Pete Davis

Katy Ruse took me to the Witches Cauldron when I moved to Belsize Square in 1963 - having recently arrived in London to take up my first proper job in the civil service. The Witches was a great place to meet girls and friends, listen to live music in the cellar downstairs, and I supplemented my regular pay by working there some evenings and occasional Saturdays as coffee machine operator and drinks creator.

The Witches was owned by Reg and Daphne Conrad - who in the late 1960s changed the name to Conrad's Bistro. Tony Leach was the manager for several years, and the chefs, Rocco and Rico, were Italian - great guys, and generous with their food portions. The regular singer/guitarist in 1963-64 was Teddy Brown, who later changed his name to Johnny Christian when he got a recording contract.

Many other bands and musicians played and sang there through the middle 60s; Hampstead Ray Charles and his blues band, C-Jam Blues, Mox ( a harmonica player - who didn't rent a bedsit or shared flat, and crashed out on people's floors whenever possible!) Ram-John Holder, Frugal Sound - who had a small chart hit with Norwegian Wood, Bob Grant and Don, and others.

It was a friendly place, and a base for getting together before heading off to a party. The Belsize Tavern pub across the road was a great overspill location, and we frequented that also.

When the Witches closed for the night, we would head on down the Lane towards Finchley Road to the Moon and Sixpence, for more music and good times. It was open all night and run by an Indian guy who was very appropriately named Mr Weiss. He was superbly patient and generous with his customers (he needed to be!), and a great cook of spicy Indian cuisine. One of his regulars was a cheerful African guy called Happy Christmas, who loved ordering the hottest Tandoori dish on the menu - which he would casually offer a taste to unsuspecting new customers - who couldn't believe that fire can come in liquid semi-edible form!

In summer of 1965 I took a stack of photos of friends around the Witches and Belsize Lane before heading off abroad - hitch-hiking to India with a Canadian girlfriend Marilyn.

I've scanned and numbered some of the photos for you - see attached.

1. Me and Marilyn

2. Mike (played with Frugal Sound) Geoff and Don

3. Jenny Johnson and Annie

4. Ces - lead singer of the C-Jam Blues

5. Rod, Lena and Sonya (who were Swedish), Armenian Paul, self, Marilyn and Malcolm; on the concrete box in the little square near the Witches.

6. Bob Grant and Don, regular singing/guitar duo

7. Alfie and Ali

8. Nick and Jan

9. Malcolm outside Belsize Tavern

10. Banks, also outside Belsize Tavern

11. Pete Browning by the Moon and Sixpence

(All these have been uploaded.)

Hullo Paul,

thanks for sending me the link to your Witches write up. Yes, you can include my paragraph and the photos. Incidentally, the second photo on your website shows a group of young people gathered near the Witches. I took that photo, and figured that Katie Ruse must have sent it to you in 2011. It was taken in early summer 1965.

The people in it are, from L to R, Marilyn (who came with me on our hitchhiking journey in 1966 from Eilat in Israel, through Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, to India), behind her, Jenny Prince (with black hair), Jill, Maive, Tony and Katy Leidner, with Mox the crazy harmonica player climbing the post.

Witches Cauldren on the Beach

When I set off on my travels a couple of weeks later I hitched with another close friend, Pauline, through France, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece - and from Piraeus we took a boat via Rhodes and Cyprus to Haifa in Israel, and then hitchhiked to Eilat, ran out of money, and both of us got paid jobs within 2 days. We lived in a hut we constructed on the Red Sea beach - Gulf of Aquaba -(alongside about a dozen other small groups of European young travellers). We named our hut the Witches, and attached are a couple of photos from that time. Marilyn joined us there late Autumn, and then travelled with me in the new year through the Middle East and Asia.

I've been writing my memoirs over last few years - not as a chronological tour through my life and career - but as a series of 'story/event' chapters - many of them with a high risk element! If you're interested, I can send you, for example, a chapter about a crazy evening in Kabul...?!

Pete Davis outside "Witches on the Beach", Eilat 1965 - a bit hung over, outside the Witches Cauldron, on the beach – Gulf of Aquaba

From Pete Davis

Hullo Paul,

Cheers,

Pete

The Witches Cauldron on the beach is the last hut on the right in the line of small huts bordering the sea.

Dear Paul,

Here's the chapter I mentioned which relates to Marilyn and my trip through Afghanistan in early spring 1966.

It's extraordinary that you guys were travelling there around the same time, and who knows - maybe we met, maybe even got high together?!

