'Via Rishikesh' - Chapter 2

('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

Chapter 2 A GOOD OMEN Emerging from my mother's flat, I climb the red-bricked steps with what little dignity and grace I can muster. Fine droplets of drizzle lightly fall on my upturned face, cool and refreshing. Wrenching another last goodbye from my anguish, I make my way as purposefully across the driveway as my weakened legs will allow. The gorgeous scent of the rose bushes catches me for a brief moment as I take one last wistful look at the house in which I have lived for the last eighteen years. As Yolanda and I walk along the pavement, I wonder if this will this be the last time I will see my home, the last time I will walk down this road? Nearing the bus stop, my girlfriend looks at me enquiringly. 'We could go by Underground or by British Railways, the big trains,' I volunteer. 'What's the easiest?' she asks. 'The Underground's further and the walk to the other railway station we could manage without taking the bus.' I look over my shoulder, still no bus in sight. Yolanda looks confused; she is not au fait with the transport system. My words came back to me, as they sometimes do. At once, I realise how confusing my answer sounds. I am struck too by the absurdity of the situation. Embarking on a journey to foreign parts, this is no time to launch upon a dissertation about travel in London. 'Oh come on, let's just start walking,' I suggest, as I walk off in the direction of Putney Station. Countless times, I have waited at the nearby bus stop. As a schoolboy it had given me the chance to chat up girls from the local comprehensive school. 'Why can't you explain?' Yolanda asks, catching me up and walking beside me. 'Don't worry the station is not very far. We can easily walk it.' Passing past the row of local shops I recollect those holidays when I had worked at Godfrey's the greengrocers or the times I worked at the florists with old Mr Dando, he of the relaxed and friendly country manner. Amazingly, I never once saw him grumpy or angry. Onwards we trudge, the drizzle slowly turning into rain. But this is the Summer, already late July! And really how absurd is it to be wandering off like this in a downpour? I am really tempted to turn back but just then my brother’s words echo in my ears. We walk on. 'Only a few minutes more and we'll be there,' I comment to my girlfriend encouragingly. She stares at me disbelievingly, but she keeps her silence. On seeing the Globe Cinema I remember back to the day of it's re-opening, when our family went to see a comic railway film entitled Titfield Thunderbolt. Since then it has changed ownership and name, now it is the Cinecenta showing offbeat films, titles like Les Biches and Charlie Bubbles. 'I saw Wonderwall at that cinema. George Harrison did the music. Brilliant it was,' I enthuse. 'Are we almost at the station?' Yolanda asks, 'I'm getting soaked.' 'Yup! The station's right here.' After purchasing two singles to Victoria I show them to the West Indian ticket collector who recognising me nods agreeably. The train is just pulling in which is timely. We are soon pulling out of the station. 'This is the way I used to go to school,' I tell Yolanda. 'Oh really?' she answers disinterestedly. 'Yes, I went this way every day. Henderson went there too, it was quite a good school you know.' 'Really?' she asks warming to the subject. 'Quick we're at Clapham Junction, we have to change here.' 'Oh I've been to Clapham before when I went to see someone in Peckham.' 'Peckham? That's on the 37 bus route,' I say in reflex response. Taking our time now, we descend the stairs and make our way along the damp smelling gloomy subway. 'Our train might come in on platform twelve and it might come on fourteen. Fast trains on twelve, locals on fourteen.' Yolanda looks at me a touch bewildered. 'Quick, run! It's on fourteen,' I call. We make it up the stairs and clamber onto the train with only moments to spare. I have a desire to avoid the eyes of my fellow passengers and so I take to gazing out of the window. Clapham Junction, the biggest rail junction in the world! How many times I had sat on the ends of the platforms as a keen young train spotter, thr'penny notebook and blue Scripto pen in my hands, Branston pickle sandwiches and 'filthy' orange drink at the bottom of my duffel bag? Our train now climbs a viaduct taking us through bleak Battersea and then on to a bridge across the river. In my collection at home I have a very old ticket relating to this bridge, a third class ticket of the L.C.&D.R., the London, Chatham and Dover Railway, from a station named Grosvenor Road that used to stand here. Very old ticket, from about 1890. The train now rattles into the vast terminus of Victoria. We alight and make our way towards the ticket barrier; whereupon the collector snatches our tickets. 'Officious sod,' I think to myself, 'I won't be sorry to miss your kind!' I am reminded of the guy at the unemployment exchange. 'Right,' he had said, 'Next week when you come in, I want to see you looking smart. We're going to find you a job!' 'I won't be in next week, I'm off to India,' I had replied. 