A Taste of the Third World

My first trip into the third world began as a side trip to Morocco in early 1972. I was on a Grand Tour of Europe. Doing the usual things in all the usual places, London, Paris, Madrid, but when I got to Granada I was struck by the Moorish influences around me and reminded that Africa was so close physically. I had seen the chaotic mix of African cultures in Marseilles, become friends with a Moroccan student in Paris, but now at the Alhambra I was reminded of Moorish dominance for hundreds of years. I would have to go, but because I was only halfway through a 2-month student rail pass, it would have to be a quickie. From Granada to Algeciras was an interesting overnight train ride. As we traveled south we found ourselves the only Caucasians in the third class coach. The majority were Moroccan laborers and the odor of stinky feet was overwhelming, aside from the smell their behavior was rude and offensive as well and I couldn’t wait to be off the train, but was still enchanted by Africa.
We arrived exhausted but eager and in haste we booked a ferry and arrived in Cueta to find we were still in Spanish territory. I blame this on the 2 Germans my traveling companion had aligned with during our contentious train experience. Cueta is a strange place on the border of 2 cultures and 2 continents and we were vulnerable intruders. It is full of seedy hustlers of every kind moneychanger, pimps, and drug pushers were everywhere. In the next 48 hours we were harassed and turned away at the border for reasons unknown 3 times. Finally we returned to Algeciras and took another ferry to Tangiers the fabled city of intrigue. Once there we breezed thru customs and were met by another group of young hustlers one of whom I recognized from Cueta. Since it is impossible to get rid the gang without choosing one, Salim became our keeper. Like most touts Salim spoke English and was charming and genuine, he took us to the Hotel Miami and made his first commission.
Feeling tired from our 4days of near constant travel we were laying low in our beds when Salim returned with the product for which Morocco is most famous. After a little smoke it we all went out for a meal and Salim insisted we visit his uncles shop located in the medina. The medina is a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys filled with exotic sights and smells, easy to get lost in. Our senses being overwhelmed we followed Salim paying little attention, but when we reached the shop the mood changed, Salim disappeared, the shopkeeper and his not so charming assistant became pushy, backed deeper into the dark narrow interior I felt paranoid and fled followed by my companions. Without delay we raced through the medina until we stumbled into the European city and back to the hotel. At the hotel I couldn’t shake the paranoia and decided to leave the next day.
The bus to Casablanca took all day and had a positive effect on our mood. We arrived around 8pm and were immediately invited to have a cup of mint tea with a group of friendly locals. The lively conversation lifted our spirits even more, but we decided to continue to Marrakech that night and began to negotiate a taxi to take us. For the next several hours we sat 4 across in the back seat of a 1960 chevy. While the driver and another passenger sat comfortably in the front. Finally at 3am we arrived in Marrakech, the streets were dark and empty. The one bright spot was the tower of the Koutoubia Mosque, and in a garden with orange and palm trees we opened our sleeping bags and waited for dawn. At that moment I realized an incredible fantasy had become a reality and my perceptions would never be the same. Marrakech is a mind-bending experience, part menagerie, part sideshow, entertaining and intimidating, spiritual and sexual, filled with energy and excitement.
The Djemma El Fna (assembly of the dead) is the focal point of the Unique Marrakech experience. During the day the huge square is center stage for snake charmers, storytellers, musicians, dancers, assorted hustlers and benign lunatics who make their living off the mesmerized tourists. At night the square is crowded with a variety of savory food stalls lit by lanterns casting shadows and an ominous glow as the local’s line up at their favorites take home or eat and gossip while drinking in the atmosphere. After a couple of days we began to get comfortable when a confrontation escalated to a near riot. My hot-blooded companion banged on the trunk of a car that had brushed by in the crowded street. The driver took extreme offense and began to berate us, when he exited his vehicle and continued to verbally assault us a shoving match began and a large crowd gathered. As they surrounded us and shouted insults a policeman arrived and I thought we were saved but instead we were marched off to the police station where there was more shouting and confusion. Since they didn’t understand English and we didn’t understand Arabic they told us in very basic french that since it was Friday afternoon we would have to return on Monday and they confiscated our passports to make sure. This cast a cloud on our plans for a weekend on the beach at Essouira (formerly known as Mogador). The trip there was sunny and pleasant but soon turned dark and damp dragging our spirits with it. As the wind whipped the sand and surf an ominous mood reminded what awaited us in Marrakech.
On Monday morning when we arrived at the police station we were told to return on Tuesday. At 9am on Tuesday we were asked to return on Wednesday, no explanation was ever offered. On Wednesday we were finally asked to explain what had happened, with a 10-year-old street urchin acting as translator an officer wrote down our story in Arabic. When he finished he handed me the pen and told me top sign it. When I refused I was made to strip to my underwear and led down a flight of stairs and locked in a cell filled with dirty, smelly and mean looking criminals. It took me less than 1 minute to say uncle, and start yelling OK ill sign. Thankfully they didn’t make me sweat too long, within minutes I was dressed, my passport returned and I was freed. I never felt such instant relief, like being snatched from the jaws of death, it felt like I hit the lottery.

