Old Harry - a Story of Passchendaele

Words inscribed on the Shrine of Remembrance, Melbourne

Old Harry looked at me through his dark rheumy eyes as he flicked through the magazine on the table.

“Y’know”, he said in his raspy old voice as he paused at a page and pointed to a photo, “I was very surprised to see that picture...”  He hesitated before he went on “…that’s me there!”

The photo showed a group of seven soldiers wading through mud up to their knees. Six of them were man-handling a stretcher upon which, covered in an army blanket, lies a critically injured man. The caption to the photo said something like: ‘It takes six men, six hours to bring one wounded man out of the mud of Passchendaele’.

Old Harry’s finger was resting on the man closest to the camera; a moustachioed, stocky man with his tin helmet pulled down to just above his eyes. “That’s me,” he repeated “I remember seeing the photographer…”  His voice trailed off and perhaps I detected tears in his eyes and a quaver in his voice as the memories flooded back. “I remember seeing the photographer.” He repeated again but said no more.

 

Old Harry, centre, in the mud of Passchendaele, 1917

Harry and his wife Gwen had lived next door to us until about a year before.  They had originally been farming near Whangarei but had come down to Auckland in retirement with Mate, their old sheep dog. Harry walked rather stiff-legged and had a raspy gruff voice. Gwen told me that he had been gassed at Passchendaele in an attack that had killed his best mate and no doubt the stiffness in his walk was due either to a war injury or to arthritis exacerbated by the mud and wet of the Western Front. Harry, understandably, did not talk about those days. Both Harry and Gwen were devoted to their old sheep dog, Mate. Gwen would often send Mate, carrying a basket of beans or eggs in his mouth, around to our house. Mum, after taking the goods from the basket, would give Mate a treat, before he happily trotted back home, empty basket still in his mouth. We were all rather sad when Harry, Gwen and Mate moved away.

I was 14 when Harry had pointed to the photo. It had appeared in a special magazine published by the New Zealand Herald to mark the paper’s centenary in 1963. I’m not sure how old Harry was then, maybe in his mid-seventies.

A century has passed since this photo was taken. Each time I see it, and it has been in numerous publications and even on book covers, I think of old Harry, his gnarled finger pointing, saying “That’s me.” In 1963 I was too young to understand the full impact; the horrors that men like Harry went through. How they were unable to talk about it; how they knew that unless you had been present, there was no way you could ever understand the full impact of their horrific experiences and it was better to remain silent. It has only really been in recent years that we have begun to understand the full horror of what these men went through. I will never know whether the burning mustard gas of that attack in 1917, which had affected Harry’s voice, still troubled him when he spoke, but undoubtedly the memories would have haunted him.

We owe a lot to men like Harry; men who suffered in silence; men whose battlefield demons haunted them for the rest of their lives. I can still see him with that magazine, pointing to the picture. Perhaps it was a mixture of pride, but there was also an innate sadness as the memories flooded back, a mixture of emotions that I was then too young to perceive or understand. Unknowingly that photo was Harry’s claim to immortality.

This was the last time I saw Harry, but the memory of that kindly, haunted old soldier has always remained, deep within my sub-consciousness, triggered whenever I see that picture, and on the morning of each Anzac Day.  Requiescat in pace!

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Travel Books by the author available from Amazon

In Search of the Shrine of the Toothache God of Kathmandu

           In Search of the Toothache God of Kathmandu

I first visited the then mysterious city of Kathmandu, capital of the Kingdom of Nepal, in February 1970. It was a place little visited by outsiders, other than hippies here for the cheap and legal marijuana and hashish. There was very little motorised traffic in the city. Locals either walked or used one of the many bicycle rickshaws found throughout the central city streets.

Illustrative of the lack of motor-transport in Kathmandu in February 1970; one morning I came upon these 'street-sweepers' making their slow way down one of the major thoroughfares of the city.