Travelling on, we ran out of money in Bombay, and Marilyn got a job in the Taj hotel facing the Gateway of India, and I got work with Bollywood - 2 films, one of them as a British army Captain (with a beard??!) in a film about an Indian patriot (Suba Chandra Bose) end of WW2 who sided with the Japanese to try to kick the Brits out of India. I was killed 3 times in the film, and I know that many Indians believe in forms of resurrection, but I did wonder about audiences seeing this Brit surviving 3 violent deaths!

Let me know what you think, and how any aspects correspond with your experience.

All the best in these extraordinary times.

Pete

Strolling Guitar ... or, How to become Head Chef for a night.

I moved to London in January 1963 to take up a Civil Service post as clerical officer in a military psychology/science department of the old Air Ministry which was in process of reforming as Ministry of Defence. After a few months living in a civil service hostel in Highbury, I was evicted together with two friends, Mick Thompson from Newcastle and Taff Jones from Swansea, for playing loud music (Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Little Richard, a hit song ‘Please Please Me’ by some new band called the ‘Beatles’ ....) and holding fairly raucous drinks parties in our shared bedroom. I moved to a bedsit in Belsize Square in NW3, and didn’t look back. The nearby coffee bars, pubs, music clubs, the availability of cheap flats and bedsits, the glorious natural open spaces of Hampstead Heath and Primrose Hill, and the attraction of the area for young people from many regions of UK and from other European countries were an instant hit for me. I quickly began to supplement my monthly pay-check by working evenings in coffee bars; especially those with regular live music and a Bohemian atmosphere; the Witches Cauldron and Moon and Sixpence. Operating the Italian coffee machines and serving drinks from behind the bar, it was a great way to meet girls and make friends.

In 1965, Belsize Park NW3 and Belsize Lane in particular went upmarket and culinarily trendy by opening the first dedicated bistro in the area, called ‘The Strolling Guitar’. What’s more, as the name suggests, it offered nightly live strumming and a few songs from the owner, Tony, who proceeded to poach staff from the Witches Cauldron and Chateau Briand restaurant, residing a couple of hundred yards further up the lane opposite the spacious, popular, Victorian, wood panelled Belsize Tavern.

Pauline was one of the head hunted. She was engaging, intelligent, outgoing, attractive, and a very steady and competent manager of both the unpredictable and the routines that blew every day and night through the Bohemian coffee bar/restaurant scene of mid 1960s Hampstead.

I was sharing a flat with her in Rudall Crescent off Rosslyn Hill, and she persuaded me to work a couple of nights alongside her, preparing the drink orders and doing some of the waiting. The bistro looked great, a moodily atmospheric, candle lit restaurant space – and the menu proffered a range of European cuisine, from French dishes to Balkan specialities – courtesy of the Yugoslav chef.

It was a short-lived bistro. It opened with a fanfare and reasonable local publicity in the Hampstead and Highgate Gazette, and for the first few weeks did very well. But as customers dwindled in numbers, we speculated as to why Tony’s street cred had worn so thin so fast; after all, his singing and playing weren’t that bad. But his strolling, with or without the guitar, increasingly took him away from the district and his lavish bistro investment. After a while, changing the name to the ‘Absent Guitar’ seemed to us a reasonable move. Pauline found herself with an increasing work load. Apart from managing the place she had to second guess Tony’s likely decisions and interpretation of responsibilities as the queries arose and demands became more urgent. Invoices in brown envelopes began to pile up on the mat when Pauline opened the bistro door in preparation for another evening’s sad custom. Phone calls were more likely to be from irate unpaid suppliers than from prospective customers booking a table. She placated the suppliers as best she could.

In the kitchen the Balkan swearing grew louder and more hysterical as key ingredients dried up, decomposed, or disappeared, and major gaps appeared on the refrigerator shelves and in the vegetable racks. Pauline would discreetly close the door to the kitchen so the 3 or 4 diners didn’t have to listen to Serbian invective full blast. Front of house, Pauline and self stayed relatively calm and kept the candles lit, with background muzak replacing the strolling guitarist whose stool sat forlornly in the corner, pining dustily for its owner.

Then one evening Pauline and I arrived to a cacophony of bangs and crashes from the region of the kitchen. A litany of incomprehensible verbal condemnation underscored this drama. We looked at each other, and I headed for the kitchen with Pauline following. The irate chef, a petite, slim woman from Belgrade, was standing with a metal colander in one hand and a baking dish in the other – both then smashed against the wall like a spectacular drum roll. I noticed a large kitchen knife lying within her reach near the oven and hoped that wouldn’t be next. Broken shards of several dishes littered the floor and work surfaces.