The Hippy Trail

After 2 months in the Greek Isles Liz and I decide to hitchhike to Istanbul, on the way to India. Liz is a Canadian I have been hanging around with. We have been staying in a house near the Athens airport with another couple, living on a diet of wine and hash. Our first ride is with a Bulgarian truck driver who drops us in Thessalonica. After selling our blood at the Red Cross and fighting off the touchy feely Turks in Istanbul we agree to go our separate ways. Despite our separation we see each other daily, at restaurants, hotels and embassies. Like Alice in Wonderland, the world seems to be growing and shrinking depending on which bottle you drink from. It’s been a strange trip and about to get stranger.

Istanbul was the beginning of the hippy trail to enlightenment via music, sex and a

diet of mind expanding drugs. The Pudding shop was the hippie headquarters of Istanbul and it

was on their bulletin board that I saw a message that led me to the “magic bus” headed to Afghanistan. The next day I found myself a seat on a comfortable and roomy new bus traveling across Turkey and Iran. I think it took a week and one of my few memories is tossing a Frisbee back and forth across an international border. Another is a frantic taxi ride with an aggressive Iranian hustler to a turquoise factory in Meshed. Of course I got to know everyone on the bus, all 15 of them, but I only remember one name, Tec who introduced me to the existential philosophy of George Gurdjieff, which I have yet to understand.

Afghanistan sits on an ancient trade route between China and the Middle East known as the “Silk Road”. It is totally landlocked, surrounded by Iran, Pakistan, China and 3 former Soviet Republics and has been invaded often but never conquered. In this cultural crossroad live many ethnic groups Pashtuns, Tajik, Hazara, Uzbek, and Turkmen, these groups are further divided by tribe and family thus loyalty is very complicated. To me these are only names, but to the locals it is very important and determines everything. Not so long ago most of them were nomadic and lived by strict codes. Pushtunwali is the name of the Pushtun code where dishonor demands revenge and blood feuds may last for generations. In this land of extremes from scorched desert in the south to frozen mountains in the north there are few opportunities and competition is fierce. Pushtuns have dominated since the eighteenth century, as the people settled in cities and became less tribal this has slowly changed but resistance and resentment continue to hamper cooperation and progress is slow.

Despite my first impressions Afghanistan ranks high on my list of beautiful exotic places. Like many I spent my first night in Islam Qu’ala, a no mans land just inside Afghanistan. It exists to fleece travelers stranded there after passing thru the Afghan Customs post in the late afternoon because onward transportation is poor and dangerous after dark. In the short time I spent there I was offered every kind of contraband you could think of countless times yet every request for basic comfort was denied. Nevertheless I soon fell under the spell of Herat’s rustic charm. It is a tree-lined oasis with covered arcades, dusty streets and open sewers. It lies in the extreme west about as far as you can get from Kabul the capitol adding to its relaxed appeal. My introduction to the Tonga, a horse drawn carriage and popular taxi in parts of Asia was in Herat. As I was walking down the road in a daydream, I became aware of an impending collision with an oncoming Tonga. As I scrambled out of the way my foot came down in the fetid sewer. Thinking nothing at the moment I continued to explore and enjoy this exotic new place.

