The Imp of the Perverse

What is it with short people? Did Randy Newman call it right? I went along to watch yet another dismal performance by the Scottish Champions elect against Motherwell, on my father-in-law’s new, count the number of blades of grass at Parkhead, giant tv screen.

The big screen certainly didn’t improve the champions football, but I could make out Neil Lennon’s captains armband. However these days it is not on his arm for long. Was it only last week when it was tossed away with venom? It seems to be a handmade identifier, perhaps he made it his detention class back at school in Ireland. It is certainly not built to last 90 minutes.

He kept it on yesterday, but the big screen captured his manager’s reaction to Motherwell’s 93^rd minute equaliser. Strachan showed all his footballing skills as he demolished the subs board. As he answered gruelling, piercing questions after the match, he slipped once more into his increasingly psychedelic phrasebook. Gosh! he is so ‘out there’. The last interview I saw, he kept chewing & filling his gob with, whatever: caramels, acid, who knows, but you couldn’t make out a word. Maybe this was the idea. Scotland has produced these urban, mystic, heroes of football management theory in abundance. They insist that their players do their talking for them on the pitch, but without question, Gordon Strachan has carved out a niche for himself as the glorious games answer to Timothy Leary.

Now I have realised what I love about the whole Scottish football scene. It is not the quality of the football. Sadly I might have to agree with those who state, that the English Premier league contains more quality. However, we have all the fantastic drama that surrounds the game. The wireless is where it’s at. Pre & post match phone ins, etc are chock full of real people with real opinion & many of these opinions are frankly, Mr Shankly, downright scary. This is an area so richly full of urban life in the Scottish homeland, if only we had such fervent views on independence.

Plenty of Rain & not enough Bows

Am I sad enough to get sucked into that end of Gregorian year stuff. Reminds me of all the Millennium silliness, when people thought the mere passing of a random Gregorian date would bring cataclysmic changes! Well as a matter of fact as an avid ‘Wire’ reader, I do look forward to see what is breaking new boundaries over the year. I have compiled a very personal, eclectic, eccentric & electric list of my firm favourites over the past year.

Here goes. As always any comments welcome.

Sufjan Stevens was way up there with all of his output. In fact only this week we have been listening to his xmas songs & singing along.

Astrid Gilberto always puts a smile on my face. I finally got a copy of Alexander ‘skip’ Spence’s ‘Oar’ & The Poets ‘Scotlands No 1 Group. Pure genius!

Mostly this was a year of catching up with many of the albums I have/had on vinyl & obtaining them in the digital format.

Recent Additions	to the Catalogue
bread, love & dreams	strange tale of captain shannon
chicago	chicago transit authority
ayers, kevin	joy of a toy
ayers, kevin	whatevershebringswesing
walker, scott	1
walker, scott	2
if	1
moby grape	s/t (1967)
guthrie, arlo	running down the road (1969)
spence, alexander 'skip'	oar (1969)
it’s a beautiful day	white bird (1969)
broughton, edgar	wasa wasa (1969)
comus	first utterance
comus	keep from crying
yester, jerry & henske, judy	farewell alderbaran
walker, scott	4 (1969)
havens, richie	richard p havens 1983 (1969)
united states of america	s/t w/bonus trks
beatles	love (2006)
komeda, krzysztof	fearless vampire slayers' (ost)
family	fearless
family	entertainment
family	music in a dolls house
trees	on the shore
trees	garden of jane delawney
tontos expanding headband	zero time
tyrannosaurus rex	my people were fair
various	bumpers
various	vertigo annual 1970
cale, john	paris 1919
ayers, kevin	shooting at the moon
ayers, kevin	confessions of dr dream
kaleidoscope (uk)	tangerine dream
fahey, john	legend of blind joe death
cressida	asylum (vertigo)
tasavallan presidenti	lambertland (1972)
quintessence	dive deep
palmer, bruce	cycle is complete
astatke, mulatu	afro latin soul
tyrannosaurus rex	unicorn
quintessence	in blissful company
harrison, george (RIP)	wonderwall
affinity	s/t
moby grape	wow

Another freezing Saturday night at the Fraser Centre

Déjà vu, park the car at Tesco, Milngavie & then walk through the tunnel into the greatest little venue on the planet. This past year has been illuminated not by all those naff seasonal outdoor lights, but by the real deal, honest, personal & intimate gigs by the best folk artists around.