To me, a first-time traveller in 1970, the city was very much a culture shock. Singapore was the first Asian city I had visited and that had very much been a jolt when compared to the rather demure life I had led in Auckland. Kathmandu was something else. I wrote in my diary, on my very first day in the Nepalese capital, that ’it had been very much like going back to medieval days’ – or at least what I then imagined the medieval cities of Europe to be like! 

Over the next few days I visited many of the major sites. I walked around the array of splendid temples in Durbar Square in the centre of the city and stood in the courtyard of the temple of the Kumari Devi, the Living Goddess, seeing the pretty little ‘goddess’ herself. I hiked up to the fabulous golden stupa of Swayambhunath, on a hill overlooking the city. I hired a bicycle, cycling out first to the shrine of the Reclining Vishnu at Budhanilkantha, where I met my first sadhu, or Hindu holyman and then to the large Hindu temple complex at Pashupatinath, then finally to the major Buddhist Stupa at Bodhnath. The Kathmandu Valley was certainly a fascinating place and I knew there was a lot I had missed. At the time I did not think I would be back.

In the courtyard of the Temple of Kumari Devi
 (the Living Goddes

The Temples of Pashupatinath

It was almost 10 years later that I did return to Kathmandu, this time as a tour leader with Sundowners, one of the Overland companies that carried intrepid travellers on the various routes through to London. As I often had long gaps between the tours out of Nepal, I was able to explore Kathmandu and the surrounding Valley more thoroughly. I would wander around the area known as Freak Street which had been the centre of Western hippy culture, with small shops, seedy bars and restaurants, cheap hotels and dope dens. There was ‘Pig Alley’, so named by Westerners due to the number of semi-feral pigs which fossicked through the rubbish in the street, and on the way down to the Vishnumati River was what we called ‘Shit Alley’, so named as it seemed to be the place where many of the less-well-off of the city came to defecate! In the dry season the Vishnumati River, which was en route to Swayambhunath, could be crossed by a make-shift plank-bridge rather than by the permanent (if that could be the right word) suspension foot-bridge.

The bridges over the Vishnumati River in 1981

 At various times I hired a bicycle and cycled out to the Durbar Squares in both Patan and Bhaktapur, sister cities in the Kathmandu Valley.

Even in 1985, there wasn't much in the way of motorised transport in Bhaktapur

It was during my last visit to Kathmandu, that I purchased a small locally published book called ‘Exploring Mysterious Kathmandu’ by Katharine Hoag. In the Table of Contents, I had seen a reference to the ‘tooth ache god’ which intrigued me – I had never heard of this, so I decided to find this obscure, but interesting, street shrine. Katharine Hoag gives only a very brief description: “You soon reach another large square, just before entering it notice on your right at shoulder level the shrine to the tooth-acre god. A tiny three-inch golden deity sits embedded among nails and spikes on a great twisted lump of wood. If your tooth aches and you pound a nail into this wood the god will cure you. Bangemudha, the name of this square, means ‘twisted wood.’”

Although the description was rather basic, I decided to look for this little shrine and following the directions given in this small guide book, I did finally find the shrine in a nondescript intersection in a crowded suburb of the old city. On closer inspection I could see that it had once been an ancient tree stump and that the ‘nails’ mentioned in Katherine Hoag's book had each been driven through a low-denomination alloy coin of Nepal as an offering to the god. The large number of coins now completely hid the original wood, but I could just make out the image of the small deity in the central cavity of the shrine.  This was what the locals called the ‘Tooth-acre Tree’. 

I took a couple of photos of this un-aesthetically pleasing, but interesting shrine before I wandered my way back to the Blue Star Hotel in the gathering dusk.

Katharine Hoag’s little book did not give the name of the god and for years I was unable to find any reference to it in any other guide book. However, with the advent of the internet and Google, I have finally found out a little more about this interesting roadside god. It seems that the toothache god is peculiar to the Newar people of the Kathmandu Valley and is known as Vaishya Dev. The wood into which the coins have been hammered was a cutting from a legendary tree known as Bangemudha. Whether by design or accident, the ‘Toothache Tree’, as it is often referred to now, is in the heart of the city’s dental district. Maybe many of the local Newars believe a bit of jiggery-pokery at the shrine of Vaishya Dev will overcome the pain, both physical and financial, of undergoing dental treatment.