'Well .. Just you come in smart that's all,' he had stuttered trying to sound as self-assured as he didn't look. Before looking for the ticket office I check with Yolanda concerning our tickets to France. 'We book to Dover, then get a ticket for the boat at the other end,' she informs me. So we proceeded towards the other side of the station. I have never travelled from this side before; this is where the 'specials' depart from, the Golden Arrow and the Orient Express 'Shall we change some money?' I ask. 'We've got time, about twenty minutes according to the timetable. How many francs do we get for the pound? A franc's about one and sixpence isn't it?' 'I'm not sure,' Yolanda replies vaguely. 'Well you ought to, after all you've been there before. I haven't.' Yolanda becomes embarrassed; she looks beautiful when she gets embarrassed. Standing by the departure board, purposeful youngsters wait, baggage, suitcases, holdalls, backpacks strewn about their feet and nearby them, a clump of bicycles. We negotiate a passage past them and approach the train. The carriages appear to be crammed full, faces furtively look back at me as we search for a couple of vacant seats. 'It's packed full,' I exclaim. But we keep looking and about half way up the long line of coaches we find some vacant seats. Placing our belongings on the netted string luggage rack we sit ourselves down and I set about looking at the French currency notes and coins that we have obtained from the bank. Very attractive notes they are, much more attractive than British equivalents. It makes me wonder what the Bank of England was thinking of when recently they had abolished the ten bob note, replacing it with some silly looking coin. The first old coin to go was the farthing, last year it was the ha'penny and then around Christmas the dear old half-crown. It even looks as though they will eventually even drop the sixpence and shilling. I have still not forgiven them for withdrawing all those lovely early Victorian 'bun' pennies, they are very scarce these days. It isn't only me that doesn't like it, many found these changes unwelcome. But nowadays it's all changing, in France too by the looks of things, the coins and notes are marked 'nouveau' francs, I suppose the lightweight aluminium coins to be old francs. 'I wonder who this chick with the funny hairdo is on the banknotes?' I wonder aloud. The carriage gives a jerk. 'We're off!' 'Y-e-e-e-s,' says Yolanda, as if to her self. So, after weeks of indecision, prevarication and listless waiting spent in futile soul searching, we are finally OFF! I settle down to enjoy the view from the window, wiping the back of my hand across the window to remove the mist of condensation, my rings scratching against the glass make my teeth grate. Outside it is raining hard again, the Kent countryside the 'Garden of England' is virtually impossible to discern. The sound of the rattling of the wheels along the track, alongwith with the swaying motion of the train dissuades me from striking up further conversation with Yolanda. Passengers are getting up from their seats and reaching for their luggage. By the distinctive taste and smell of the air, I know we are near to the sea. Quite why people rush to the seaside in their droves to 'get a lung full of ozone' I don't know, personally I don't like the smell, it reminds me of chemistry lessons. Alighting from the train we go and purchase our ferry tickets before walking down to the quay. There I make for the sign marked 'UK PASSPORT HOLDERS' and hold out my passport and tickets. An official wearing peaked cap and naval style jacket casts his eyes over me and then at my passport. Yolanda as a 'foreign national' has to go through a different gate, but soon rejoins me and together we make our way up the gangway of the vessel. I stand for a moment watching the carloads of holidaymakers inching their way into the hold. Being a boat train I had thought that our train would also be transported across the Channel. I guess I take things too literally. I have waited for years to get something 'duty free', but we find the shop closed. As we stand waiting for it to open I note with interest the fine jewelled droplets of drizzle sparkling in my girlfriend's hair. The boat is soon off, cutting its way through the sea. I do hope the crossing will not be too choppy. The Duty Free Shop door is being unlocked, we now shuffle inside. Displayed are perfumes, spirits and a selection of electrical gadgets. Spotting the cigarettes I pick up a carton of Benson and Hedges. I ask myself when had I stopped smoking Gold Leaf cigarettes? And when did I dispense with good old humble roll-ups. Why these King Size numbers I ask? Is it peer pressure? Am I concerned with my image? Clutching our duty-frees we search about the many wooden benches fixed around the deck for a seat. They were all taken. 'Yolanda how long does it take to get across?' 'I can't remember. Two or three hours maybe?' 'It's a bit of a drag isn't it?' I respond. We watch some teenagers cavorting about trying to impress their girlfriends. I note that Yolanda finds their antics particularly unwelcome. 'Pitiful aren't they? Why can't they act their age?' she comments. 