Last night was no exception as Rab Noakes lit up a bleak, wintry night by giving a superb solo performance at the Fraser Centre, Milngavie. I was glad it was solo, no disrespect to Fraser Speirs, but I concur with one of the bands on the Pork Label (Funky Porcini? Or Heights of Abraham?) who recorded, ‘Harmonicas are Shite’. I have lived through the blues boom & I have had enough acoustic guitar & harmonica duos to last a lifetime.

The happy highlanders had hinted that there would be a bit of R & B, soul & tamla, but there was also a killer version of Beck’s ‘Devil’s Haircut’ & an Everley Bros finale.

Also you meet such fine people at these gigs. I was chatting with someone I met about crazy nights at the Maryland, Glasgow in the early 70s & the fact that the early vibrant folk scene in Scotland has not really been recorded in the printed form.

Trying to find out about these gigs is such a challenging task itself, even for a librarian. I am annoyed & having missed Robin Williamson last month, but I am determined to try & get to Mike Heron’s performance sometime in the New Year.

Seize the Power

If I can quote the ‘Wire’ nov 06 article on Lasse Marhaug……….’With its exceptionally high living standards, bounteous welfare state, plentiful arts funding……Norway famously tops the UNs ‘quality of life index’…..oil money..’

Meanwhile we live in a 3^rd world country ravaged by poverty, unemployment, drugs, violence, a failing welfare state, with hospital & school closure, pensioners barely scraping a living………etc.

Tony Blair & the other terrorists decide (no surprise here) to upgrade Trident & site the weapons of mass destruction where?

There is enough radioactive material inside foreign diplomats roaming around London to easily build a ‘dirty bomb’.

I feel that I have missed something? Are the Scottish people so stupid that they don’t see it, or are we such a downtrodden nation, that we just accept this.

Crawling King Snake


Let me tell you about Texas radio & the big beat.............

…

wicker basket and looked very evil indeed. When I shook my head, he lifted the lid of the basket and a vicious cobra head snaked out towards my bare arms. Naturally, I turned and ran with all the haste I could muster. I was filled with hate and fear, mostly fear, especi­ally as he had taken off after me, in hot pursuit. I ran like a bat out of hell and managed to lock myself behind closed doors. After a while I began breathing, but I shall never forget the experience.

A subsequent visit to the train station, resulted in my friend Graham and myself booking the 2.00 p.m. express on Thursday 27th December for Bombay. We would be traveling relatively comfortably in a reserved sleeper at a student concession rate. These arrangements were completed on Monday 24th December or Xmas eve, later that night we retired to our hotel room and had a kind of party. These celebrations continued on through the night until Xmas Day and as soon as we could stand up without falling over, which was rather late in the evening, we trotted over to a semi-European restaurant for a late Xmas dinner.

Previous fasting (adopting local customs) in anticipation of this feast, led me to make a pig of myself. I had fried liver, chips, beans, tea, toast, vegetable cutlets, chocolate ice­ cream and strawberry milkshake. After this huge meal we returned to the hotel to rest.

Boxing Day began correctly enough with me being served breakfast in bed around noon.l lay in bed until 3.00.p.m., not my usual habit I may add, and then I sauntered out for a meal.

The only exercise I seemed to get was the walk from the hotel to a restaurant, although my arms got used lifting all that heavy food and cutlery. I also utilised muscles in my mouth, chewing all that delicious grub. Thank goodness I had read all those Billy Bunter books when I was young and I knew the delights of such an abundance of such tuck. I felt as if the others in the restaurant could see me drooling as my repast arrived on my table.

However on my return this night we ventured out to attend a concert of Indian classical music. This was to be my initial encounter with the higher castes of Indian society. There was a real lack of atmosphere at this concert, although the musicians were very talented, but the immense size of the hall and the scattered attendance, meant the acoustics were very dull. There was no warmth between the performers and the audience. The latter were very restrained, not showing any emotion and constrained by behavior appropriate to their caste.