“It impossible!” she shrieked. “He do not bring me fresh supplies .... no right meats! .... I can’t cook, can’t prepare food ... I not work like this! I...I....I...Leave!” – a triumphant flourish of decision. And she wiped her hands, spun round surveying her apocalypse of a kitchen, grabbed her jacket and swept out, snarling as she went; “And he no pay me!!”

As the front door slammed, Pauline and I looked at each other – closing our open mouths in unison like fish coming up for air. Pauline took over the management of the moment, “OK, we’ve got one hour. You clean up the mess in the kitchen, I’ll get the bistro set up. We’ll look together at what food we’ve got and what we haven’t. Maybe the chefs in the Witches can help out ... and I’ll try and phone that bastard Tony!” He wasn’t in – or he chose not to pick up the phone. “Pete, I’ll deal with customers and their food and drink orders, and explain that some items are off the menu. You’ll have to be chef. I’ll give you what help I can.”

At this point I should explain that from early childhood I had been fairly ambivalent about food. My folks used to despair at my stubbornness to eat a decent portion of the meal in front of me, whether because of my dislike for cabbage or sprouts or carrots, fatty meat, tapioca and rice pudding, custard, or porridge for breakfast. I wasn’t much interested in eating, and had a very limited number of favourite foods. Fortunately, my mum was a genius of improvisation, and could seduce my taste buds with something simple showered with delicious home-made gravy, or bake an astounding range of best cakes and puddings ever.

At 19 years old my knowledge of fine dining or the delicately subtle specialities and taste treats from different regions of the world was more or less non-existent - as anyone who knew me could testify.

The first customers arrived, a couple in their 30s. Pauline welcomed them to a table, handed out menus and apologised for the absence that evening of one or two (actually most) of the dishes from the list. I checked and rechecked the location of available foodstuffs, and pulled out a range of cooking pots and pans.

The order came through; a rump steak for him and duck à l’orange for her. Hasty conference with Pauline – the steak I could manage, but duck à l’orange?! The accompanying vegetables were a problem too; French beans in particular – none to be seen anywhere, fresh, tinned or frozen – ditto, petit pois. I peeled potatoes, boiled water, oiled a pan for the steak. Pauline phoned the Witches Cauldron and spoke to Rico, chef for the night, who said he could provide petit pois but not green beans. Pauline smiled jauntily to the couple as she whisked past them and out of the door, returning a few minutes later with a suspicious bulge of a bag which she took straight to the kitchen.

The duck – I discovered a half carcass in one of the fridges, still a healthy colour. It sat on a baking dish awaiting my next move. Oranges; I took two large Jaffas out of the fruit basket. Duck was transferred into the oven and I turned up the heat. I sliced the oranges in half and squeezed out some juice. Hasty confab with Pauline about how long half a duck should bake for; poured the orange juice over the carcass and closed the oven door. The steak was ready, and the chips were quite warm, so were the petit pois. The duck was reluctant to catch up .... Pauline halved the odds and gamely marched to the table with the steak, and casually mentioned that duck à l’orange would take slightly longer as it required careful preparation. The bemused couple stared at the steak in front of the male customer. Pauline had the presence of mind to refill their wine glasses.

The duck seemed disinclined to roast to an edible colour. I hauled it out of the oven and contemplated options. It needed teaching a lesson so I skewered it and held it, slowly rotating over a flaming gas ring turned up high. The skin crackled satisfactorily, and it began to smell cooked. I sliced it open and nothing untoward oozed out. I placed it on a serving plate, poured a bit more juice over it, decorated it with a couple of orange slices and spooned the veg around it. Pauline looked at it quizzically, and whispered, “where’s the sauce?” I pointed to the faint smudges of transparent fruit juice. “Well, I suppose it’s an original if basic approach. I think she might be quite surprised.”

Pauline placed the duck in front of the customer with a flourish. Her partner had almost finished his steak by now and was stretching out the time by chasing petit pois around the plate. She stared at the dish with an expression of awe tinged with disbelief; gathered her wits, and bravely poked the duck with her fork.

We left them to it for a while. They didn’t order dessert.

The Strolling Guitar formally closed the next day, and very, very late that evening passers-by could catch a glimpse of a bunch of guys along with the owner rapidly loading as much of the furniture and equipment as possible into a large van – which then trundled off quite quickly towards the Finchley Road and headed North before the bailiffs arrived.

From Paul Ernest to Pete Davis

Can I put the photos up on my website, and your paragraph? India 1965 eh? A bunch of us took off to Afghanistan that summer - hitching & trains through Europe. Meeting in Istanbul, then 7 of us carried on to Kabul - where we were trapped by cholera! Of course much of the drive for the trip was to score good Afghan dope, which we did!