The Afghans are piss poor but very proud people; they are resourceful and generally honorable. They are primarily farmers but smugglers have a long history, trading in everything from weapons to drugs. The tea stall is their social center with its steaming samovar from which teapots and teacups are filled. Customers gossip while cups are washed in a large tub of cold water, mixing backwash and saliva with nothing but the hot tea to sterilize the vessel. Enterprising 10 year old money changers handle fat wads of currency quoting rates in pounds, francs and dollars faster than a calculator. Others do a brisk business distributing tea to shopkeepers. Men and women have separate cultures; children follow their gender models and do most of the hard labor. The men are vain from their meticulous beards and kohl eye makeup to their skillfully manipulated turbans. The few women ever seen are covered head to toe in the chador, with a tiny screen the size of 2 band aids thru which they breathe, see and speak, god forbid they should want to eat or drink something.

When I got to Kabul the nightmare started, I realized I had a nasty case of dysentery, which was to plague me for several weeks and eventually cause me to return home. I would spend hours in the bathroom, squatting as sit down toilets had not yet reached Afghanistan. Leaving for short periods only to be summoned back by urgent spasms. As days passed into weeks fear of finding and using a public toilet kept me close to the relative comfort of my hotel. I tried everything from modern medicine to folk remedies like opium, a strong binder, but nothing stopped the diarrhea and I’m convinced something’s made it worse.

As my condition degenerated I decided I couldn’t leave without the one thing made in Afghanistan, a beautiful rug. When my new Afghan friend offered to help me I got caught in a classic con and never saw it coming. I chose a shop at random and everything seemed normal as we sat down for the obligatory tea, then things turned uncomfortable as the merchant seemed to sense something. As I began to make my selection “my friend” and the merchant became adversarial and this I took as normal price negotiation. Then on leaving the store with the new rug on his shoulder it was off to the Post Office, where he handed it over to his accomplice, who pretended to prepare it for shipping while extracting his commission in the form of postage fees. Needless to say I never saw that rug again.

I stayed in Kabul about a month, where one of my few luxuries was a hot shower. This involved paying “baksheesh” a bribe to the boy who had to carry a bundle of wood to the fifth floor where it was fed into a crude hot water heater. There was never enough time before the poorly vented room filled with smoke causing me to exit choking but clean. One of my biggest disappointments is not exploring the narrow streets and alleys on the hill just behind my hotel. They remained as vague and mysterious as the mountains that sometimes appeared in the distance. The Hindukush, Karakoram and the mighty Himalaya lay to the north and east through the Khyber Pass lay India my goal.

By mid April my situation seemed critical. I weighed my options, and staying In Kabul was not one of them. My return ticket on Pan Am was good from Rome, but with $50 to my name, I could not afford to fly there from Kabul and I was afraid I would not survive the horrendous overland trip, but if I could get to Istanbul there was a cheap flight from there. Afghanistan has no trains at all and half of Iran is rail less. From Teheran the train runs more or less direct with a ferry transfer across Lake Van in Turkey. The trains are slow, dirty and unpredictable but so much better than busses. So with much trepidation I started my ordeal by bus from Kabul to Kandahar, to Heart, to Tayebad, to Meshed, to Teheran each leg on an independent carrier on 5 consecutive days, sometimes driving 12 hours with only one stop.

In Teheran I found the weekly train to Istanbul was full so I decided to continue to Erzurum where the train ran daily. When I finally arrived in Istanbul it was midnight, 10 days after leaving Kabul, I was dirty and tired but happy. My ordeal had ended with a small miracle.