The shrine of the Toothache God, as in was in 1985

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Read about my experiences as both an independent traveller & as a tour leader in my two books, One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps & One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride

Hitching down the Tanzam Highway to Lusaka 1974

From Dar es Salaam I headed inland, hitch-hiking down the newly constructed Tanzam Highway. At the roadside just out of Dar, I teamed up with Sami, a Japanese lad who was heading in the same direction. The first day we got as far as the town of Morogoro where we spent the night in a building under construction. The next day we spent several hours fruitlessly trying to hitch a ride out of Morogoro and it wasn’t until the early afternoon that we were eventually picked up by a large lorry transporting two large cast-iron collars to a copper mine at Ndola in Zambia. It was an interesting ride as Sami and I scrambled into the collar to find ledges and cross-struts which were ideal for us to sit on and watch the passing countryside and the game as we passed through the Mikumi National Park.  At the unusual hilltop town of Iringa our Indian driver and his mate insisted that we saw the Yul Brynner Western ‘Catlow’ with them in the local cinema. That night Sami and I slept on the back of the lorry in one of the collars.  

The lorry developed some mechanical problem, but this was fixed at the town of Mbeya and after crossing into Zambia we drove overnight in pouring rain with Sami and I huddled in the back. It was a hell of a night. My sleeping bag was thoroughly saturated with rain-water, and water thrown up by the lorry’s wheels which splashed through gaps in truck's flatbed.  In the morning the heavy rain eased to heavy showers and I managed to partly dry my sleeping bag. I had bought this very lightweight sleeping bag in London, feeling it would be suitable for Africa. It was not much more than a space blanket (metallised polyethylene terephthalate [MPET]) in a nylon cover. This was then new space-age technology, developed by NASA in the 1960s and designed to prevent body heat loss. Through most of the trip it had been adequate, but this was the first time I found that it didn’t keep out heavy rain – both from above and below!

I rode for around 1500 kms down the Tanzam Highway in the collars on this vehicle

Late that same afternoon we were dropped off at the small town of Kapiri M’Poshi when the driver turned off the main road to Lusaka to head to Ndola. A heavy shower of rain at dusk forced Sami and I to seek refuge in a small roadside building that was under construction. It gave us good shelter but first we had to appease the local watchman who, in a nervous high-pitched voice was screaming ‘Get out! Get out!’ when he first saw our shadowy figures, but his whole demeanour changed when he saw that we were non-African. He was, I noted: ‘a funny little character who prattled on in a mixture of English and Swahili – it didn’t matter to him whether we understood or not.’ He insisted we join him in a supper of ‘mealie-meal’, the staple maize flour of southern Africa, and dried fish cooked on a charcoal burner. It was quite tasty. We slept on the hard, concrete floor and in the morning Sami and I bid our funny friend farewell and hitch-hiked on to Lusaka.

Lusaka, capital of Zambia, was a big modern city and in the crush of the midday crowds I lost sight of Sami as we crossed busy Cairo Road. He just seemed to disappear and I never did see him again. I spent the night at the Lusaka camp ground before hitching south to Livingstone, receiving lifts from interesting ex-pat English residents who had emigrated to Zambia before independence when it was still Northern Rhodesia. That evening I walked along an illuminated path through the forest from the Livingstone camp ground to the mighty Victoria Falls on the Zambezi River. To say I was awe-inspired was an understatement.  The thunderous plunge of the deluge creating wreaths of swirling spray, lit by spotlights gave the entire scene a mystical effect and what was most remarkable is that I was the only person there that night. I was also the only person staying at the Camp ground, sleeping in my sleeping bag under a baobab tree, braving the wandering hippos and elephants. I never saw the campsite sign warning of these dangers until the next morning!