I was also impressed by the different modes of transport available in India, e.g.,

rickshaws (powered by either man or bicycle), scooter taxis, tong-as (horse-drawn carts), or motor vehicles, etc., most of the scooter taxis were driven by Sikhs, whereas the tongas and rickshaws were manned by impoverished Hindus. On the Thursday, we travelled by tonga to the train station via Old Delhi.

This would be a fine way to remember Old Delhi, if one was never to return, viz; riding in a horse-drawn carriage at an easy pace through crowded noisy, streets. A new adventure awaited us as we boarded the Bombay express. This was a fresh, new experience for me as travelling on Indian railways was unlike a normal day-return on British Rail.

Hunting Tigers Out in India

.....lives, were actually dying of exposure in the cold streets of Delhi. Delhi seemed quite warm to me, although the Indians would, of course, disagree. One was not aware that we were fast approaching Xmas, as none of the trappings of Xmas commercialism were present in the streets of the capital. Oddly enough my first day was fully occupied by me trying to obtain transport out of the city. Hence here lies the inherent weakness in a life of travel, i.e., once one starts moving and the joy of travel gets into one's blood, one finds it difficult to stop and settle down. The fact that I spent this first day in Delhi trying to arrange transport away from that city, probably serves as an adequate description of that city.

I made enquiries concerning the availability of trains for Bombay. This would become my first limited stop en route for Goa. Distance was becoming an obsession with me, because by this time I had gone 6,000 miles and the distance from Delhi to Bombay added another 1,000 miles onto this total. I was indeed a’ Poor boy a long ways from home'.

My initial impressions of Delhi were mixed. On the one side was New Delhi, with its ultra­modern facades, with its Connaught Circus and flash hotels and Government offices. One could easily imagine oneself in London. In contrast, at the other extreme, there was Old Delhi and I was to grow acquainted with this district, because I had to criss-cross it a number of times on my way to the train station. Old Delhi buzzed with all kinds of life (& death). I recall walking past a dead horse in the middle of the main road in Old Delhi and it was being reduced to a skeleton by some very large and healthy vultures. No one in the street seemed to pay this remarkable (to me at least) event the least bit of attention. On my return from the station, many hours later, after much form-filling, I saw the animal still lying there, hardly recognisable now as a horse, but nevertheless it was keeping the

big birds busy. The sight of these vultures was frightening, and whereas in other more familiar cities, one does not even give the local scavenger birds a second glance. The sheer size of those vultures still haunts my dreams.

Now that I had entered this great city's walls, I was soon prey to many of that city's horde of trained, professional beggars. I was shocked to learn that some of these women actually maimed their own children at birth, so that they would have a successful begging career. One could also rent children, who were already maimed or badly disfigured, for the day, at what appeared to be a reasonable cost. In any case, I had to have a clear policy on begging and I had decided, after long deliberation, not to give to beggars under any circum­stances. This was not because I was mean in any way, but I soon learned that if one is generous to one alms-hunter, word quickly spreads among the others and soon one is surrounded by an angry mob, who would be quick to rob or even kill you for the shirt off one's back. My action was further justified by my witnessing the damage done by unthinking, but caring tourists, who give beggars ten dollars or the equivalent in rupees and ruin the individuals whole way of life, turning the victim to drink or some other, darker evil.

I also had a bad experience with a few beggars. One immediately comes to mind. l had been walking through the bazaar, when staring eyes asked me for some money. He was carrying a.....................

Borderline Case

I was a bit better organised at this stage, and as I could not afford to have any of my precious rupees taken, so I carried all of my rupees on my person in a small shoulder bag. As we filed into line to be searched, (this would be a very thorough search, impossible to get through), I managed to choose my moment, split-second timing was required, and escaped unnoticed into the bureau d'exchange and cashed a five-dollar travellers cheque. I got a ridiculously low official rate for my five dollars, but I dragged the actual exchange out as long as possible, as it was crucial to my master plan. After this process, I spotted that the passengers, who had already been searched, were standing outside the bus. So I walked over to join them, shaking like a leaf, but luckily I remained unobserved. I was shivering in my shoes even though the climate was markedly warmer. I had made it. I had succeeded over this last difficult hurdle. I was in India after all these trials and tribulations.

