took the flight to Bangkok - and today Liz, Sap and self, hired bikes and rode a few miles out to a Buddhist temple on a hill overlooking Kathmandu valley. A priest squatting on the ground fascinated me by doing more things with paints, flowers, water, incense and powder than could be understood, chanting incantations and tossing rice at shrines of Buddha, which the local monkeys eagerly ate. 

         A man feeds monkeys at a temple on the outskirts of Kathmandu
 

Kathmandu is not as dirty as we had expected to find - yes, there are muddy streets and broken down houses but also wide spaces and mountain views. It reminds me of an overgrown country town. The people here look friendly and full of smiles, especially the children who are always playing games in the streets - from cards to hopscotch to just plain rolling old wheels around with a stick. 

Generally the people here look well fed even though obviously living in poverty - such a contrast to India where skin and bone is common. Perhaps it’s because the people here have more drive - they seem to be working at something where so many Indians seemed content to sit around and let life happen. But not everyone can get a chance in such an over populated country like India. 

Signs of communist China's influence are in everything here from clothing to utensils. The ‘Little Red Book’ by Mao Tse Tung (plus photo) was thrust into my hand at a Chinese propaganda bookstore - the book cost me about 5 cents. I bought it for fun but can't imagine following his principles! Make war not love seems to be the essence of it. This book is banned in Australia, so will have to think twice about bringing it home.

Being 6,000 feet above sea level the air here is clean and crisp. As I lay in bed a few nights ago I could hear every shrill note of a mouth organ player walking a long way down the street. 

I'm beginning to feel relaxed in this healthy climate. A highlight of my days here was a splurge on an early morning flight along the Himalayas. A breath-taking experience particularly when Mt.Everest appeared from behind drifts of cloud. We also went on a bus tour to a lookout but the weather was poor and views obscured - disappointing. 

This afternoon picked up reservations for LIz and self for the last chapter of our long journey - Bangkok - Singapore - Sydney. Such a relief to know that the ticket I bought in London works. I rode a few miles out the other side of Kathmandu to a Hindu temple but couldn't go in, not being a Hindu. 

I rode back on dusk ringing my bell at straying pedestrians, like everyone else. While on my bike riding adventures today I saw a bull being sacrificed - the crowd of kids gathered around soon took flight when the blood began to pour out, the executioner carried off its head. An Indian watching with me said he thought it was brutal. I agreed, knowing in my heart that I watched it anyway.
     
We have been eating well in a restaurant owned by an American woman working for the Peace Corps. Some guys there had a brick sized block of hash in front of them on the table - hashish is sold openly and legally here. This is the first time I've actually bought some, and from a shop storing it in glass lollipop jars. The shopkeeper would have soon switched from selling lollies for about a cent each, when he could sell the same size in hash for about $1 each, 100 times more money. I paid $1 for a golf ball sized lump of the best grade, most of which I will have to leave behind. 

Living in Kathmandu is like living again in an imagined medieval age, a fabulous experience.

Saturday 19 February 1972 - Bangkok, Thailand.
We've just had 3 hot days in Bangkok after a wonderfully relaxing trip here on Thai Airways from Kathmandu. I had 4 meals on the plane because LIz was feeling too sick to eat - the plane landed first in Calcutta but we were warned not to take any pictures. I was glad to not leave the airport and explore Calcutta - I don’t have the strength for more of the Indian sub-continent.

The ‘South East’ Hotel Bangkok was recommended by some Americans in Kathmandu and it is luxurious after the style of place we have been used to - swimming pool (I've been in it every day), air-conditioning, and restaurant attached, all for U.S. $3 each. The main clientele are American GI’s on leave from Vietnam and living it up in Bangkok, local girls in the corridors, it’s pretty wild here.

After we settled into our room at the ‘South East’, I enquired and found out Rose’s room number. She opened her door, saw us and went back to her mirror. Liz and I went into the room after waiting in vain to be invited in. Rose remained undisturbed in front of her vanity mirror, doing herself up, while we sat next to her on the bed. We tried to initiate a conversation but were told we would have to make it snappy as she was anxious to go out, and this was her last night in Bangkok. She said she was flying to Hong Kong, and then back home to Kiwi land. Suddenly Rose turned to face me and said “Give me your watch, I have missed knowing the time, and I don’t want to miss any last connections”. I said nothing, immediately taking off my watch and giving to her, thinking to myself that this was now the moment, the ending of everything. We then left Rose, wishing her a safe trip, there was no reply.

Bangkok is a huge sprawling city - hot and noisy and very American, but it is a pleasure just to be in civilization. Plenty of buses - a sweaty ½ hour ride to the city area from here although it’s really ‘city’ all the way, which means that you can’t really work out where you are half the time. 