The Victoria Falls from Livingstone, Zambia

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Excerpt from the book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now availbale in paperback from Amazon Books

Discovering Arthurian Legends, Tintagel 1972

I hitch-hiked and walked to the pretty coastal fishing village of Boscastle in Cornwall, which has a Museum of Witchcraft but more importantly is the beginning of a 5-mile walking track along the spectacular Cornish coastline to Tintagel, an area steeped in Arthurian Legend. I began the coastal walk, passing through Rocky Valley, an impressive slate canyon eroded by the small Trevillet River, in misty rain which fortunately did clear and though wet from the knees down, I enjoyed the walk immensely even though I was carrying my back-pack.

Rocky Valley on the coastal walk between Boscastle & Tintagel

In Tintagel I checked into the Youth Hostel which had once been the office of a slate mine and was situated on a spectacular site high above the rugged Cornish coast. I immediately liked Tintagel which, in 1972, was not yet widely visited. In fact I had only heard of the town a few days before during a discussion with fellow travellers at the Bath youth hostel. The small bay at Tintagel is dominated by a large headland upon which are the remains of an old castle, most of which dates from the 12th century but earlier ruins, perhaps a Celtic monastery and a former fortress, date back to the 6th century, which certainly fits in with the time frame of Arthurian legend. According to the 12th century historian, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Uther Pendragon, a king of post-Roman Britain, had a fixation with Ygerna, wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. With the connivance of the magician Merlin: By my drugs I know how to give you the precise appearance of Gorlois, so that you will resemble him in every respect.  The disguised Uther Pendragon travelled to Tintagel Castle while Gorlois was away at war: The King spent that night with Ygerna and satisfied his desire by making love with her. … That night she conceived Arthur, the most famous of men, who subsequently won great renown by his outstanding bravery. Next morning news was received that Gorlois had been killed in battle. Uther Pendragon then took Tintagel Castle and married Ygerna, thus legitimising Arthur’s birth.

Site of what is supposedly King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel

Beneath the Tintagel Castle headland is a large sea cave known locally as Merlin’s Cave. Uther had died before Arthur’s birth and according to Alfred, Lord Tennyson in The Idylls of the King Merlin is said to have rescued the baby Arthur here:

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,                     

Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep         

And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged       

Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:                 

And down the wave and in the flame was borne         

 A naked babe, and rode to Merlin’s feet,               

Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried ‘The King!  

Here is an heir for Uther!’ And the fringe                 

Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand,        

Lash’d at the wizard as he spake the word,               

And all at once round him rose in fire,                        

So that the child and he were clothed in fire.

 

Tintagel Cove from Merlin's Cave

The cave, accessible only at low tide, spurred my imagination and I wrote in my diary: ‘It is not terribly hard to picture the bearded Merlin in his robes and peaked hat, casting spells over a cauldron in the cave.’ Guess I had been overly influenced by Disney in those days! I spent a couple of days exploring the castle ruins, Tintagel village and this dramatic section of the Cornish coast. Tintagel was just beginning to cash in on the Arthurian legends and there was a rather tacky ‘sword’ stuck in a stone, alongside a bar called, tastelessly, ‘Excali-bar’!  The old stone-slab post office, then a small museum, was an interesting structure.

The old stone Post Office in Tintagel, 1972

 The days were sunny and warm, and I spent time along the cliff tops near the youth hostel, scrambling down one morning to a small rocky bay for a dip in the Atlantic. It was a very quick dip as I was surprised at how cold the water was. It was also the first time I had come upon small globules of crude oil, washed up on the rocks. This was a legacy of the Torrey Canyon disaster which took place on a reef off the coast of Cornwall in 1967. The wreck of this super tanker was the world’s first major environmental oil spill and, to date, Britain’s worst. Five years on, small amounts of the tar-like crude oil still remained on this otherwise pristine coast.  