All these last, horrendous weeks, flew from my mind, when I passed through that customs post. The sun shone warmer and brighter, colours were sharper, the birds sang sweeter and I found a smile on my lips and I tear in my eye.

When we reached the first town in India, Amritsar, (the Sikh capital) we ate well, in good, cheap restaurants and could stay in a hotel, if we so desired. I chose to spend, what was to be our last night together as a group, on the bus. We reached our destination, exactly on schedule, after five long weeks and entered Delhi on Saturday 22nd December. The parting of the ways was not easy at all. After all we had been cooped up together for five weeks and 6,000 miles, and yet here we were stranded alone in a strange country. Now we had to think and fend for ourselves. As we started to slowly depart from the buses, you could cut the silence with a knife. Even though some of us were not the best of friends, we all sort of depended upon one another, and we were a comfort to one another through all our difficulties.

It was as if we had been dropped into a vacuum. It was something of a shock trying to decide what to do, where to go, who to go along with, etc.. Although we had been making plans along the way, when we had to put these plans into operation, we felt a little lethargic. Perhaps we were all so tired after completing such a hazardous journey. It was like attending a funeral, and there was a gap there as if someone had just died. Maybe we were just surprised that after all we had been through, that we had survived. We were lost sheep, looking for the flock, the pen or the shepherd. No one said goodbye when we finally alighted from the vehicles, but all the passengers drifted off the bus, split into two loose groups and stepped into the two nearby hotels.

I stayed at the Kesri Hotel, near the bazaar, with many of my companions off the bus and we cut costs by sharing a huge dormitory. The cohesiveness of the group had obviously been enhanced, by five weeks eating, sleeping and being ill together. One tends to build up strong attachments under such circumstances.

I was stunned to hear that the Indians, who slept on the pavement every day of their

Trout Mask Replica


Thinking again about the Sun City Girls concert last year(or was it the year before) & my fascination with tribal masks, I thought I would make this short posting.

Lost

Librarians are constantly aware of the severe onslaught of information: the information overload. I mean there is so much out there to take in & even although I live far away from any of the centres of population, where life rushes past, you cannot but consider what we have gained with too much of everything.

How do we find what we really need? How much of our life would be enriched by the newest most fashionable consumer goods. Sometimes it is fine to go against the flow. I mean chance plays a big part on what paths I choose. I believe that this is directed by a higher power.

Take this moment as I write this. I am listening to the High Llamas – Retrospective, Rarities & Instrumentals. I mean who else in the world is doing the same? Anyway I discovered the band by accident & they are superb in a Beach Boys/Beatles/Les Baxter kind of way.

I have more cds to listen to now than I have time left to live. A sobering thought. Thus choice becomes important. I know what I like but sometimes you have to go outside the box.

Outside this box recently I have discovered beautiful Italian soundtracks & other soundtracks that would disappear into oblivion, without someone, probably another barmy librarian, pointing me in that direction; Comus & all the raft of new & older folk material that is worth a second life e.g. Incredible String band & Pentangle. Original psychedelia/garage & the newer versions keep me sane alongside all that 60s radical, free jazz that I am only now catching up on.

Freedom


A short break from all that travel to think about St Andrews Day. We cannot even celebrate it as a national day because the English or the Scottish English wont let us. One day very soon we will gain freedom from our oppressors.


I have 60 horses in my head & 9 horses bringing snow borne sorrow ( that is a lot of horses!) & I finally have a cd copy of Jerry Yester & Judy Henske's 'Farewell Alderbaran'. I live in the best little country in the world, out fitba & rugby is getting better, the English are losing at every sport, I should be happy. In fact I think I will go & put the kettle on & sing a Burns song.

You Are Either On the Bus or Off
the Bus

I’m not sure whether the drivers had some kind of bad experience of Pakistan in the past and this was why they flew through that country, but I would rather believe that they had some type of timetable to reach India by whenever. Obviously by this time if the latter were true, then they were way behind schedule.