In later years others went on to India - I never did until 2005 - no youngster anymore. Dave Young and Henry Jacobsen who were around the Witches both lived in India for about 20 years (now both are back in London)

Did we meet? Do you recognise any of the names? I did know Kate a little then and subsequently. So sorry to hear she is not what she used to be. {Now no longer with us)

From Pete Davis to Paul Ernest

Dear Paul,

Here's the chapter I mentioned which relates to Marilyn and my trip through Afghanistan in early spring 1966.

It's extraordinary that you guys were travelling there around the same time, and who knows - maybe we met, maybe even got high together?!

Let me know what you think, and how any aspects correspond with your experience.

All the best in these extraordinary times.

Pete

The Beauty of Afghanistan ~ To Herat

Marilyn and I hitched a ride at dawn in an ornately painted and ornamented Afghan truck going to Herat, and agreed to pay 190 Afghanis. (See picture below) It was a long, long, cramped journey over the roughest roads I’ve ever seen, but the countryside was fantastic. The actual route was remarkable for disappearing for long stretches, petering out into desert scrub and arid rocky terrain. The driver simply took a course that looked least likely to cause him trouble or sink his wheels into unforgiving sand. We stopped for a tasty meal of chicken and soup in a kind of wayside inn, sitting on cushions plumped in groups on fine Afghani carpets. After a few puffs of Afghan hashish through a hageela provided to us travellers as we drank tea, I was offered a carpet in exchange for my blue woollen sweater. A very good deal, but I couldn’t conveniently wear a carpet or spend my time dreamily meditating on its flying qualities.

Hours later, the lorry driver stopped and let us out somewhere on the outskirts of Herat, and we set off walking down a long straight avenue of poplar trees, the sun casting slanting dancing shadows and shards of brilliant light between their trunks. Here and there, tall, ancient minarets stood like sentinels – the Persian blue mosaic tiles peeling off in large flakes like scattered petals. Off to one side was a small pine forest, with a finely decorated mosque reposing in the middle of it. The avenue seemed to stretch away endlessly and as evening drew on, the road became more rutted. The silence was profound and the air clear and sweetly smelling, with soft breezes blowing from the high mountains soaring on the far horizon – beyond the desert. The peaks seemed to rise above and beyond the clouds as if they were not part of this earth.

The main street of the attractively basic mediaeval city of Herat boasted electricity – in the form of a simple string of naked light bulbs hung in loops from six foot high wooden posts along the length of the main road. The tea houses, homes, mosques, roadside stalls and shops glimmered with faint, suffused or flickering light from oil lamps and candle lanterns. There was no motorised transport, only hansom cabs and tumbrel carts drawn by red-ribbon bedecked horses.

We found a small lodging house, parked our rucksacks, and washed away the dust of the miles. We met up again with Mike and Caroline and later, attracted by the keening wailing of a bagpipe like flute and rhythmic thumping of a drum, found the musicians playing on a flat clay roof of a building in front of a large tent, the big top of an Afghan circus. The audience, all Afghani men turbaned and of serious visage, were sitting several rows deep in a circle on rush mats. We were ushered to a small group of chairs in the front row. Marilyn’s long blonde hair was clearly not a sight often seen by night at a local circus in the far western regions, or any other region of Afghanistan. We were regarded with an inscrutably polite curiosity by rows of dark eyes and bearded faces in the patient murmuring shadows and half light of the arena.

And then the acts began; tumbling, a solitary clown, acrobats somersaulting across the sand, building a tower of bodies that wavered and dropped to the ground in graceful leaps and rolls, and then leaping and diving through burning hoops. A trapeze artist swung above spectator’s heads, to warm cheers and gasps of applause. A castrated boy, dressed as a woman, performed flirtatious Eastern dances. Here, such performances by women are taboo. Men and boys dressed for every part, and intentionally funny antics interpreted the bumbling universal fools and clowns of all time and all cultures and were easily recognised by the audience. The circus was simple and basic by European standards, but fascinating, skilful, and totally absorbing.

Finding a truck or hitching a lift with any motor transport that could take us South to Kandahar was almost out of the question, so we decided to catch a bus instead. We rose before dawn, strapped on our rucksacks and sleeping bags, and walked to the bus station along silent and empty streets, surfaced with winter mud. Then from no discernible place we heard the strains of beautiful pipe music; flowing through and haunting the cold, smoky air. It was both weird and bewitching – the devout were being called to prayer. We came to a small low ceilinged mud brick teahouse with an open door. Therein a soft light flickered on an elderly tea-shop owner with white beard and turban, stoking a charcoal fire. We gestured the drinking of tea or coffee and he nodded and welcomed us in, and placed a huge blackened kettle onto the smouldering coals which he bellowed up into fiery warmth.