'I wish they'd cool it,' she adds haughtily. But, with the roar of the waves this comment is lost on them. I wonder why they can't go elsewhere and annoy someone else? One of them stares at us, a belligerent look of scorn written across his face. I suppose that he disapproves of our hippy appearance. Yolanda has chosen to wear her glossy black fur coat, black chiffon blouse, purple velvet trousers and open-toed wooden-soled Scholl sandals. Discovering that she chose to wear the fur coat made me think to out dig mine, a tattered brown one, a relic from the times when they were fashionable back in '68. I remember seeing Stevie Winwood wearing one on Top of the Pops in the height of summer performing 'I'm a Man', sweating profusely and grinning as if he was really 'out of it'. I like to wear fur; somehow it makes me feel closer to nature. I am also wearing a purple polo-neck sweatshirt and the jeans which a girl friend altered for me, sewing in extra denim to make them flare like sailors trousers. I have even bought myself some new shoes; sandy coloured desert boots, just for the trip. Failing to get the reaction they sought, the young couples have moved elsewhere. Or perhaps they have tired of their childish games or maybe we freaked them out. Whatever the reason they have gone. 'Good!' Yolanda remarks, making her way to a vacated seat. Wandering across the slippery deck to lean on the white painted tubular railings, I notice the coast of France coming into view. As a happy little boy on his holidays, whilst standing on the Dorsetshire cliffs near Weymouth I had long strained to see the French coastline. Now, sighting France for the first time I marvel at the resemblance of the coastline to our own South Coast, all chalk cliffs. Now if you could just push them together we'd be joined to France! I conjecture. It is soon time to disembark the ship and without surprise I note there is no reception committee waiting for us, only the 'Douane', the French customs officials. Our passports are soon checked and returned, and at a distance, I eye with curiosity what has been stamped in them.

Trudging through the dockyard, with its cranes and railway trucks, we now walk past the railway station, bristling with activity. Trains are waiting there, waiting to whisk our fellow travellers off to their holiday paradises. Gazing at the spectacle I try decoding the name of the organisation from its initials SNCF, Societe Nationale Chemin de Fer. 'National Society of the Iron Horse, that's a nice idea'…. but fortunately I realise my mistake; 'Iron Path' not 'Iron Horse'. We make our way out of the station yard with the hope and intention of getting a lift. It becomes immediately apparent that that the majority of the traffic on this road comprises families travelling in cars with caravans in tow. We soon find that, not only are they unwilling to offer us a lift but for the most part they are unable, packed as they were with children and luggage. Hours pass and there no vehicle stops for us, it is becoming fairly obvious that we will only become further demoralised by waiting here any longer. A tête-à-tête brings forth a solution. Without any further ado we decide to unroll the sleeping bags and bed down in an adjacent field for the night, so we do just that. I don't know how long it has been light but wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I stir and take in the new morning. Clearly, we have slept soundly beneath the open sky for I am now awake feeling refreshed and renewed. I look about me and my eyes fall on a the dark shape of young kitten lying asleep between our sleeping bags, seemingly warm and secure. This furry creature immediately becomes the focus of our attention. I am gratified that he has joined us like this, I see it as a good omen. We linger a while playing and cuddling him, before breakfasting on bread and fruit, the remains of our packed food. We fret that we can't feed the kitten nor can we even offer him any milk. We get our sleeping bags rolled and the rucksack fastened, then bid a fond farewell to our little friend and leave the field. After the disappointing wait the day before, we now resolve to walk further along the road, further out of Calais, figuring we stand more chance of getting a lift. As we walk, to our surprise we find the friendly kitten catches up with us. Presumably he belongs to one of the many caravans or bungalows dotted around about, so we tell him to go on home. As persistently as we discourage him from following us, nevertheless he trails after us and follows for about two miles. In desperation we hatch a plan to deter him staying with us. We will totally ignore him, (merely casting the occasional glance which confirming our fears). But alas the plan does not succeed. So, beginning to believe that fate has ordained him as a travelling companion, we discuss how we were going to smuggle him through passport controls and the problem of feeding him. But when I look around again, he has vanished. But, though it doesn't take a degree just common sense, to realise that it is all for the best, I feel an immediate sense of loss now he is gone for we have grown attached to him so quickly. Having walked for several miles, we develop quite a thirst and with no shops in sight deciede to knock at the door of the next house we come upon. On hearing our request for a glass of water the occupant slams the door shut in our faces. 