The spectacular Cornish coastal scenery near Tintagel

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography 


An execrpt from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now available in paperback from Amazon Books 

Ladakh - the Roof of the World

My first tour to Ladakh coincided with the Hemis Festival which, in 1983, was held in the latter part of June. This festival of masked dancers celebrates the birthday of Padmasambhava, also known as Guru Rinpoche, believed to have been incarnated as an 8-year old child in a lotus flower (the meaning of his name) floating on a lake in Swat Valley in the 8^th century. In Tibetan Buddhism he is the most important manifestation of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Light. Each morning of the five-day Hemis festival a large ‘tanka’ of Guru Rinpoche is placed on display in the courtyard of Hemis Monastery. 

Greeting the Head Lama, Hemis Monastery, Ladakh 1983

The highlight of the colourful ceremonies are the masked monks, representing both good and evil, dancing and swirling to the thunderous booming of large tympani, clashing cymbals, the mystical droning of the long Tibetan alpine horns along with an eerie, disjointed cacophony of sound from horns and trumpets. In the alpine setting of Ladakh it was an unforgettable, mystical experience.

Dancing masked monk, Hemis Festival, Ladakh  1983

Leh is the capital and largest town in Ladakh. Situated at an elevation of 3524 metres, Leh is around the same elevation as Lhasa, the capital of Tibet. The old town is dominated by the ruins of the former palace of the Namgyal dynasty, abandoned since the mid-19^th century and, higher up, the Leh Gompa, or monastery. At first sight most of the mudbrick buildings look broken-down and empty, but closer inspection soon shows that this is not the case. Even the most ramshackle building appeared to be occupied.

Jumble of buildings in the old city of Leh, Ladakh

 I scrambled up to the old fort and the view was magnificent. The upper Indus River meanders between the distant snowy-capped Zanskar Mountains and the town. The amazing jumble of mudbrick dwellings I could see below was the old town through which runs a large mani wall. On this wall Ladakhis place prayer stones, usually with the mantra “Om mani padme hum” (“Behold, the jewel in the lotus”), inscribed in Tibetan upon them. Mani stones are found in strategic places near all the monasteries in Ladakh and Tibet. 

The former Palace of the Namgyal overlooks Leh, Ladkah 

      The Explore groups stayed at the Yak-Tail, one of the oldest hotels in Leh, which was just a short walk from the bustling town centre. I remember the hotel was comfortable but little else about it.  As well as having plenty of time to explore Leh, we also visited other Monasteries in the area. The most spectacular was Thiksey, a magnificent construction emulating the Potala Palace in Lhasa. 

The Potala-like monastery at Thiksey, Ladakh

Although the Monastery had been constructed in the 15th century, its most imposing feature was the huge modern golden statue of Maitreya Buddha, the largest in Ladakh, which was erected to commemorate the visit of the 14th Dalai Lama to Thiksey in 1970. The Monastery had many associated temples, chapels, stupas and living quarters, mostly painted white which was accentuated against the very dark blue sky that is an indication of high altitude.    

The Zanskar Mountains from Thiksey Monastery, Ladakh

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography
   

An excerpt from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride  Now available in paperback from Amzon Books

Across the Sahara in 1973

There is something about deserts that I love. It is the dryness of the landscape, the spectacular barrenness of the countryside where, to use the words of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley: ‘the lone level sands stretch far away’. The Sahara shattered all my preconceptions of a desert. Far from being a vast area of featureless sand dunes and nothing else, I found the countryside was remarkably varied. The sand seas only occupied a small area of our crossing. Much of the Sahara consisted of rugged rocky mountains, such as the Tassili N’Ajjer, which although lacking hardly any form of vegetation somehow seems to support an amazingly large population. 