Some - a very few - beverages, or other liquid refreshment, are so memorable for the simple welcoming serendipity of them. The cups of steaming tea that Marilyn and I clasped and sipped as we sat on mats and witnessed the opening folds of dawn over Herat were two of them.

Kandahar to Kabul

It was a long journey to Kandahar in Helmand province that took all day, and we arrived in the city around 6 pm. After the engaging simplicity of Herat, the first impressions of the city were of busy urban modernity. We booked into a hotel and were shown to a large well furnished room – which cost us the grand sum of 4 shillings for the night, (a mere 20 pence in today’s inflated currency). Shortly after settling in, there was a knock at the door. The smartly dressed manager stood there with two others, and enquired whether the room was to our satisfaction. We responded that it was, and he asked if he could come in for a few minutes. We chatted about our journey to India and he translated to his two friends, who nodded sagely. Many Afghanis have nomadic ancestry so they could identify with the will to travel long distances exhibited by these two young strangers from the West. The tallest of the trio held a capped bamboo tube, about 3 inches in diameter and 18 inches long.

There was a lull in the rather stilted conversation. The manager then politely enquired whether we would like to buy some hashish, after all, there were no ‘pubs’ or bars in town. Marilyn and I looked at each other and smiled, and agreed that we might. The manager clicked the Afghan equivalent of a finger snapping command to his tall companion, who slipped the lid off the bamboo tube and poured a neat line of round, digestive biscuit sized olive green and brown discs onto a side table. They smelled fresh and good. Would we like to try some? We nodded, and a clay chillum was prepared with rough-cut tobacco and small pieces of hash shaved from one of the discs. They lit up, and passed the chillum to Marilyn and me. It was neither rough nor ready; a smooth fragrant smoke and an extraordinarily quick and positive high. We passed the chillum on – it was refilled, and the manager and his colleagues seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.

I asked the manager how much this superb hashish cost? Meaning, how much would one disc cost? They consulted, and then replied cautiously in Afghani currency; a sum equivalent to one guinea (£1 + 1 shilling) in old sterling currency. “For one disc?” I asked, holding a wheel up. “No, no, for the whole tube”. We were amazed, a kilo of the finest Afghan hashish for £1.05p at 2016 prices, about what it costs to buy a Bounty bar and a packet of crisps. Not being greedy, we decided to buy half the tube.

The long journey across the hinterland towards the Hindu Kush mountains of Western Himalaya and the capital city of Kabul was impressive and varied. Ancient mud forts dotted the rural wilderness, way off the very beaten track. As we trundled past, snaking a thick dusty vapour trail behind us, heads on brown uniformed bodies would pop up from the eroding battlements to watch our progress. An occasional troupe of Afghan cavalry would ride by. The nearer we got to Kabul, the colder it became – with snow on the ground and in the mountains. Kabul is 6000 feet above sea level, and the precipitous slopes and peaks of the Hindu Kush soar above the city to a height of 16,000 feet.

In Kabul, the Khyber restaurant became a social magnet, our Witches Cauldron, and helped us to orientate in the complex labyrinth of old city streets and bazaars and more modern byways. The dramatic natural features of the Kabul River and particularly the towering mountains provided impressive landmarks and monumental eastern and northern coordinates, particularly under the dark lowering skies of the Afghan winter.

The city integrated a tantalising mixture of extremely old architecture, an inscrutable interplay between peoples of tribal central Asia, the mysterious total anonymity of women dressed in full burka with even their eyes concealed behind a criss-cross latticed face mask covering, and in the shopping streets and business districts occasional flashes of European-style modernity, motorised transport, and the surprise at seeing a young Afghani woman wearing a mini-dress. A few cafés and restaurants aimed to attract ex-patriots and foreign workers, and the Khyber which even served roast beef and a kind of Yorkshire pudding was probably the best known. It was reputed that the king’s son chose to eat there on a regular basis, preferring the informality and degree of choice from the diverse range of rather bland European dishes on the menu to traditional cooking in the palace.

Marilyn and I bought embroidered sheepskin waistcoats lined with Persian lamb and caracal fur, in the bazaar. They instantly warmed the body, and transformed us into blonde Anglo-Canadian versions of Sonny and Cher. (See pictures below). Wherever we went in Afghanistan we were treated with utmost courtesy. Children who ran up close to us to stare, shout, or touch our clothes would receive a threatened clip round the ear from a passer-by, or an admonishment to leave us alone and not be rude to the strangers, or a finger-shaking reprimand, ‘do not dishonour the guests in our country’.

