India & Pakistan
Return Journey

As far as I know, this article was never published

Once aboard SS Rajula again, on the return trip from Penang to Madras, we spent the time poring over maps and rerouting ourselves home, having decided, as far as possible, to avoid travelling over the same roads. We were determined at all costs to cut out the southern route which we had taken on the outward journey with its 1100 miles of almost impossible roads, and to go up north through Afghanistan, where we should have a new and exciting country to visit, and the advantage of far better roads.

We made friends with a submariner and his wife, also travelling in a Bedford, and arranged, through the kindness of one of the Committee members, to spend the first night with them in the grounds of the Bangalore Club. We decided to travel up the West Coast of India, as opposed to the central, and more direct route, down which we had originally travelled, as we were told that it would be cooler. Indeed, Bangalore, being several thousand feet above sea level, was very cool and refreshing. I was also keen to go to the Races, optimistic that luck would be with us and we should replenish our somewhat diminishing finances; this proved a vain hope, and we lost far more than we could afford. Our Naval friends were travelling in what seemed to us the height of luxury, with the table and plastic lace cloth, wine glasses, and a built-in loo, as opposed to our set up which consisted of two cracked plastic mugs for all drinks, and only a spade and the countryside to meet the calls of nature.

From Bangalore we drove via Poona and Nasik to Delhi, where we stayed with our friends again. In Delhi we bought an old brass bulb horn, more for a laugh and a souvenir than anything, and this eventually became invaluable. The horn on the van, never very self-asserting at the best of times, and probably due to overwork in India, soon packed up on us completely – remaining silent when urgently required, or when least expected emitting a feeble croak. As the bulb horn could not be secured satisfactorily to the exterior of the van, it was held out of the window by the non-driver and used with great effect at the driver’s request. Feeling rather like Noddy in Toyland, we parped our way merrily through India, sending cyclists and cattle scuttling for the safety of the ditches. Christened “Honker” – unoriginal but onomatopoeic – he is still one of our most prized possessions and played a very important part in our excursion. Indeed, without Honker, we should undoubtedly have contributed considerably to Mrs Gandhi’s efforts to stem the population explosion in India.

At Ferozepore, near the border, we stayed at the same police post in which we had sought shelter on the outward journey, and manned by our large and friendly Sikhs. They recognised us and gave us a great welcome, and the offer of tea, and protection for the night, but I am afraid, all unwittingly, we let them down. Later that evening about twelve enormous Sikhs leapt one after the other into the back of the van, threatening the springs and practically demolishing our bunks. Under the impression that they were police off-duty offering us an innocent evening’s outing, we drove off with them, as requested, into the nearby town. Fortunately for us, we were chased by an agitated police officer, brought back to the safety of the police post, and thoroughly admonished. We had gone off, he told us, with the local defaulters who had come up to the post for their daily report. What our fate would have been I do not know, but as they were mostly up for thieving, I suspect we should have found ourselves in more reduce financial straits by the end of the evening, though Peter kept insisting (rather gleefully I thought) that I should always suddenly have faced a Fate Worse Than Death before the evening was up. Much chastened, and rather ashamed of ourselves, we promised not to stray again, and settled down for the night, after an excellent bowl of curry brought to us by the police, and, we felt, and atonement having been cross with us.

We now headed for Rawalpindi, deviating from the direct route a little to visit the great Mangla Dam – a fine engineering feat, and well worth a visit. Not far short of Rawalpindi we were disturbed to hear unusual noises coming from the region of the rear axle, and reluctant to risk being stuck in the wilds of Afghanistan with any sort of major trouble, we deemed it wise to have it checked. This, unknown to us, was the start of endless trouble with the transmission, and we were stuck in Rawalpindi for a week while a new star wheel cog, to replace one found broken, was flown up from Karachi. Divorced from our mobile home, we were forced to find accommodation, and finally settled in the most reasonably priced Boarding House we could find. We had our own quarters in the annex – bedroom, sitting-room and bathroom, the latter being furnished with two chemical closets side by side, which we thought was a nice touch, and worthy of Lem Putt and “The Specialist”. It was all unbelievably shabby, and the bedroom almost completely unventilated, with the temperature outside in the nineties, but we had a ceiling fan with incredibly high revolutions, which threatened to take off and become air-borne any minute as it swung perilously on its strut. We were, however, wonderfully well looked after by our “bearer”, who saw to our every need. Indeed, when we complained that our bedroom ceiling leaked, he could be relied upon to appear at almost any time of the day or night armed with cloths and buckets, to deal with the worst of the streams that gushed down on us. As the roof leaked in a different place each night, and each night produced a real tropical downpour, we were forever moving the furniture and buckets around, in a vain attempt to catch the water, and find a dry spot. Each morning our beds were soaked, and eventually it seemed simpler to accept it and go on sleeping as long as the water was not dripping directly on to our heads, which was not conducive to sleep.

We were eventually released from Rawalpindi, only to put in again at Peshawar for another overhaul on the rear axle, as we were now making a noise like a jet plane, coupled with a grating sound. This was to continue for the rest of the journey, gradually reaching a pitch whereby we could be heard coming from miles away, and receding far into the distance. However, they patched us up, by the addition of a fourth cog to make our correct quota, instead of the three that had been revealed before. One can only assume that one mechanic, consumed by an overpowering thirst, had gone off to his tea break a little prematurely – or maybe someone is travelling round the world with five star wheels in his rear transmission; if so, good luck to him!

We now headed for completely new ground – over the Khyber Pass and into Afghanistan, and felt that this was to be, most certainly, the terrain of greatest interest during our trip home. I do not know what either of us expected of the Khyber Pass – certainly it has a romantic ring, and I think we both expected a rough and hazardous ascent, with unknown dangers round every corner. In fact, the climb up the Khyber is very gradual, with rugged hills on either side, gorges and streams, and really superb scenery. Over the summit, the view down the winding road into the valley seen far below is even more spectacular. It was, without doubt, the most beautiful and breathtaking of all the stretches of road that we had travelled along.