Foreword
War Babies
In the twenty years of rebuilding in the aftermath of World War Two, we American kids growing up in the prosperous 1950s and 1960s enjoyed an era without the hardships faced by previous eras. For the first time ever, an entire generation of young people had the opportunity to critically evaluate and question their society and its values, and to test the boundaries; an adventurous generation devoted to the acquisition of experience and self-knowledge.
This was a generation either conceived during the uncertainties of a world at war, or in the rush of returning warriors looking to settle down and wash away the horrors they had experienced on the battlefield. War babies, or Baby Boomers, were a generation conceived as a direct result of the horrors of war.
It was an era called “post war”, brought up under the sirens of weekly air raid drills and uncertainties of the cold war, and then a sweltering war in the jungles of Vietnam, a generation that saw assassinations, demonstrations, race riots, an arms race, a missile standoff and a moon landing; the death of old values, and martered leaders. This was a lot to live through, for the most part before the age of 21.
Is it any great mystery why those of us of those times fought for change, and fearlessly lived the changes in which we believed?
The war we fought at home required bravery and idealism. Women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights, environmental awareness, , an end to arcane drug laws, and an end to a corrupt war and a corrupt political administration, were hard fought battles to gain those freedoms. (And until recently things subsequent generations came to take for granted.)
The songwriters and poets of the time took the lead. Their words clarified the youth’s thoughts raising big questions, but actually provided few answers.
One hundred years earlier the poet Arthur Rimbaud voiced passionate belief that disordering of the senses and suffering are essential aspects of an artist’s journey, yet the most profound novelty is the elevation of the journey above the destination. He espoused a creed of, debauchery, drunkenness and poetry; the forerunner of the creed of sex, drugs and rock and roll of a generation to come 100 years later.
This was a theme that surfaced everywhere within the writings and lyrics of his prodigy, in the 1960’s and early 70’s. This message is prevalent in the writings of Sartre, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs and the beats, Dylan and the legions of poets writers and musicians who followed in their footsteps.
Simultaneously a shift in consciousness and spiritual awakening in the West was unfolding. Waves of the young, for the most part unsatisfied with the vacuous options society provided, sought self-knowledge, spiritual awakening and alternative lifestyles. Leaving “no turn unstoned”, the journey was the destination: transformation the goal.
The, romanticised, metaphysical East of Magic Carpets, Pagodas, and Gurus, the enticement of spiritual knowledge and exotic mysticism lured the dissatisfied and adventurous willing to take the risk and investigate different pathways.
To many, dropping out was a viable option, easier than fighting, and many drug causalities silently dropped out, as they grew aware of the hopelessness of their situation. The lost brothers and sisters of our youth, be they lost onr a corrupt war that they had no choice but to fight, or from the drugs that flooded the streets and provided a momentary escape.
If Psychedelics and the search for alternate realities helped open one’s mind, and often sparked an increased spiritual awareness, they didn’t really provide any solid answers either. Those answers had to be searched for.
Rock and Roll gave hope. It was the soundtrack to the times and gatherings like Woodstock brought a lost generation together by instilling a sense of unity and conviction.
I don’t know when the route to Asia opened up making it possible for travellers to get from Europe to Asia overland, but it was a brief window in history for those lucky and adventurous enough to make the trek.
A traveler had to be ready to carry everything that they needed which was usually kept down to the barest minimum, or less, give up any comforts of Western civilisation, like TV, or telephones, eat suspect local food; usually with your fingers, suffer unsanitary conditions, bandits, hostile tribes, ride in overcrowded busses and trucks at breakneck speeds over dangerous roads and risk everything for this adventure. Yet any of us who made it would tell you that the countless hazards and sacrifices were a small price to pay weighed against the rewards.
Throughout history the lands of Europe the Middle East Central and Southeast Asia were torn apart by wars, revolutions unfriendly political or religious regimes, and economic upheaval, which made this trip impossible. In many cases we walked over paths that were last travelled by Marco Polo.
The Russian backed overthrow of the moderate Daud regime in April of 1978, and the 1979 invasion of Afghanistan, and subsequent unfriendly regimes, and the advent of religious fundamentalism for the most part closed the roads. It was a brief period from the late 1960’s up until the Russian invasion of Afghanistan ended the possibility of travelling the world overland.
It started as a generation seeking new values coming of age and setting out to explore the world.
From an anthropological perspective, there was a tribe of perhaps a few hundred serious members, and hundreds more part time followers. We were nomadic, moving with the seasonal shifts of temperature, the Monsoons, the dry season. We came from many different backgrounds and countries of origin, but shared a culture of our own, unique in our tribal grounds, trade routes, language, music, costume, beliefs and attitude. Children were born into it and traveled along, educated in tribal ethics and customs, seasonal nomadic communities were formed nonetheless.