Along the banks of the Kabul River we observed rituals and social activity that would not have changed in centuries. A goat had its throat slit in accordance with Muslim law regarding preparation of halal meat, the blood draining into the swirling waters. Women washed the family clothes at the water’s edge, and small boats plied the river taxiing passengers and small goods through the city.

On our final night in Kabul, after an enjoyably social evening in the Khyber which had stretched into the midnight hour, Marilyn and I wended our way singing back to the hotel through silent, shuttered streets. The hotel was an old building set in a compound, surrounded by an intimidatingly high wall, with a solid, broad panelled, robust wooden door built into it. No lights glowed from the hotel. We turned the iron door handle and pushed hard – it was locked. There was no electric bell nor even, more prosaically, a brass or iron knocker. We hammered on the door with our fists – the sound uselessly absorbed by the stout timbers and spirited effortlessly away into the starlit sky. The pale snow-lit Hindu Kush seemed to stretch their forbidding peaks higher into the firmament than they did by day. We banged again, but neither street nor hotel stirred. The temperature was dropping and with a shiver of futility we wondered what to do. Go back to the Khyber - which was probably closed by now...?

From out of sight beyond the corner of the high compound wall came the sound of boots, army boots – not exactly marching in step with each other. A small platoon of four uniformed Afghan soldiers appeared, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. Their faces changed from surprise to a happily stoned greeting as they came to the rescue of these two young stranded infidels.

I mimed the problem of the locked door and apparent lack of life – or at least, response – from within the hotel compound. The soldiers nodded their concern and looked at each other, then huddled into a confab which lasted a few minutes and involved unintelligible gesticulations, glances in our direction, occasional eyes raised to the heavens, or at least to the top of the wall. It was clearly a problem requiring forthright action. Confab over, one of them politely ushered us away from the doorway while two of his comrades unslung their old carbines, and proceeded to beat a massive tattoo in the general direction of the door lock – which groaned and creaked and suddenly split.

Lights clicked on in upper rooms of the hotel and a window on the top floor opened. The manager’s head popped out, and he shouted at the soldiers, who intent on their task were successfully smashing down the resistant defences. The reluctant door swung open despite the manager’s protestations, and he disappeared from the window.

The soldiers, exhibiting a modest degree of satisfied pride, stood back to inspect their remarkably effective demolition job. Marilyn and I were deeply impressed. The irate manager arrived, and after talking to us he realised that he had unfortunately locked us out without providing any alternative means for us to get back in. He recognised also that the soldiers had conducted themselves honourably in the interests of these two foreign guests – despite being high as several Afghan kites.

He apologised to us, and so before entering the hotel through the splintered gateway we turned to the platoon to thank them and express our gratitude. They lined up, sheepishly grinning, presented arms quite smartly, and saluted us. We bid them farewell, and shook their hands gratefully one by one. Respect!

It started snowing the morning we left Kabul. We linked up with our two friends, Mike and Caroline, and travelled to Jalalabad. From there we took a bus climbing slowly through the fabled, precipitous, Khyber Pass. The Pass was a winding narrow road skirting towering jagged peaks and mountains, with a ribbon of a river snaking far below in the deep valleys. Sinister forts occupied many hilltops and rocky plateaus, and bolted into the sheer rock walls abutting the route were numerous engraved commemorative bronze or iron plaques; in memory of the hundreds of British soldiers from different regiments who lost their lives fighting the Pathan and other Afghan tribal groups in futile imperial wars and military engagements of the 19^th century.

It confirmed a haunting historical truism - no invading army ever wins a war long-term in Afghanistan.

(PE - how prescient and true - since this was written we have had the ignominious retreat from Afghanistan by USA and UK forces - with bloody noses! They/we should never have invaded. Never forget it was us - the West - that gave billions of dollars to the mujahedeen. including Osama Bin Laden, to oppose the left wing government and their allies the Russians which helped to create Al Qaeda and the Taliban and more or less destroyed Afghanistan!)

Here is an Afghan style truck and Pete and Marilyn at the height of fashion,1966 Kabul style, in their sheepskin waistcoats

From Paul Ernest to Pete Davis

Dear Pete

A very nice account. Vivid and well written! Great you got some pics too! Oh yes, it chimes true. I do recall the quiet dignity of the folk in Afganistan. Simple honour seemed to their creed. I wish I had some pics from those days. Almost none. Good luck with the publishing

We spent 3 weeks in Herat in 1965, and got there by hitching and public transport (mostly buses). We were a group of 7 friends. After we crossed the border on the back of a big cement lorry, the annual cholera outbreak caused the border to Iran to be closed. Although it was only August, as students we had to be back for Autumn studies. We flew to Kabul via Mazar-i-Sharif (time for a quick joint behind the hanger) and then on to Kabul. The plane was full so I sat in the cockpit really stoned as we flew through the Hindu Kush down to Kabul. The most amazing flight I have ever taken. After a week in Kabul, cabling home for more money (or going to the embassy for repatriation for some) we flew out - me to Beirut (with 2 Kg hash discs in my baggage and 4 oz opium in my underpants) and then travelled back to Blighty overland. I took some silly risks!