The people here are the healthiest yet - men look fit and the girls are beautiful - they know how to dress in style! We saw Thai classical dancing while eating a scrumptious Thai meal one evening for Aus$6 - really worth it, and yesterday afternoon for the same price went for boat rides along the klongs (canals), firstly in a motor-driven canoe and then a barge where we had drinks and fruit.
 
We stopped off at a typical Thai farm house complete with family, water buffalo and ducks. Down canals so narrow we were scraping the water lilies along banks lined with palms and banana trees. I felt for a while like I was truly in paradise - like being on a tropical island - what a life that would be. I could even put up with the heat and that's no mean statement for we've had high humidity and feels like near century temperatures after Nepal where it gets to freezing point at night.

Liz not feeling the best - I don’t ask her if she misses Sap, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Sap helped me overcome my lifetime prejudice about Japanese people, and what they did in WW2. He gave Japan a kind human face, and I thank him for it. 

I looked over the Royal Palace grounds and surrounding gilt and gaudy temples - graceful but I prefer simpler architecture. Also the huge Reclining Buddha nearby with its gold leaf peeling off. 

Today we ambled round the collection of junk known as the weekend market, selling many types of pets - everything from monkeys to bats! The children with kites were colourful. Tropical fruit is cheap and good and I love it but Bangkok is expensive - it's cost me almost Aus$40 in 3 days but at this stage I'm not counting cash anymore.

Joe visiting The Jim Thompson House, the U.S. man who revived the Thai silk trade - now a museum

Wednesday 23 February 1972 - Singapore.
Almost at the close of both trip and book as I fly home with Liz tomorrow after 3 days in Singapore - mostly spent shopping, I bought a replacement watch - it's not as hot as Bangkok, but my clothes feel sticky, I don't mind it. It's cleaner here than Bangkok - in fact cleaner than most any city I've seen. 

On the plane flying into Singapore, Liz pinned up my hair as we heard that western males with long hair will not be allowed in, they are worried about drugs and corruption of their youth. Walking the streets of Singapore with my hair flowing freely again, I hear the word “Hippie” a lot from other young people passing by, I think they are fascinated by it, probably because it is forbidden.

It rains every day in a quick downpour, then gone. Threatening clouds most of the day but we haven't been caught in the rain yet. The river seems jammed with small cargo boats.

Singapore 1972

Most of the population here look to be under 25 and those we've spoken to have a lot of drive - good types of kids too - mainly Chinese here but a percentage of Malays and Indians also - quite a difference to Bangkok where everyone looked similar but I think the people here have more character. The Chinese food here is the best! We went to 2 cultural shows - one Malayan showing a mock wedding, dancing and self-defence. Also an Indian and Chinese show, a snake charmer and pretty Chinese dancing. At last we feel we can afford to join the luxury of tour groups. We saw the disappointing Tiger Balm Gardens and some lovely orchids in the Botanical Gardens. There are some reminders of the colonial era with the hotels - we had a drink in the colonial looking old Raffles Hotel. Huge areas of 25 storey flats going up to meet the housing and population problem.

I phoned Mum tonight - she sounds tired - I probably got her out of bed when I think of it now. How wonderful it will be to be back in Australia, it’ll do me.

Postscript from Joe Palmer 2023
On 6th June 1971, the day I left Australia and went on to live the experiences of these 1971-2 diaries, I was really only thinking of my young self, and my dreams of some imagined future. With me on that day of departure were my parents, some of my sisters, their husbands and children, because this was a big day, no one in our family had done this before. These were the days of those free and easy times when visitors to Sydney airport could stand outside on the observation deck and experience the sights and sounds of arriving and departing aircraft. 

Years later my sister Rosalind McLeod told me that when my flight took off, mum and dad were standing side by side, my dad’s arm as per usual over my mum’s shoulder, looking in the direction of my departing plane until it became just a dot before completely disappearing from sight. They knew their only son and last child living at home didn’t have a return ticket. It was the end of an era and the beginning of what must have been an anxious time sometimes for my parents. They were pensioners, but only 3 years earlier, we jointly purchased a house, and so I had committed the 3 of us into making monthly repayments, which meant that if I didn’t survive this trip, they might lose their home. They never gave me any indication that my departure might cause a problem, they always gave me my freedom, and rather than tell me what to do, they always said they just wanted me to be happy.

When I was a little boy, I wandered off and became lost in the town of Lismore. I didn’t know I was lost because I was having a great time discovering places I had never seen before. By the time I was found, I remember no recriminations from my parents, because they would have been so relieved to get me back in one piece.

And now after reading these diaries again, I think it was like the lost in Lismore experience once again, but longer. In my 1971-2 travels, many other young people told me they were trying to “find themselves”. I did not find myself, but I found out some things about myself, and so I learnt something. 

 wonderful to be home again.



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