On Friday 21st December we came upon the frontier separating Pakistan and India, but once again our path was paved with obstacles. It seems to be a fact in life, that whenever one wants or needs something badly, one has to struggle in order to achieve it. The more one wants or needs this desire the harder the struggle will be. The British Raj have a lot to answer for in India and the one legacy they have left in their wake, to pay the Indians back for their struggle for independence, is a solid system of bureaucracy. This bureaucracy now has a historical tradition behind it, thus the early foundations are firmly embedded in cement. Upon this rock I will build a bureaucracy, sayeth the Raj. Paperwork permeates throughout India, particularly within the railway network. The only blessing I can add, is that Indian paper is very cheap and nasty, thus most of this paper has a short lifespan. Official rules and regulations are the norm and clerical staff are, in reality, the most superior class in the Indian caste hierarchy. Consequently, the Pakistan-Indian customs post was, on the surface a net of airtight security. An additional nightmare resulted from the fact, that there would be no acceptance of bribery and we found this difficult to fathom, as we were now well-educated in the gentle art of backsheesh. The official in charge of the Indian side of the border was a Sikh and obviously above reproach.

This presented many problems for us as most of us were carrying some form of contraband. We were now in a different world and over the past few days we had gone from extreme cold to moderate heat and here at the border we were enveloped in the subcontinent's lush vegetation. Unfortunately our mantra for the day would be the Beatles

'Everybody's got something to hide except me and my monkey.'

My own problems took root back in Afghanistan where I had bought some black market rupees. The exchange rate in Afghanistan was a good deal better than it would be in India, so I had changed quite a bit of currency in Kabul. We were also informed it would be simplicity itself taking the money across the borders. Perhaps the men behind the deal at the Afghani end informed the border post in India and they would pick up their share of the profit. Thus the Government officials at the frontier were having a field day, confiscating drugs and money. The official­-in-charge, proclaiming himself to be a reasonable man, gave us the benefit of a lengthy, speech, explaining that if we owned up and surrendered whatever we were smuggling, nothing would happen to us, no reprimands would occur. We were all a little wary of this statement, albeit the truth, however he repeated his request, and eventually the lack of response convinced him that he would have to have both the vehicles and the passengers searched.

The buses were literally goldmines as many of the other travellers had similar ideas as my own and had brought Indian currency with them, these were confiscated. Thank goodness,

The next day we managed to get over the Pakistani border, out what an exciting day that was. I sensed that events were beginning to go wrong as we were driving downhill via "the Khyber Pass, a rumour began to circulate about the apparent failure of the brakes. Whether this tale was the truth or not, I never did discover, but one thing was certain, we drove at an extreme pace through the pass. Perhaps this was just as well, for hidden deep within the pass, there were numerous marksmen taking pot shots at the vehicles and even at our fantastic speed, some of these shots were successful.

Onward & Upward

By the time we reached the border post, the appearance of the buses resembled that of two ancient, beaten, colanders. Further problems were to arise at the Pakistan side of the border. The border officials became elated when they realised there were many faults or possible misdemeanors among our entry papers and of course this meant considerable supplementary income in the form of bribes. We had now grown accustomed to these practices. Personally I had to undergo quite a strain, as a so-called doctor, in what might have been at one time, white coat, motioned to me and then to one of the drivers, that I had had only one of the two required cholera jabs, therefore I could not possibly" enter Pakistan. Heated arguments began, but we were helplessly at his mercy. Eventually we struck up a reasonable bargain, then we followed him into his private tent way out back, where he pocketed the money and stamped our papers. The details took a little longer than they should have, as the officials delaying tactics meant he could expect more cash. These events took place in the pitch dark, which was possibly planned by the officials well in advance. After these proceedings were completed, we made our way into a small town just over the boundary and once more our eyes were to open wide in disbelief.

Many of the little local shops had decided to stretch their opening hours in order to secure our custom, no doubt they had been notified of our presence by the border guards, who would get their share of the profits. They probably added that we were easy meat. One of the shops astonished me by procuring both instruments of peace and war, with equal enthusiasm. This proprietor offered for sale drugs such as hashish or opium as well as firearms. Both these products seemed to be Pakistan's biggest exports to the west. One was aware of whole factories manufacturing firearms and I have since learned that many of these weapons would be exported all over the world wherever there was a market for them, no matter what the buyer's politics were.