Wonderful stuff

Keep safe

Paul

From Pete Davis to Paul Ernest

Dear Paul,

' ... those were the days my friend - we thought they'd never end ...'

Herat was a great place to spend 3 weeks in; my favourite town in Afghanistan, despite the magnificent Hindu Kush mountains towering behind Kabul. That flight, with you in the cockpit, sounds very exciting - hope you've written it up to describe the singular landscape and experience of it all. You're right, in the 60s we young folk took risks assuming we were untouchable...! And Afghan hash was legal in their country, affordable, and Superb!

Working for Oxfam, I was posted to several countries in Asia, Africa, and Latin America. In 1980, I worked on the humanitarian aid programme for 5 months in the devastated country of Cambodia - one of those life-changing experiences which still resonates with me today. I had an extraordinary flight out of Phnom Penh to Vietnam; which I've written up in the memoirs - see attached, 'Typhoon over Saigon'. It was a hairy trip!

Cheers,

Pete

Typhoon over Saigon

The small Oxfam international consortium team coordinating aid requirements for the Cambodia emergency aid and humanitarian relief programme was based in Phnom Penh, and during 1980 brought the majority of aid supplies into the country using large barges, towed across the China Sea and up the Mekong River by tugs that we chartered in Singapore. For specialist and delicate materials, including medical aid and cold chain supplies for vaccines, the UN and aid agencies chartered aeroplanes. Most of the purchasing was done in Singapore, and one of the regular aerial transport services to Phnom Penh’s Pochentong airport, Kris Air, we nicknamed Biggles Airways, tipping our hat in the direction of the bearded English ex-colonial of advancing years who owned it. He would wave off every flight from Singapore dressed in khaki shorts and long socks, carrying a cane, and often with pet hound sitting obediently beside him. Initially his fleet consisted of a solitary 1940’s Curtiss-Wright C46 Commando transport plane, powered by two Pratt and Whitney R-2800 radial piston engines. The fuselage looked like an inflated long balloon, and it could carry considerable loads – a rough and ready transport for tough terrains and conditions. The crew of two were Filipinos, and very experienced.

On the occasions when we could take a few days R and R in Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore or Malaysia, or when we needed to re-order supplies quickly or seek out specialised equipment in Singapore’s labyrinth of mercantile warehouses, we would hitch a ride on the first plane flying out of Phnom Penh. I hitched lifts in the cockpits of RAF and RAAF Lockheed Hercules, in the cargo hold of an Argosy twin boom freighter, and disconcertingly, in a brand new Italian Air Force Fiat built cargo plane en route to Bangkok which the pilot decided to throw around the sky like an aerobatic jet.

On one occasion I took a memorable flight in the old C46 Commando, which was returning to Singapore but with a refuelling stop in Saigon. The cargo hold was empty, and I strapped myself into a simple bucket seat that folded down from the bare metal side and ribs of the forward fuselage. The pilot gunned the vibrating piston engines and we trundled off the runway at Pochentong airport and turned South towards Vietnam. Out of a small porthole window I could see mountainous clouds billowing enormously on the horizon.

The old plane creaked and groaned and cruised along at about 160 knots. I sat alone in the balloon like metal hold and wished I’d brought a half-decent book to read. Then the plane bucked and suddenly dropped, the engines shuddered and surged with power and the pilot climbed the Commando up a couple of thousand feet. The vibrations increased in intensity and at times the plane seemed to sideslip and then recover, only to be buffeted from a different angle. Rain lashed and drummed on the fuselage sides, and the sky had turned a very angry pouting grey as massive cloud formations soared around us. Soon, the C46 was rocking and rolling in a pitching ship-like motion, caught in one of the typhoons that hammer the countries of South East Asia in most years.

We flew on and then began to descend. I didn’t know if this was intentional, as the plane seemed to be falling out of the sky in a somewhat uncontrolled manner. I decided I didn’t want to be isolated in a metal cargo hold if we were about to crash, so I undid the straps and managed to stand up, bracing myself against the metal ribs of the fuselage, and staggered slowly forwards to the door that shut off the pilot’s cockpit. I opened the door which swung wildly, and eased myself in and sat on a bunk behind the pilot, who was concentrating hard on trying to maintain a steady course over a furiously storm-lashed landscape, heading towards Saigon’s airport in the far distance. His co-pilot stood behind him, legs akimbo, also firmly gripping the control column which was doing its best to dance wildly out of their four hands.

