My friend Kerrie and I were returning from an 18 month working holiday in Europe.
The now called ‘hippy trail’ was overland through Türkiye, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, India and Nepal. Direction home, Australia.
We had an easy connection for shared lifts up until Kabul.
On the travellers notice boards there were no cars travelling to Nepal or India. Only 2 men with motor bikes. At this time, the 600cc and 750cc were some of the larger BMW’s motor bikes on the market. I stood in the middle of nowhere. Or should I say, I was on the side of the road with the brand new BMW600 alone in the Kyber Pass, Afghanistan.
Arthur had hitched back to the last big town. A part of the bike, the rocker cover, had scraped off on the hot bitumen. Arthur took off as it was in need of welding. The truck in front with its flapping tailgate, dropped a clod of wet dirt, enough for us to slide. I was holding on tight and over we went.
On average, 50 Afghanis gathered to observe me on their way to and from, up and down, the long, straight, flat road. There were mountains either side and it was in the heat of the day.
I settled in for the long haul, not knowing when Arthur would return. I noticed a small Bedouin group by a spindly tree, observing me. A sheik sitting in the fork of the tree. The 3-4 women came over and started playing and touching my hair. Curious. An old man with a long white beard, clad in white cloth, on passing, stopped to observe. He was standing back and gradually came forward asking, would I like a feed. Smiling was always the easy way to communicate and an ability to make gestures. ‘I’m OK, thank you’. He wandered off down the long dusty road.
An hour or so later, he returned with a cloth around his shoulders and unwrapped the canisters he held. These he opened and instructed me to sit and partake. It was with such authority I dare not refuse. One bowl had curry, another rice and I was to use the chapati like a fork