'Some people!' Yolanda exclaims. As we continue along the road I notice the berets, moustaches and broad striped sweatshirts of the local men on bicycles, all with long French loaves protruding from their persons, they epitomise my expectations of the French. 'Are we ever going to get a lift?' I lament, 'At this rate we'll take years to get anywhere at all.' Just as I say this a lorry (or camion as Yolanda calls it) pulls into a lay-by further up the road. After answering the call of nature the lorry driver returns to his vehicle, only to find us waiting for him. Yolanda does the talking, she seems to be able to speak French well. 'On va aller aux Indes,' she says. 'What does that mean?' I whisper. 'Oh, that we're going to India,' she replies airily. But this news only panics the poor man, and even when we reassure him that Paris will do, he still seems nervous about giving us a lift. But we badger him and at last he agrees to take us with him. Jubilant we climb into the cab. This is my first experience of motoring on the 'wrong' (right) side of the road; I feel that our journey has now properly started. As we motor along, I discover the French countryside is remarkably similar to the British landscape and their buildings not markedly different either. My attention drifts, from the different makes of cars to the advertising hoardings that line the road. Though written in French the posters communicate clearly through their images. Predominant amongst the products advertised are soft cheeses and coffee. The latter utilises pictures of long-horned cows which surprises me, for whilst I have seen many cows, I have never actually seen one with horns. On this basis, I conjecture that we might even chance upon the occasional unicorn on our travels. Very little conversation falls between the three of us and after about ten kilometres (it seems I must forget about miles now) the driver indicates he is turning off the main road. 'Merci beaucoup Monsieur.' I thank him. It feels good to put to some use a little of the schoolboy French I learned. It is by now mid-morning, and seeing a café a few yards away we decide to have some coffee and croissants. I set about mine enthusiastically, though I would prefer tea and toast by choice. I eye with interest the advertisements for soft drinks and cigarettes on the walls of the café, there was a time when I wanted to go into graphics as a profession. As we sit relaxing over this our second breakfast I think too of my mother back home. I do hope she isn't worrying. I can picture her sitting, coffee and biscuits on the table, a concerned look on her face. She was so apprehensive about our leaving, so saddened. As I remember we are one hour forward now I realise that maybe she will have already finished her morning coffee. The locals appear to view us as objects of curiosity, so we return the compliment. I am eager to adjust to being in France and to fit in with our new surroundings, so I must adjust to many new things, the language, the money, the food and God knows what else. In an attempt to strike up a chat with the staff at the café we mention that we are going to India, it is as it was with the lorry driver, these people became full of concern but I just can't figure why. Strapping on the rucksack and sleeping bags we go to pay for our snacks. Converting backwards and forwards, centimes to pence, pence to centimes I try to familiarise myself with the worth of this new money. A hurried 'Bonjour' and we are off. As we walk along the road we enjoy the warmth of the sun as it emerges from the screen of clouds. At the sound of any approaching vehicle we attempt to thumb a ride, a long a car pulls up, an estate car displaying British registration plates, and has a large object projecting from the back. But there is ample space to sit inside, we bundle in relieved to be on the move again. The driver is a genteel man who goes by the name of Henry. He explains he is on his way to Paris to deliver a harpsichord. When he hears of our plans to travel to India he gets quite excited. His enthusiasm is most timely as it helps revive our confidence about the validity of wanting to try and go there, that here is someone who can see a value in travel and adventure. We become very absorbed in conversation with our driver, he is good company. When at length we reach the outskirts of Paris, Henry negotiates the radial roads and homes in on his target. All the while I look about me with considerable interest, catching glimpses of the Eiffel Tower and other sights. Henry has his mind elsewhere, namely on a certain café and a certain young lady. The café is speedily located and after ushering us to a table on the wide pavement, Henry treats us each to a coffee and a savoury slice, my first taste of pizza in fact. Close to our café stands an archway such as stands at Marble Arch and at Hyde Park Corner in London. So close is this Arc de whatever, I feel as though we are sitting in a picture postcard. When Henry's rendezvous materialises the four