('On-line' text of)

'VIA RISHIKESH
- A HITCH-HIKER'S TALE'
An account of hitch-hiking from England to Europe,
North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan & India in 1970
by Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2006

* Dedicated to John Vaughan *

INTRODUCTION

Hovering about in a state of indecision, drained of all energy, I have begun to feel that I am really cracking up. I can't recollect a time when decisions were so hard to make, nor a time of such deep anguish. I have become muddled, introverted and quietly desperate, a shadow of my former self. But, until recently I have been going through one of the happiest periods of my life. However, the notion that in travel I might re-discover myself causes a ray of light and hope to probe the otherwise gloomy reaches of my mind.

As a child (youngest of four) cherished by my parents, I enjoyed myself immensely, indulging in the normal games and pursuits of my years. Summer holidays, attending the Cub Scouts and visits to the swimming baths being my favourite treats, not to mention sweets of course. Through bus-spotting and train-spotting I got to know my way around London whilst still at primary school.

Academically I showed some potential, though my distaste for school's imprisoning atmosphere prevented me from realising it. Much of the time at school was spent in daydreams that I wove to entertain myself, to distract myself from the tedium. Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed, I was quietly turning into a rebel! I recall the headmaster of Roehampton Church School (a Church of England primary school), Mr Whitacker, on discovering I had torn up my 'Dental Check' form, phoned my mother to tell her what was in store, 'That boy will be a juvenile delinquent. Just you wait and see!'

On returning home for lunch that day, my mother told me, 'I was making marmalade at the time, and his phoning made it stick to the pan. It all got burnt, I was very annoyed else I would have been behind the front door waiting for you with the copper stick.' She smiled at me indulgently; for we had no such item in the house. I didn't know what a delinquent was, but I doubted if this was the time to ask.

The headmaster also made another prediction, namely that I would fail my Eleven Plus. He seemed really put out when proved wrong, but after finding out what grammar school was like, however, I felt mine to be a hollow victory. The facilities this elitist single-sex school offered proved to be truly desperate, resulting in most of the teaching coming from the blackboard. At Westminster City School I was taught at by formidable masters in black gowns, routinely exposed to jibes and insults, and all too frequently subjected to humiliation, the opportunities to express ourselves being so severely limited, I began to loathe the place intensely.

As with most adolescents, 'image' meant a lot to me, and with the trend towards wearing the hair long, I was determined to let mine grow; at least over my collar. Encouragement to do this was offered from an unlikely quarter - an oil painting that hung in the school's main hall. Of immense size it portrayed the school's founder King Charles II, his hair, his crowning glory, flowing over his shoulders in a cascade of tightly wound black curls, majestically framing his face. Draped in fantastic finery, rich and colourful raiment, shoes of white satin, he presided over morning assembly day after day.

Seated on the stage and flanked by his cohorts, a sea of mortar boards, the tall stooped figure of the headmaster would rise, step to the lectern, make his address, then he would pause dramatically, a pained expression pinching his grey features, his eyes staring icily:
'Will the following boys see me after assembly... Brooks, Mason....' he reeled off further names, all the usual suspects!

Sitting in the wood panelled vestibule, I pondered on what he might want with me. But having a clear conscience - on this occasion - I took the opportunity to relish these moments of calm pleased of a valid excuse for being late at first lesson. When the door to the study opened Brooks emerged and fixed me with a conspiratorial grin before gesturing me to go inside.

Standing in front of the Head, hands clasped, I waited for him to speak. Springing from his chair he ordered me to put on my cap. Obediently I removed the tattered object from my blazer pocket and proceeded to perch it on my head.

'Just as I thought,' he snapped, 'I can't see it! Get your hair cut immediately or I will suspend you. Do you understand? Return here for my approval, now go boy!'

Cast as the 'black sheep' it became increasingly difficult to take my schooling seriously. Cooped up and listless, I did not apply myself, 'Has the ability', 'Must try harder' and 'Could do much better' were phrases I became very familiar with.

The usually joyless lessons in chemistry provided the ingredient for a most enduring fantasy:- When the rest of the class having left the room, I would extract a large piece of phosphorous from its stoppered bottle and leave it smouldering on the bench top. Eventually setting fire to the classroom, the resulting conflagration would rid me of this hated institution.

In a bid to find freedom I absorbed myself in my hobbies, my interests and in my growing social life. Lucky with girl friends, I enjoyed the reassurance that I could be valued, even desired. In a climate of changing social values I was allowed considerable scope to pursue my desires. Seizing this freedom, I set out to discover the world on my own terms.

Though from an early age I had attended Christian Science Sunday School, lessons concerning the nature and existence of God puzzled me greatly. As time wore on, I freely began to admit my incapacity to benefit from this tuition. At fourteen years old, this forced upon me a need for self-reliance and independence, soon causing me to question and dismiss the disciplines imposed on me, lock, stock and barrel. Openly rebelling against authority and convention, I flaunted well-intentioned guidance regarding diet and alcohol. Temptation to taste the pleasures of sex and drugs then craved my attention. In the following few years considerable rein was given to my appetite in these fields.

Influenced by the flourishing music scene, I tried to find my place in it. With its commitment to innovation and experiment there was room for anyone with enthusiasm, myself included I hoped. The burgeoning growth of interest in the arts brought interesting books and magazines within my means and grasp, filling my mind with new horizons. In this literature I discovered a rising tide of optimism of international proportion, springing from and gripping the young. To a lesser extent this openness was evident in or at least affecting the older generations too.

