Intro II
In the two decades that followed World War II, America entered a period of unprecedented prosperity. We, the children born into this era, grew up in a world vastly different from that of our parents. They had endured the Great Depression, fought in global conflicts, and faced hardships we could scarcely imagine. In contrast, we came of age in the 1950s and 1960s — a time of booming industry, suburban growth, and relative material comfort. For the first time in history, an entire generation had the luxury to not just survive, but to reflect, to critique, question and to rebel against the very structures that had secured their well-being.
This was no accident of history. The generation that came before us, shaped by the experience of war, returned home from battlefields scarred, but resolute in their desire for peace and normalcy. The postwar boom that followed was fueled by returning soldiers eager to settle down, marry, and start families. We, their children — Baby Boomers — were conceived in this rush to forget the trauma of war and rebuild a world worth living in. We were, in every sense, a product of war and its aftermath.
Our formative years were spent in an era defined as “post-war,” yet we were not truly at peace. The looming threat of the Cold War shadowed our lives, with weekly air raid drills serving as grim reminders of potential nuclear annihilation. As we matured, we saw the simmering tensions between the superpowers escalate into proxy wars, most notably in Vietnam, which for many of us would come to symbolise everything wrong with the world we had inherited. Before we were old enough to vote, we had already lived through the Kennedys and Dr. King assassinations, civil rights struggles, race riots, a space race, a missile standoff in Cuba, and the slow death of the old social order. These events unfolded against the backdrop of a society unsure of its own future, and for the most part we were expected to make sense of it all before we had even reached adulthood.
This was the context in which we rebelled. Is it any wonder that we, born into a world of such contradictions, sought to overturn it? The postwar promise of prosperity felt hollow when faced with the injustices we saw around us — racial inequality, gender discrimination, and the ever-growing corruption of politics. Ours was a generation that believed in the possibility of change and was willing to fight for it. We marched for civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, environmental protections, and an end to the Vietnam War. The idealism of our youth was not naïve — it was necessary, forged in a world that seemed destined to repeat the mistakes of the past.
The war at home was fought on many fronts. The civil rights movement, which began as a struggle for racial equality, quickly expanded to encompass a broader fight for social justice. The feminist movement sought to dismantle the patriarchal structures that had long defined women’s roles. The LGBTQ+ movement began to challenge societal norms and demand recognition and rights. Simultaneously, a growing environmental awareness emerged, as we began to see the consequences of unchecked industrial growth. And, of course, there was the fight against the war in Vietnam — a conflict that many of us saw as both unjust and unnecessary, a bloody reminder that the lessons of World War II had not been learned.
At the same time, the youth culture of the 1960s was undergoing a profound transformation. The artists, poets, and musicians of the era became the voice of a generation searching for meaning. Through their work, they articulated our discontent, raising questions about the very foundations of society, but offering few concrete answers. The existentialism of Sartre, the beat poetry of Ginsberg, and the stream-of-consciousness prose of Kerouac all captured the restless spirit of the time. Bob Dylan’s lyrics, echoing the frustrations of a generation, became anthems of change, while Allen Ginsberg’s *Howl* gave voice to the inner turmoil of a society on the brink of collapse.
In many ways, our intellectual and cultural rebellion was a continuation of a philosophical tradition that stretched back to the 19th century. Arthur Rimbaud, the French poet who had lived a century before us, was a kindred spirit. His belief in the necessity of, debauchery, and the “disordering of the senses” and poetry as pathways to artistic insight found new resonance in our generation’s embrace of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Like Rimbaud, we saw life not as a linear journey to a fixed destination, but as an ongoing process of discovery and self-creation. Experience, in all its forms, became our guide.
This quest for meaning led many of us to turn away from the materialism and consumerism that defined postwar America. We sought alternative lifestyles and spiritual awakenings, often looking to the East for answers that Western philosophy seemed unable to provide. The romanticized images of the East — of gurus, pagodas, and mystical wisdom — drew many young people to embark on literal and figurative journeys of self-discovery. It was an era when the lines between spiritual enlightenment and hedonism were blurred, and many of us believed that by exploring altered states of consciousness through psychedelics, we might unlock deeper truths about ourselves and the universe.
But not all who set out on these journeys found what they were looking for. The search for alternate realities through drugs often ended in disillusionment, addiction, and tragedy. Some of our generation became casualties — not only of the drugs that flooded our streets but of the wars we were sent to fight, whether in the jungles of Vietnam or in the inner cities of America. Many of our brothers and sisters never returned from these battles, lost to a system that neither understood nor cared for them.
Despite the losses, rock and roll provided us with hope and unity. It was more than poetry set to music; it was a movement that bound us together, giving voice to our frustrations and aspirations. Gatherings like Woodstock were more than festivals; they were moments of collective awakening, where the ideals of peace, love, and unity felt tangible, if only for a fleeting moment. In those days, we truly believed we could change the world, and in many ways, we did.
For a brief window of time in the late 1960s and early 1970s, it was even possible to physically explore the world in a way that would soon become impossible. The overland route from Europe to Asia allowed adventurous travellers to trace ancient paths, crossing borders and cultures in search of spiritual and cultural enlightenment.
Those who made this journey endured countless hardships — 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.unsanitary conditions, sickness, dangerous roads, bandits, and hostile locals to name a few — but the rewards were immeasurable. We felt as though we were walking in the footsteps of Marco Polo, part of an unbroken lineage of explorers, seekers, adventurers and wanderers.
It is during this brief era that this story takes place. Amidst the travellers who passed through on their pilgrimage, were an inner core who were dedicated to a nomadic existence. 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 travelled along, educated in tribal ethics and customs, seasonal nomadic communities were formed nonetheless. Outposts like Goa, Bali and Kathmandu to name a few served as seasonal residences in Asia during those years.
For the most part we subsisted by trading, whatever 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 in existence today.
This period of travelling freely between Europe and Asia overland did not last. The Russian invasion of Afghanistan in 1979, along with the rise of religious fundamentalism and the geopolitical upheavals that followed, closed these routes for good. But for those of us who made the journey, it was a transformative experience — a chance to see the world and ourselves in a new light.
Looking back, it is easy to view our generation with a sense of nostalgia or even cynicism. But the idealism that drove us was real, and it shaped the world we live in today. Yes, we were naïve, but it was that very innocence — the belief that anything was possible, that the universe would provide — and a strict belief in Karma, that allowed us to dream so big and to take such bold risks.
As I tell this story, I ask the reader to remember the context in which we lived. Our beliefs, which may now seem quaint or idealistic, were the product of a time of profound change, and it was that spirit of exploration, rebellion, and hope that defined us. At that time we were convinced we could shape the world into something better, and for a while we did.