of us chat for a while before Yolanda and I leave them to be alone together. We take to strolling along quiet boulevards looking half-interestedly into the ostentatious shop fronts. One store proffering heaps of dark chocolate and rich gateaux, whilst another sells clothing, long gowns and accessories. Since my girlfriend has been to Paris before I am guided by her disinclination to explore the city and so we look to find a way out. Personally though, I would have liked to catch a sight of the nightlife of 'Gay Paree', go to the Moulin Rouge and get a taste of the glamour, maybe even see some cancan dancers. According to Yolanda the best way to travel across Paris is by the Metro so we therefore look for the nearest station. The plan is to cross Paris by train and then find a good point to hitchhike from such as a major crossroads or the start of a motorway. From Paris we can move onward to the coast maybe, but it really doesn't matter where we go for one sure thing I know is that now we are on the road, we are already getting far more relaxed. Descending into the French version of the London underground railway system we buy tickets and board a train. Packed into the close proximity of French people sat on slatted wooden benches, my nose alerts me to the presence of the pervasive smell of garlic, Gauloise cigarettes and (probably on account of the heat) an unusually high body odour factor. Otherwise the Metro system is comfortable and seemingly safe. Arriving at our station we alight and soon find ourselves on a busy street with cars and buses moving at a dangerous pace. We chat to some young people who look as though they might be able to tell us of a good hitching spot. As it happens, they offer to take us there thought it is a long way away. As we all walk the young girls offer us some fizzy lemonade, which to my surprise actually tastes of lemon (far better than the muck they sell back in Britain). Unaccountably, I keep finding coins on the pavement, and so I purchase another bottle of lemonade at the next magazin (shop). After which we walk some more, and again I find more coins, so we have more fizzy pop, and then yet more coins and yet more of this thirst quenching nectar. The sleeping bags and the rucksack are cutting into our shoulders; I ache for release from the discomfort. Finally, we arrive at a large road junction. Our new found friends now break company, of the girls only Josette stays, for she plans to stand and hitch-hike alongside us and await our fortune on the autoroute. Her companions make their farewells. 'Bonjour to you too' I shout. We discover that Josette lives in Lyon (a far distant city) and when she realises we might be persuaded to go by that route she presses us to travel with her and to stay at her home. Since we have nothing more than vague notions of an itinerary we agree. I wonder though that the three of us hitching together are likely to get a lift. Other hitchhikers are already sited ahead, thumbs aloft casting their fate to the wind. We are in line in a sort of queue and gradually move up as other hikers get lifts. But since we wait at some distance from each other, drivers can choose who they pick up. It is sport to shout after cars unwilling to give a lift and sometimes we even gesture our disapproval, a way to keep amused. 'The first time I travelled out in the rain and snow, I didn't have no fare, oh I didn't have no place to go-o-o- o, I'm on, on the road again… ' I sing snatches of Canned Heats' hot hit. Gradually the queue lessens until we find ourselves at the head of it and soon comes our turn to run to the waiting vehicle. It is an articulated lorry, truck, a camion and with difficulty we hoist ourselves into the cab, the girls first and then myself. This involves climbing up a set of metal steps to quite a height and then hurling our baggage and ourselves in to the cab. When we are on the move, the girls make conversation with our driver. My own lack of fluency in French gives me license to keep my own company without appearing rude so I settle down and listen to the radio as it serenades us with popular French songs. I am eager to drink in the meaning of the foreign words and immerse myself in the feel of this unfamiliar style of music. The driver, a powerfully built swarthy dark skinned man contents himself by singing along to the radio and shooting comments across the cabin to the girls. We continue in this way for quite a time. I notice the sunlight gently dimming as evening approaches. The tarmac whizzes by blurring beneath us. I am aching to empty my bladder (most probably all that lemonade) but think better than to ask our driver to stop. I really wish that he will pull up for a break sometime soon, but he just keeps driving on. Eventually, after what seems like about another half-hour, the vehicle quite suddenly pulls off the road and the driver leaps out. We have stopped at a roadside café where I take the opportunity to find the loo. As I open the door marked 'Hommes' I am startled at the stench as the most unspeakably foul odours emerge. Nothing has prepared me for this, the continental version of a toilet set into the tiled floor and covered in filth, the floor awash with