As the airport loomed before us in the torrential rain and wind, the pilot glanced over his shoulder and said in an urgent voice, “Here, here”, and indicated the control column. I stood up, grabbed the back of the pilot’s seat to brace myself, and then gripped a free part of the control column. We were aiming for the runway, trying to force the Commando onto the tarmac while the turmoil of the typhoon did its best to keep us flying and spinning upwards. I felt the steady force the pilots were applying and added my weight and strength to it. A still small voice warned me that a stall at this low altitude could have serious consequences.

The plane hit the runway and amazingly bounced clear up into the air again. We forced it down and it did the same – and so we travelled in a series of kangaroo leaps down the whole length of Saigon airport, and ran out of runway....! “Up, up, up ...” shouted the pilot and we all pulled back on the stick while he powered the engines as hard as he could to gain speed, climb over the thrashing treetops, and not stall the plane against the blast of the wind. The plane struggled but climbed and we flew in a long looping circle around the airport and tried again. This time we kept her down after the third bounce or so, and the pilot carefully eased the Commando back onto its tail wheel when speed had declined sufficiently.

The pilot taxied the old plane towards a fuel supply area and the propellers vibrated to a gasping relieved halt. Later, sitting in the sparsely furnished flying crew area sipping tea, the two pilots told me of another incident they’d had with the old Commando during its relief supply mission flights from Singapore to Phnom Penh. The aircraft had begun to lose power, and one engine started to cough and run rough. They had a full cargo, and began to lose height, so they headed for Saigon for an emergency landing. They put the plane down safely, but when the Vietnamese engineers inspected the faulty Pratt and Whitney engine, they shook their heads and told the Filipino flight crew that it was kaput, there was no way they could repair it – it would have to be removed and replaced. Antique Pratt and Whitney piston engines of the same specification and power output in good condition are not in ready supply anywhere in the world. The Filipinos despaired.

Then one of the Vietnamese maintenance ground crew came over to them and said that when the Americans departed Saigon in great haste in 1975 they left behind huge quantities of military equipment in storehouses all over the country. At the far end of the airport was a warehouse full of wooden crates with aircraft spares in them. Perhaps the Filipinos would like to come with him and check what was there. They knew what they were looking for and inspected crate after crate, and found - amazingly - a pristine Pratt and Whitney R-2800 radial, of the right spec for the Curtiss Commando. The Vietnamese maintenance crew removed the defunct engine, and the replacement was lined up to the wing nacelle bulkhead and bolted into place.

The Filipinos did all the paper work while the engine change took place and discovered to their amazement that the new engine was shipped into Vietnam in the late 1960s by the US Air Force and its reference number tallied with the construction number of their war weary ex-USAF Curtiss Commando. It was the actual intended replacement engine, just a little late in being fitted!

Curtiss C46 Commando

From Paul Ernest to Pete Davis

Dear Pete

Ah .. so you worked with Oxfam! We have friends who worked in NGOs eg Save the Children - and saw the world. As an academic I also saw the world - conferences on every continent (except Antarctica!)

No - I havent written that flight up - nor my Afghan adventures. My main motive was dope - and seeing the world with friends. I brought stuff back up until 1968 from Turkey (last time I did it)- and got away with it. Later some friends got into big time smuggling and almost all who did that (including Howard Marks) ended up in jail. With me it was juvenile delinquency. With them it became organised crime!

I was in Tangier summer 1969 and was doing a deal to have 1 or 2 kg stuffed into the heels of leather slippers to bring back. I was pretty out of my head. But when I got a premonition that I would get busted, I cancelled the deal, and let them keep my 50% deposit and just took some dope to smoke there. One of the smartest things I ever did. Later that year I gave up all drugs forever - for me it was all or nothing. I was 24. Later that year I met Jill my wife and we are still together! I'm now 75!

Keep safe!

Paul

From Pete Davis to Paul Ernest

Dear Paul,

I started work with Oxfam's youth and education programme in 1976, after 5 years of teaching, and left the organisation in 2009. It was a good NGO to work for, with some very trustworthy colleagues and good friends - all strongly committed to dealing with difficult issues and challenges.

Here's another chapter from my memoirs - which relates to the Witches and Belsize Park in 1965; called 'Strolling Guitar'. (See above) You're welcome to include it, all or in part, if you'd like to.

Cheers,

Pete

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Addendum, May 2022

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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Blackman