The mists of time cloud my memory. Now, as a much older man in my seventies, I trawl through the myriad travel sites on my computer, and reminisce of journeys, now long gone. Yes, still travelling, but I fear the years of my backpacking are all but gone, to be replaced with genteel days on a cruise ship, the graveyard of the ageing backpacker, now sadly demoted from traveller and adventurer to merely a tourist. Sadly, such is the inexorable passage of time.
I still have my old notebooks from days gone by, with my first backpacking trip in the early seventies, taking me overland from home in the UK, to hopefully Australia. I remember with clarity the day I left home, the bravado all gone, replaced with fear at what lay ahead, and a deflated ego, scared of what was to come. France, Turkey, Albania, Pakistan, India, Afghanistan... and Iran. All achieved by many tiring hours overland on buses and trains.
Who remembers the old method of keeping in touch before the mobile phone and the internet?... Poste Restante! Careful forward planning allowed loved ones to send you a letter to the main post office in all the cities along the way. Truly an exasperating exercise for the recipient, trawling through the totally disorganised boxes filled by staff with little knowledge of the order of western Christian names and surnames; all mixed in with letters so old and worn, the traveller had long since moved on to far off lands. Those of us who received their packets of gold, could be seen hidden in corners, and sitting outside, all in a distant world of their own, if only for a few minutes, before returning to reality 'Yes, we are well,' 'the dogs are fine,' and 'I still love you.' And so the reader relaxes... all is well with the world.
I retrieved my girlfriend's letter, and walked out of the massive hall into the blinding light of an Iranian morning in Tehran. Now, where to find a peaceful spot to read. As I stood there surveying the cacophony of central Tehran, I felt a tug on my trousers. I looked down at the emaciated old man, doubtless a mere shadow of his former self. No legs, white hair and dishevelled dirty clothes sitting on a board. Propelled by two bricks in his hands, he smiled up at me and asked me questions familiar to all travellers. 'Where are you from?' 'what is your name?' I did not hurry off, instead I found myself sitting next to him at eye level. Regretfully I cannot remember all of what we talked about, or his name, except his English was superb and so I was drawn into his former world. He regaled me with stories of work under British rule in India, and his job at Delhi railway station. His regret that the British were no longer in charge. 'It was safe in those days, it was so organised,' he told me.
Locals would pass us by, looking on in disdain at me talking to such a low life entity. Or was it that, with the Ayatollah now back in power, the dislike of foreigners was palpable as ever? An hour passed in conversation before I politely gave him the excuses we all use to extricate ourselves. Needless to say, I crossed his palm with a dollar or two.
Depending on where you are, it's not always easy to move on, especially on an Indian train with the younger generation wanting to know all about your personal life, and especially your girlfriend. With rail journeys in the sub continent many hours long, a good book was a godsend, and a distraction. On this occasion, I quietly walked away.
Sadly, I have no photo of us. Too busy taking pictures of the various and innumerable monuments, mostly, now unrecognisable in my photo collections. Where was that? Indeed, what country?
So often it was the unforeseen moments on my travels; a wonderful hit between the eyes at some unexpected, amazing view, or a chance meeting with a local, from which you do not walk away, costing nothing, which sit in your mind years later. Being ripped off by the assistant manager whilst spending two days in bed with “Delhi belly” in Afghanistan. Or leaving my wallet in the Tehran hotel safe only to find my passport intact, but the fifty dollars missing, a king's ransom to a poor backpacker. Or the sinking feeling when I realised the only water available on the twelve hour wretched coach journey was a communal water pot beside the driver, with only one cup for all forty of us. I looked at my neighbour coughing up phlegm onto the floor.. and shuddered.
No, I remember stepping over an open gulley where fresh water for the local community and sewage mixed in, and standing on a foul rubbish dump overlooking a small Afghan village. An inquisitive young boy, maybe twelve years old, caught my eye and came over. I did not introduce myself, but he wanted only to practise his English. As he left, I shouted to him; 'hey! how did you know I was English?' He replied, 'English, German, Spanish, I speak them all.' He smiled, and then was gone.
The old man in Tehran; the child on the rubbish dump. I didn't see them coming.