London - the capital of the world - appeared to be sharing and participating in a mood of easy going optimism, For many Londoners, even acquiring work during this period, presented no real problems though the pay was not that good.

A new vocabulary was being adopted, the usage of which conferred status upon its users most readily sought. New terms and concepts abounded and amongst them appeared those such as 'Mind Expansion' and 'Self-Realisation', ideas which stirred me. Eagerly I sought to familiarise myself with the means of their fulfilment.

The 'Love and Peace' years were good times for many, strident optimism accompanied by quaint naivety, when being sweet natured was considered positively trendy. On us however were heaped the hopes, dreams and aspirations of our elders. Could we do a better job than they were doing? Dubbed the 'Now' generation we were, for better or worse, watched and listened to with unprecedented attention.

All too soon though, many of those so eager to espouse this new cause became side-tracked, some falling prey to the degenerative effects of hedonism. It seemed to some that we were neither discovering new answers, nor paying much heed to the old ones.

Initially working for a hip poster company in Portobello Road (in the summer of '68, where else should I work?), my father then offered me to work for him. He had recently left his secure and I assume, relatively well-paid position in industry to become self-employed, opening up a light engineering and electronics company.

I took the job as High Vacuum Technician, and indeed, I was (high) most of the time. Working alongside Rudi (Jimi Hendrix lookalike and good buddy) and the rest of them, I was happy in my work. Even Jimmy Young on the Beeb, with his incessant cheerfulness sounded pretty good most days. I worked quite contentedly though not because I held any great store by the work ethic, I placed greater importance on my private life, never thinking much further than the next pay day, basking in the belief that things would always sort themselves out.

After a year or so of happy workaday association, my father intimated to me that I might one day take over his business. This set me thinking. Whilst the business was prospering, he was not. He had little time for anything other than for business, a shame since he had other interests and a home eager for his attention. His health too was suffering; he needed time for himself. And I needed to move on.

My lack of enthusiasm to settle down stemmed from my thirst for new experiences, a wish to make my own way through life. Coasting along I added pastry cooking and epoxy resin casting to my list of talents. I enjoyed myself, after all if you don't take life too seriously; you can always find a laugh, can't you? Besides which, there is always 'life after work' isn't there?

By '69, the year of my seventeenth birthday the trend was quite definitely towards indulgence, indulgence to excess! The 'Swinging Sixties' if not quite over were definitely on the wane. The business world gradually awoke to the commercial possibilities of an affluent youth market and seized their opportunities unhesitatingly. The young for their part, myself included, provided easy targets. Any strong desire to do other than slavishly conform to new trends was not particularly evident. This is not to say these were bad times, quite the contrary in fact. As the music found a harder edge with groups like Jeff Beck and Led Zeppelin gaining prominence and showing the way, I was really in my element. I enjoyed too, the unending atmosphere of partying that for me characterised this era. Nevertheless the excesses that had became the norm did sometimes cause me concern.

This concern seemed to be shared by the Chelsea based magazine Gandalf's Garden, which bravely sought to redress the balance. The magazine pointed a rather nervous finger in the general direction of macrobiotic food, yoga and meditation, carrying articles on mysticism alongside interviews of the likes of Marc Bolan of Tyrannosaurus Rex and disc jockey John Peel. Personally I bought it on account of the attractive graphic images contributed by John Hurford and Michael English, having done so I necessarily cast my eyes over the text. Though not that enamoured with the magazine over all, I did however like its direction.

With the return of an Italian girl friend on New Years Eve December '69, I found the thought of resuming work in a factory quite untenable. For several weeks I gave the job a miss altogether, until popping in one day, I informed them that I was leaving to form a rock group, for that was my intention.

Over the next few months I enjoyed myself immensely. Yolanda and I had been writing to each other whilst she had been in Italy, this had convinced us of our need to know each other better. We shared a mutual fascination in each other. Set to enjoy each others company to the full, day after day she would come to see me. Yolanda and I spent our time regaling each other with our life stories, discovering shared opinions, sharing our love. I perceived a deep abiding affinity with each other which reassured me that we were made for each other. Certainly there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love. Realising that we were fortunate to have found each other, we committed ourselves to a lifetime together. The bond being so desired and so strong we wished to be treated as a married couple though we weren't bothered about it being 'official', there was time for all that, perhaps when I became rich and famous! Such was my happiness that I could see nothing but good fortune and happiness for us. A fairy tale romance in a modern age, two souls destined to share and love each other eternally. I believed that my most treasured desires would gain fruition. My cup ran over, or so I thought.

Then it happened, a lecture on fidelity. According to Yolanda, it was unacceptable even to retain a fondness, let alone a love for old flames or sweethearts. 'If you love somebody, you have to give them all your love, you can't share it with other girls!' she blistered.

I stared at her in disbelief and discovered to my alarm that she was serious. On this occasion I shrugged it off but the bone of contention re-surfaced time and time again.

As fun as it usually was to be with my girlfriend, this question came to vex me greatly, an unwelcome intrusion on my emotions. Maybe this was all part of the age-old game of love, an act of courtship, Perhaps hers was a valid viewpoint, I couldn't be sure. I had no way of knowing. Whichever way I looked at the matter, I was reminded of how much she meant to me. I felt guilt at not having 'saved myself' for her. I took her rebukes as flattery, as promise of a higher and more precious love that perhaps she alone could give. Old love letters and mementoes duly jettisoned, I felt safe from further attack.