The oasis town of Ghardaia in the Algerian Sahara

I remember one incident when we were deep in the desert. We had been driving all day, having not seen another vehicle or passed through any form of settlement. Several of us were sitting on a dune well above our camp site in what was a very black night. I thought I glimpsed, from the corner of my eye, a slight flicker of light in the next valley, as if someone had lit a cigarette. I immediately dismissed it thinking my eyes were playing tricks. Half an hour later we had returned to our camp, scaring our rostered ‘guards’ in the process – they hadn’t realised some of the group were not in camp - and settled in for the night. Just a short time later two shadowy spectre-like figures ambled into the camp. This time the guards thought it was another attempt to scare them until a voice called out: “H-hang on, guys, they’re real!”  The two intruders were Tuaregs, the nomads of this part of the Sahara and, out of curiosity, were paying us a friendly visit. It appeared we were camped by one of their tribal wells. Language was a barrier, but we were able to communicate in pidgin French, and after offering them a cup of tea, they disappeared happily into the desert as silently as they had appeared.

Sand dunes in the Sahara

  As we drove into the Sahara, towns just seemed to appear out of the desert. Why were they here? No doubt water was the key factor and places such as Tiaret, Laghouart, Ghardaia, and Ouargla would once have been on caravan routes. We stopped at the market at Ouargla which was full of what are colloquially known as ‘desert roses’. These are gypsum crystals naturally welded together into rose-like shapes, some quite large. Many of these were for sale with a few other uninspiring crafts. I commented, more than once in my diary that I wondered how people survived out here: ‘Herds of goats and the odd Tuareg or two seem to appear in almost every small area of tussock which appears capable of supporting nothing!’   

The road heading into the Desert town of Ouargla, Algeria  1973

In the desert south of Ouargla we passed the oil flares of the refinery of Hassi Messaoud and the next day, out of the heat and sand of the Grand Erg Oriental we came upon a cluster of small huts, as remote from civilisation as could be found anywhere. 

Refinery fires of Hassi Messaoud, Algeria

This was the tiny settlement of Bel Guebbour, a refuelling stop along the road which stretches off into the shimmering mirages of an even bleaker, more barren region of the Sahara. Sleepy lethargic Algerian men sat or squatted in shady doorways; we never saw any women. In the cool interior of a hut which seemed to double as the village shop, one of the group asked, without much hope, for a beer. Beer! We had hardly seen a bottle since we had been in the country and it was also Ramadan, the Moslem period of abstinence. Bier, no problem said the sleepy shopkeeper and pulled an ice-cold beer from the depths of his refrigerator. We were amazed – here in the middle of nowhere in the depths of the Sahara we were able to purchase a beer – and a cold one at that!  Just a few kilometres out of Bel Guebbour we found an sulphurous, artesian spring with a concrete trough which gave us a welcome opportunity to wash, watched on by a number of bemused camels.

Camels at a waterhole in the Sahara, Bel Guebbour, Algeria

As we drove further into the desert, the settlements became more basic with places like Fort Polynac, now called Ilizi, and Fort Gardel having been outposts of the French Foreign Legion. Sparse huts and nomad tents had sprung up around the original forts and, over time, a small trading town would form. I remember Ilizi having a main street, replete with pavements and relatively modern street lighting, which did not now work as the lights were broken or just had wires dangling from the standards. There was one shop from which I bought a small tin of sweetened condensed milk. Lethargic Tuareg, in their signature bright blue garments, turbans and veils, lay or sat in the shade of walls, or house doorways, sheltering from the hot midday desert sun.  

Tuareg desert dwelling near the town of Ilizi, Algeria 1973

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

Excerpt from my book  One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps available from Amazon Books.  An account of travels in the Pacific Islands, Asia, Europe & Africa in the late '60s early '70s. My second book & companion volume  One Foot in Front of the Other - Full Stride continues my travels in New Zealand, USA and my experiences as a tour guide on the Asia Overland routes & as a special interest tour leader in Rajasthan, Kashmir, Jordan and Turkey. 

Afghanistan in 1970

Kabul in 1970 was still a peaceful place and an important stopover on the hippy trail to Kathmandu. The tragedy that became Afghanistan was still a number of years away. King Zahir Shah ruled the country and my first impression of the people was positive, they were friendly. Even now I find it hard to believe how the Afghanistan I first visited in 1970 could degenerate into the lawless, terror-haunted country it now is.  All thanks to foreign interventions.