a layer of ominous looking liquid. As the door closes itself behind me, I find myself all but wretching. Hurriedly opening it again, I gain only a slight relief. My eyes burn fiercely, I actually become panicked that I might be losing my eyesight. Had I been able to keep the door wide open I might have been able to have a pee, but instead, I search for somewhere else to go, but to no avail. Then I catch sight of our driver returning to his lorry, so I too reluctantly made my way back. The driver has bought himself a bottle of Tizer drink, some snacks and a supply of cigarettes, yellow in colour and considerably stronger than the usual Gauloises. We travel for about another hour or two during which I begin to feel that my bladder might explode. I really pray he will have a need to stop soon, when quite suddenly the camion again grinds to a halt. The driver explains that if we are going to Lyon this is where we should get off. As the girls offer their thanks for the lift, I too shout a hurried 'Merci' and disappear into some bushes to belatedly empty my bladder - what a relief, what a great merciful relief! I notice my eyes still weep from the acrid attack at the cafe, but mercifully the fresh air starts to soothe them. We make the most of this chance to exercise our cramped legs and wander up and down the side of the road. I notice my friends' skins now appear orange, bathed in that strange glow the street lamps are shedding. As evening draws on we become chilled and hungry, so we rummage through our bags in search of tit-bits of food and at a nearby service station, emblazoned with signs promoting Chevron, we obtain a bottle of fizzy orange. Up and down the wide pavement we walk, trying as best we can to keep ourselves warm. Josette and I chat, whilst Yolanda keeps her own company. For many hours we stand about hoping for a lift (Josette calls hitchhiking 'autostop'), it is becoming tedious. For the first time since leaving London, I feel a strong desire to be home. The all-night trip to Josette's is tiring, after finally gaining a lift, and being whisked swiftly to the outskirts of Lyon, we are forced to walk the rest of the way. Since the sun is particularly hot today it takes its toll on us as we struggle on towards Josette's home. At last we arrive at the apartment Josette shares with her mother. I find the sparsely furnished front room and tiled floor, contrasts greatly to the homeliness of my mother's flat in London. Back home, books and curiosities line the shelves in happy disorder and one can recline in an easy chair or lounge on the comfy sofa. Here, function with a slight sense of formality, rules. Standing in the doorway of the room appears an older version of Josette. She wears no make-up on her suntanned round face and dresses casually in neutral colours and keeps her blond hair tied back. On our way here, Josette mentioned that she and her mother sometimes go hitchhiking together, that recently they gone to Spain, it sounded like they enjoyed an unusual relationship. We must look a sight to behold, clothes crushed and misshapen, hair matted, our feet and shoes covered with dust bedraggled and weary. We are not exactly dressed for a garden party at the Buckingham Palace or a day at Ascot! After dropping our baggage on the floor of the bedroom, I return to the sitting room and finding the television on, idle through the channels, chancing first on a news report, then a game show. It all feels and sounds so unfamiliar, the French language though certainly attractive, right now begins to annoy me. Josette's mother seeps in, thoughtfully providing us with coffee, bread, soft cheese and gateaux. Gratefully we demolish the meal, leaving no more than a few cake crumbs and coffee dregs. Next on the agenda is the wash and brush-up and the bathroom comes into it's own as one by one we bathe ourselves and return a little more presentable. The day passes uneventfully, and when evening comes, and after soup (consommé), bread and tinned fruit, we bid our hosts 'Bon nuit' and retire to our room. I find I can't face going to sleep as I have this feeling of being of having been over-exposed and now I feel rather cooped up. I realise I am also unhappy at no longer having the sky above me, I miss the wind on my face. Instead of lying down to sleep I draw out my copy of The Bible hoping that by reading it my feelings might lighten. Flicking over the thin brittle pages I scan the headings; Kings, Corinthians, Thessalonians, Acts. I dip into various passages at random but all I read seems to be about doom and gloom, I flick some over the pages and read some more but the readings only deepen my mood. Hot teardrops form, and I close my eyes. I pull myself together as best I can before consulting Yolanda. 