For the most part we subsisted by trading, whatever wares we either made ourselves or bought and sold again further along the trail. It was hedonistic; spiritual, creative an education, a party a quest all rolled into a unique nomadic communal life. A circus like atmosphere prevailed over our gatherings, we all knew each other. Many were reborn and took new names, Flea markets were organized in most European capitals, business established, mainly to provide subsistence and to support our lifestyles.
A few cottage industries were set up employing local craftsmen, some have gone on to grow into multinational companies still existing today.
This was this atmosphere and the backdrop for the story that’s about to unfold. The reader is asked to remember that the character’s beliefs may seem naive in today’s contemporary consciousness, it was that very naivety, and the belief that somehow “the universe would provide” that gave us the courage to embark on whatever adventure might spontaneously arise.
Further
My bag was packed, I had a roast beef sandwich a couple of apples and a piece of cake from my family fridge, an old sweatshirt, a worn corduroy jacket with suede elbow patches sewn on, a compass, a sketchbook, notebook, a few pens and pencils in a little box, a Swiss army knife, A Hohner Marine Band Harmonica, (key of C), 40 dollars, my dads old Argus camera loaded with a roll of film with only 2 or 3 shots left on it, (so they better be good ones), a can of Campbell’s pork and beans, a mess kit, sleeping bag, and a copy of, Castaneda’s,’ Teachings of Don Juan”, an I Ching, and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. At around 11:30 Charlie showed up.
We did an inventory, he had a couple of tuna sandwiches, a Texaco triple A road map, some clothes, camping gear a copy of On The Road, $20 dollars and a postcard from his brother in Albuquerque bearing his return address. This was going to be a surprise visit. The picture postcard showed a desert landscape and this was pretty much the only idea we had of what it was going to be like.
We walked to the Junction Blvd. El, station, hopped the turnstile, and made our way to the entrance of the Holland Tunnel. It was there I gave Charlie 10 dollars, just so we would both have 30, and things would be even. We naively made a sign that said, “California” from a cardboard box found by the side of the road. We stuck out our thumbs.
By nightfall we had made it to somewhere in Western Pennsylvania. Walking along the road we came upon a country store. Charlie looked up at the old moon clock out front and rhymed ”A quarter to eight and still straight”… well that wouldn’t do. We split the cost of the cheapest pint of wine available, the kind that came in a pocket flask flat bottle, and to our surprise the old man behind the counter didn’t even ask to see our (false) id!, and a loaf of bread. We stepped outside on the old wooden porch of the country store into the night chill, cracked the cap on the wine and Charlie produced from his shirt pocket a tiny thin toothpick of a joint, stolen from his older brother’s stash back home in Queens, and replaced with some oregano, it already seemed a million miles and a lifetime away…. AH!… Vietnamese herb! At least the war was good for one thing.
We walked along the dark country road, and soon came upon a hilltop overlooking the highway, suddenly the word seemed so funny, the High -Way,, we laughed. I liked to call it the Free-way, and we laughed about that too. We lit a small hobo fire and warmed up the can of beans and broke out the loaf of wonder bread, eating in silence and surveying the surrounding area.. The fire died down it was misty and a chill set in. it was early April and was so cold I had to bury my head all the way down into my sleeping bag which was laid out rite on the soggy grass, we forgot to bring a ground cloth. It was damp, we didn’t mind at all, and the night was black and alive with crickets. I looked at the postcard one last time for the day and passed it back.
Later a truck passed by below us and it sounded like it was going rite over our heads. I popped my head out and saw the wet highway glistening in his brights. It seemed to stretch out forever. It was then, at that moment it occurred to me, there we were a couple of kids from the wild New York City streets, never hitched a ride any further than Rockaway Beach, but suddenly it was all behind us. The Atlantic Ocean was somewhere far behind us too, at our backs, and it seemed like the road stretched out all the way to Golden California and the blue Pacific. I knew that this was the beginning, the beginning of something huge. Something that would rule my life forever, the adventure of uncertainty, the escape from mundanity and the workaday tedium of our homes, the quest for the unknown and it’s potential, the dreams of the legendary free love and braless “California Girls”. Add the, ”I don’t give a fuck” attitude of a 17 year old rebellious city kid to the mix and you have a dangerous combination and a recipe for adventure. Onwards and into the unknown. These principles came to govern the next 50 years of my life, and at that time I had no idea to what lengths it would take me.
From the lower East side, to lower East Asia, from African deserts to fertile tropical paradises, from sleeping on bus station floors, to designing and building my own tropical paradise estate, from eating a monkey served up by jungle tribes with my fingers to dining in palaces with Royalty, to crossing continents and oceans, by camels caravans, by car, van, rickshaw, train, ocean freighters, and first class compartments of luxury liners, and jetliners, by bicycle, motorcycle, and by foot. From being in handcuffs and chains, to sitting at the feet of Indian mystics and Tibetan Lamas, from hedonistic revelry, to ascetic fasting and meditating in a Japanese Zen monastery. Throughout countless global circumnavigations the concept of, “Further” came to rule my life. But who could have known in this momentary inexplicable flash, that this was only the beginning?