It was a pity that we raced through Pakistan on our way to India, as our limited experiences of that country were very positive and the inhabitants were open and friendly. Peshawar was only a quick shopping stop for me, where I paid an outrageous price for a Mars Bar in a western-style supermarket, ( 50 P.) Peshawar was remarkably modern. Lahore was just a blur as we flashed past, without even stopping as the drivers were in a great hurry and going at full pelt, doing without sleep and driving all through the night.

SIGGIS

Entertainment at Siggis was provided by some exciting, local musicians, who despite the presense of their Rolex timepieces, played well into the night. As I wandered back from these late-night eating places, I bought some 'brownies' for supper. These were pseudo­-American, chocolate cakes and they tasted delicious, especially by now as my taste buds were popping. It was during these late-night walks alone, that I encountered the loosely-termed, Afghan policemen, wrapped in well-worn and torn, greatcoats. l noticed that they were whistling to each other, eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I found out, that this was the normal procedure to ensure that each guard was either still alive or still awake. In their arms, these policemen carried huge, blunderbus rifles, with delightfully-carved wooden stocks, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I never saw anyone fire or even attempt to fire one of these guns, which is perhaps just as well, as they really belonged in a museum.

Soon I was to gain respect for these Afghan supercops. On my last day in Kabul I was to come face to face with some of the higher and more efficient echelons of the Afghan police force. It is a day I will never forget. I had decided to spend a quiet, lazy day, hanging around the hotel restaurant. Some of us set up a card school and I was joined by three members of the bus party, who hailed from the romantically-named centre of the universe; Clacton. lt was an intense game and I recall that I was winning, when suddenly the door was pushed open in an amateur Starsky and Hutch routine and we were all held at gunpoint by Afghanis in western clothes claiming to be detectives. l thought it was a joke and they were merely acting out some scene from a Hollywood, forties detective movie. However their sincerity and the fact that these were real guns with real bullets, soon-dismissed any apparent doubts we had about the reality of it all. Our response was tragic.

AIl we could do in our state of nervous anxiety and blind panic was to stutter out an explanation apologising for our ignorance of Islamic law and codes of practice and the customs of our friendly, tolerant host country we were crawling so low we were scrapping the floor.

Evidently someone in the hotel, probably the manager, had sensed the possibility of a large payoff and telephoned the police. Our group-mind was thinking along the lines of stiff jail sentences in some dark dungeon or even of firing squads. Fortunately, we behaved very humbly (easy under the circumstances and continued to apologise profusely.

I did not have the temerity to suggest that we should bribe these detectives, (besides they all seemed too efficient and appeared dedicated beyond reproach), but I did mention the fact that a small forfeit would be in order, to repay these kind policemen for their time and trouble and for showing us the error of our ways.

We admitted that we were naughty, irreligious and sacrilegious and vowed never to do anything as criminal as play cards again in public. This did the trick and they reluctantly accepted some cash and left, and on the way out they warned us of the certain penalty that would await us, if we were caught gambling again. Actually they need not have bothered warning us, as we were so utterly terrified. This seemed a fitting climax to our stay in Afghanistan so we moved on.

And Then

..............laze about all day. During the evening, we would gather together in one room, buy some firewood and party all night. In the mornings one would think that it was Xmas, as the first sounds one would hear, would be the loud ringing of bells outside. This turned out to be the sound of horses and carts, that were covered in bells of every description.

The only vehicles we saw with engines, were brightly-coloured, wooden trucks. The designs on these vehicles were an art-form in themselves. This was folk-art at its finest.

It was difficult to leave Herat, as everyone was having such a good time, but the promise of even greater delights, drove us on to our next stop. The journey from Herat to Kandahar, even with an early start, took us a whole day and, as hotels were now very cheap.

I booked into the, aptly named, Mayfair Hotel, for 20 Afghanis per night. l ventured out for a late evening meal in a rather expensive, but good, restaurant and had boiled eggs and soup, before returning to my hotel for a sound sleep.. Next morning I awoke to find out that the other bus had arrived at 5.00.a.m. after driving through the night. Further inconvenience was due to some mad Afghanis shooting the back window out of the second bus. After the second driver had a four-hour nap, we left for Kabul. We were also to suffer considerable hardship as one of our front skylights had been shot to pieces. This meant we had a freezing 90 m.p.h. gale blowing through the bus en route for Kabul. We were also surprised to witness the startling evidence of a possible industrial revolution occurring in Afghanistan. ln Kandahar, we had been shown all the possible uses old rubber tyres could have e.g. black rubber shoes, water carriers, ,etc.,. Could Afghanistan be the future ecological capital of the world?