'Could we be on the move early tomorrow? I want to get on with our journey.' I plead. Usually she seems to have a fairly phlegmatic temperament, but now being so very tired she seems disinclined to listen to me, to do anything other than falling asleep. She seems to glower, impatient and disapproving, before lightening up and agreeing to my proposal. We all awake late in the morning. Over breakfast of black coffee croissants and comme pot (chilled stewed apple), I inform our hosts that we intend to move on. They show no surprise. We kiss cheeks and hug each other before setting off to walk across the suburbia of Lyon. It is past midday before we find a suitable hitching point. Having now discovered France to be not so vastly different from England it would seem a waste of time and money to linger here for long. Otherwise our plan is unchanged, we still intend to cut through Spain, down to Morocco, turn left along the coast of Africa along to Egypt and Israel, then turn right and drift across towards Persia and India. Carrying no map, relying on signposts and on our driver’s advice we speed on our way - the travel bug still exerting its influence as strongly as ever. Motoring along - punctuated by spells of waiting or walking - has become our normal way of life. Since our present destination is now Spain we find ourselves travelling through to the town of Perpignan and onwards towards Montpelier. When our next lift arrives I climb in and sit myself on the floor of the van, holding on as best that I can when the vehicle lurches and turns. Yolanda sits in the front and converses with the driver while I give my full- hearted attention to the radio. After listening awhile to French ballads I am pleased to hear 'Jennifer Juniper' by British folk-singer Donovan (Leitch), popular in all probability for its few lyrics in the French language. 'Jennifer Juniper vit sur la colline Jennifer Juniper assise trés tranquille Dors t'elle, je ne crois pas Respire t'elle, oui, mais tout bas Qu'est-ce tu fais, Jenny mon amour' After a few minutes I notice that the easy going chatting in the front gives way to an abrupt exchange of words. Naturally, I ask my girlfriend if everything is alright - she answers with affirmative nods and so I happily return my attention to the radio. The van swerves and screeches to a halt, whereupon Yolanda opens the door and immediately clambers out. The driver makes it clear that I am to follow her example. Confused, I look at the driver enquiringly. He gestures angrily so, though confused, I scramble out hauling our baggage after me. And before I have time to turn I hear the door slam shut and the sound of rapid acceleration as the van tears away. We are stuck in the middle of a motorway with no lay-bys or crossroads to hitch from, so we will have to walk many miles before we get another lift. I seek an explanation from Yolanda as to what has caused this state of affairs. At first she is unwilling to talk but slowly and hesitantly the story of what has transpired becomes known to me. Apparently, the top button of her blouse had, of it's own volition had become unfastened and that the driver had become fixated with her breasts. He had demanded that she continue the process and reveal her cleavage. When he realised she would not comply the driver then threatened to abandon us by the roadside. Though naturally I sympathise with her I also feel that, for the first time on our journey, she has let me down. It annoys me that she did not share this dilemma with me and has maybe brought this situation upon us unnecessarily. Anyway, we are now forced to walk to the end of the motorway, a long, long, walk, for the most part spent in silence. Long after nightfall we are still looking for a lift and as we stand hitching at an intersection of a motorway, a tall be-hatted individual accosts us and hustles us into an office where he questions us. He also requires us to submit to a thorough search of our belongings. I notice that he pays particular attention to Yolanda's black suede shoulderbag and in a silver pillbox he now finds. Obviously he suspects us of carrying drugs but on completion of his search he finds nothing incriminating or illegal. There is nothing to do but to let us go, as he dismisses us he informs us that it is against the law to be hitching on an autoroute. I feel animosity towards him on account of his searching us, so before restoring the contents of our rucksack I poke the Bible under his nose vaguely thinking to pang his conscience. I recoil as he lambasts me with a stream of abuse. 'Il etait le premier,' (He was the first) he shouts, presumably he means that Jesus had been the first undesirable to make his way along the roads of civilised society, to upset the likes of this here gendarme. I stare at him agape, this being the first open hostility towards Christianity I have ever encountered. Hitherto I have never witnessed anything other than awe and reverence towards Jesus. Well that's not strictly true, there was the jokey 'Wanted' poster I had once seen in London. It was one of those outlaw posters like those from the days of the Wild West, but this one was for Jesus Christ, outlining him as anti-social with left-wing leanings! Perhaps this seething attitude of the gendarme stems from his political prejudice, but I am grateful for this telescoping of time that makes me see Jesus in a new light, as a dropout hitchhiker, for it serves to remind me of my spiritual quest. Now all feelings of tiredness are gone and I have energy enough to cogitate long and hard over the connotations of these ideas.

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