The Kabul River flows through the Afghan capital of Kabul  1970

Kabul appeared relatively modern although I noted in my diary that the state of the roads left a lot to be desired, with no proper pavements and, after the heavy rain of the previous days, very muddy. Early March was the tail end of winter and it was cold, with snow sitting on the hills around the city. During an excursion down Chicken Street, a well-known shopping area, I purchased one of the Afghan wool-lined leather coats that were fashionable in the late ‘60s and ‘70s.  I commented at the time that many of the coats had a definite ‘aroma’ to them, possibly because the leather was not treated as well as it could be. My coat, lined with the local karakul wool, seemed OK, but some months later it began to go mouldy in the damp London weather and I surreptitiously left it behind in a flat … somewhere!  It was in Kabul that I first saw women in full burqa and I was fascinated by the turbaned tribesmen who wandered the streets. I noted in my diary that there were many soldiers and that Russian influence, even then, was very noticeable. Food in Kabul was good and I ate one night at the Khyber Restaurant, an institution in those days that every Western traveller visited and on another night, I had a turkey meal at the Spinazar Hotel which cost 60 afghanis (about 80cents NZ). I wrote in my diary that this was the best meal I had had since I had left home - and the cheapest!!  

Kabul appeared a relatively modern city in 1970

    After leaving Kabul we drove through a snow-covered landscape as we headed toward Ghazni. The day was clear but cold and a stop was made for the many Australians in the group who had never been in snow. Of course, there was the inevitable snow-ball fight!

Snow covered the landscape as we head down the main highway to Ghazni & Kandahar

 Ghazni was the former capital of an Empire, established in the 11^th century by the rather vicious Mahmud of Ghazni, that once encompassed Iran, Afghanistan and much of northern India.  In 1970 Ghazni was a small town with muddy streets, horse-drawn carts and disconsolate donkeys. The town was dominated by an ancient mud-brick fortress occupied by the Royal Afghan Army. We lunched at Sultan Mahmoods, a local restaurant, enjoying a local rice dish which was cheap and tasty, before heading on to Kandahar.  

The muddy streets of the town of Ghazni, Afghanistan  1970

Kandahar is the second largest city in Afghanistan and, in recent years, has been a hotbed of Taliban activity, but in 1970 it was a rather quiet little town with not a great deal of interest. We were only there overnight and spent a good part of the evening looking for somewhere suitable to eat. We entered some wild joints, thick with hashish smoke before finally settling on the balcony of the Kandahar-Heart Gate Tourist Hotel to a shish kebab meal. Our entertainment that night was watching the antics of a lone policeman on the traffic island outside the hotel. He was on points duty and every time a car came along the street – about once every five minutes – he would spring into action, enthusiastically directing the motorist in a direction the motorist had no intention of going. He would shrug then, hands behind his back, walk around his little island until the next car came along when once again he would spring into action.

Local tribesmen in the desert near Farah

From Kandahar our route to Herat took us through the desert toward the small town of Farah. One of our coaches blew a front tyre and left the road in this barren area of desert. Fortunately, the vehicle stayed upright, and no one was hurt but it did take a couple of hours to repair the wheel and get the coach back onto the road before having a late lunch at the Farahrod Hotel, a modern-looking facility built by the Russians in the late 1960s. It appeared to have all modern facilities, but no one stayed here as, despite its modern appearance, there was no electricity, hence no heating or power for the water pumps which also meant the toilets didn’t work. We were ushered through the hotel, which boasted a modern kitchen, into a grubby old shed out the back where all they could offer us were omelettes cooked on a Primus stove.

One of our coaches blew a front tyre & left the road near Farah, 1970

© Neil Rawlins  text & photography

This excerpt is from my book One Foot in Front of the Other - First Steps now available in paperback from Amazon books