We arrived safe from any other sniper attacks in Kabul at 7.30 p.m. on Friday 14th. December. Hotels were luxurious, plentiful and above all, cheap. when I awoke, completely refreshed On Saturday morning, we had been away from home a whole month, and we celebrated this momentous occasion by having a hearty, breakfast that included; two fried eggs, toast, tea, jam and real butter. Equipped with all these extra calories, l was able to meander through cold, snowbound, Kabul streets. Feeling flush, I went on a mad spending spree. I purchased a fur hat (essential for this unrelenting chill) and swapped an old duffle-coat for a coveted, authentic Afghan coat. I may have made a crucial mistake in Kabul, as I recall buying kebabs in a street stall, perhaps this was where I picked up hepatitis germs. I would suffer for this error much later & I must admit that I was feeling unwell later that evening and I retired to bed early, falling asleep around 7.00.p.m. The next day I still felt strange, but I went out for a walk around town. lndeed there were lots to see and do in Kabul and I often deliberately lost myself among back alleys, only to come upon some friendly tea-house, where I would be made welcome.

On Monday night however, I visited some of the local tourist attractions, viz.,Siggis and Sammis. These restaurants had excellent, nutritious food and I remember sampling Weiner Schnitzel at Siggis, accompanied and washed down by numerous, glasses of terrific, sweet, mint tea.

Extract From a Traveller's Diaries

The Americans built one side of the road and the Russians built the other side, both attempting to win the hearts and minds of the people. I would suggest that the USSR was responsible for the left side, and the USA for the right side.

Of course the wise old Afghanis would court both sides and be allies of neither. From recent events, one could see the deep-felt, independence of the Afghanis and I dare say they would not be silly enough to be duped by the games played by the super powers. The inhabitants of this sparse country have long, bitter memories and they are still at war with the now-defunct,. British Empire. Who is going to tell these fierce Pathan tribesmen, that the British Empire no longer exists & one couldn’t help thinking that once they had sent the Russians home they would return to fighting their old enemy.

Future events would bring a totally new agenda to the table.

The Russians cannot win, they lack a fighting spirit, but the Moslems firmly believe in their Jihad and will gladly die fighting as Allah has guaranteed instant transport to paradise for any Moslem who dies in battle fighting the infidel.

By now I was well-aware of the Afghani hospitality. I had met some tribes on their way to Mecca, when our bus broke down in Iran, while we were waiting for spare parts from Meshed and I was seeking refuge in a tea-house, l experienced real Afghan hospitality, straight from the heart, no strings attached. On stepping through the door of the tea-house, and out of a heavy snow storm, l saw the fiercest-looking people I have ever met. They had a bizarre appearance, shaved heads with unnaturally red-coloured, beards, dripping onto their chests. They were crowded around the wood stove, and, as I drew nearer to the only source of heat in the room, they all seemed to back away and give me the prime position at the direct heat. I soon learned the rules of this world and when the next pilgrim came through the door out of the cold, I also moved away from, the stove to let him gain access to the heat. this brought a warm response from the Afghanis (not noted for their warmth), who threw their toothless, knowing smiles in my direction. Their hardened exterior, masked a reality of openness and acceptability. These people only possessed at most: a rifle, coat, blanket, wife, horse, and some sheep, but they always seemed to be happy and this was their main attraction for me. Values had to undergo a radical change when entering Afghanistan, after all a horse or sheep was evidently of more value than a woman or a wife. Naturally their lifestyle had sharpened them a great deal, and what these tribes knew about survival tactics would fill many volumes. Further evidence of this ability to survive under harsh conditions would be seem later, when the mujahadeen would live off the land while waging war on one of the super powers. One could almost say that Afghanistan was the Russians' Vietnam.

My admiration for these people was to increase during my short stay in Afghanistan, and one could easily see why so many overland travellers, never complete their voyage to India and remained in Afghanistan. The hotels catered for foreign travellers and pumped out western music all day and served delicious, western food, so it was tempting to..........(to be continued.........)