Chasing Silk: A hippie's backpacking journey

Copyright © 2022 by ROPT Consulting

Illustration by Richard Ong

Published by ROPT Consulting 3A-10A, GLO Damansara, 699 , Jalan Damansara, Taman Tun Dr Ismail 60000 Kuala Lumpur

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ISBN (Pending)

Written in Malaysia

Preface by Richard Ong

This book is about the amazing journey that my dad undertook when he was just twenty-two years old. He was young, full of spirit, and rather unsure about what his future would hold.

One morning, he chanced upon a Sarawak Tribune advertisement posted by two Peace Corps teachers. They were calling out for anyone willing to backpack with them across the Silk Road. It was a daunting proposition for a young Kuching boy like my dad; one that would change the course of his life forever.

My dad and I started work on this book in 2020, a year dominated by Brexit, the end of the tumultuous Trump government and the arrival of COVID-19. Rather than focussing on lockdowns and the global meltdown that ensued, this longoverdue book project allowed us an escape to a time when commercial travel was just beginning and borders were starting to crumble between the West and the East. It was a time before budget airlines or even the internet.

As the author of this book, my main goal was to document my dad’s journey and to bring you on his adventure across the Silk Road. There are so many stories I can’t wait to share with you, stories that amplify the importance of travelling, especially during the Covid pandemic that was rapidly changing the way our societies engaged. I can still remember being instructed to stay at home and away from people in order to stay safe. To be honest, I am still tormented by the whole experience.

If this book is going to be more than a travel journal, it must serve as a reminder that we should again explore the world to expand our horizons, learn about new cultures, to find ourselves once more.

Therefore, it is now fitting that I hand over my dad’s joy of travel to you, for your very own escape. Bon Voyage. I wish you a life filled with adventures - like those my dad encountered as he was chasing his own version of silk.

VIOLENT TIMES

1969 was undoubtedly a difficult time for anyone wanting to travel the world, especially if you were planning to backpack from Kuala Lumpur to London.

Communism still had a stronghold in Myanmar, while China’s Cultural Revolution was coming to an end. The second Indochina War was still raging on, which caused mass suffering and conflict across Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. India’s grassroots democratic movement was undergoing the turbulent 60s. Even so, Mahatma Gandhi’s peaceful revolution inspired hope in a time of widespread poverty and mistrust.

All this was taking place at a time when the world was still recovering from the ravages of World War II, making it a questionable situation that gave birth to a new anti-war and antimainstream generation. Known as the ‘Flower Power Revolution’ where its people are often seen dressed in hippie clothing that represents the rebellion against the establishment.

Students loved it and parents hated them for loving it. It was not hard to comprehend how influential free expression, revolutionary music, sweet-booze, cigarettes and recreational drugs were used to fuel the movement. It was freedom to become a hippie together with its perks.

Around 7000 kilometres away, we fi nd the relatively unknown country of Malaysia. It too was about to witness the most serious sectarian violence of its time. The race riots of May 13, 1969, led to deadly ethnic communal clashes, leaving a deep psychological scar that is still with Malaysians today.

Amidst everything that was happening around the world, my dad Robert Ong decided to follow his dream of studying overseas. He was aware of the dangers around the world, but armed with little more than his “Make love, not war” mantra used to oppose the Vietnam war, he was still determined to find his way to Europe.

Being young and rather sheltered, his early inspiration came from the likes of John Lennon, Bob Dylan and Bob Marley. These three music legends epitomised everything from anti-war to female liberation.

While John Lennon and Yoko Ono were in bed sending out acorns to world leaders to promote world peace, Bob Dylan was stringing together poems that reflected the changing mood of the postwar baby-boom generation and the urgency of the civil rights and antiwar movements.

To these music legends, the future was neither dark nor bright. Their music and words filled a young Kuching boy’s heart with dreams of opportunities beyond the shores. His future was going to be at the heart of this movement and his one-way ticket out of Kuching was about to come in the form of a newspaper advertisement.

OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

Kuching was an idyllic place in which to grow up. Life was simple and peacefully distant from the political upheaval that was already brewing over at the Malaysian Peninsula. Under this calm veneer lay a well-connected network of gossiping aunts that would rival any 5G network.

My dad studied at St Thomas School, the oldest governmentaided missionary school in Kuching that was founded by Francis Thomas McDougall in 1848. Conveniently, the all-boys school was located opposite Saint Mary’s Secondary School. The two buildings were connected by an overhead pedestrian bridge where the boys and girls spent most of their time courting each other whilst exchanging autograph books before walking back to school. The bridge itself was in full view of nosy parents driving past below, easily discerning what was transpiring above.

In his later years, my dad would go on to work for his dad’s housing construction firm, known as the Ong Construction Company. His job was to oversee the delivery and receipt of construction materials, and occasionally perform site visits to ensure workers were putting in a full day’s work. If there was time to spare, he would help out on his dad’s crocodile farm, rubber plantations and rice factories.

Outside of school and work came the creative time to perfecting his guitar skills for his band ‘The Avengers’; inspired of course by ‘The Shadows’ and ‘Beatlemania’. His instrument of choice was a Hank Marvin Hofner guitar. It wasn't a cheap guitar to start with and his efforts paid for it eventually when he was invited to sign multiple performance contracts with the Sarawak Club, the British Security Forces and local hotels.

As for further studies, his parents decided that it would be best to go overseas to become a doctor, engineer or lawyer. The pressure was immense and there was no two-way about it. He knew from the very beginning that it would be a personal uphill struggle if he had to follow their wishes. In his heart, he had already set his sights on London, the epicentre of the flower power movement where creativity and self-expression became the platform for the next generation. He applied to several schools there in hopes of finding a reason to fly over. Unfortunately, a British postal strike meant that his handwritten application forms never arrived.

All was lost … or so he thought until an unconventional fate presented itself one morning.

On the morning of the 3rd of February 1968, my dad woke up early to get dressed before greeting his parents. They were already having their breakfast with the daily Straits Times at arms length. Between the printed pages was a slither of information that would prove pivotal in his life. Nestled between sports and the day’s lottery numbers was an advertisement placed by two Peace Corp teachers, by the names of Wayne Yetter and Peter Black. Both of them were looking for volunteers who would be

crazy enough to join them on a backpacking journey from Malaysia to Europe, through the Silk Road, that would take a number of months to complete. The proposition was to make the journey at the lowest cost possible and travelling in a group would help them achieve to achieve just that.

This opportunity could not have come at a better time. On the one hand, it was the fastest way for my dad to get to London for his studies. On the other, it was also his one big chance to step out of his comfort zone. It was now or never if he wishes to survive in the real world without the support of his parents.

All the necessary arrangements soon fell into place. Some family members offered support, others tried to talk my dad out of it, saying the risk was too big, and that it was a crazy idea. Others gave him some money for the journey. His brother-in-law gave him a winter jacket and a Yashica camera that proved useful later. His travel checklist:

❖ Vaccinations: measles, hepatitis B, tuberculosis, malaria and tetanus.

❖ USD500 Thomas Cook traveller's cheques.

❖ 1 chest pouch: To keep passport, money and personal documents safe.

❖ Install security locks for backpacks and luggage.

❖

Clothing essentials: winter jacket, long johns, long sleeve tops, shirts, briefs, jeans, trousers, vest, socks, woolly cap and sunglasses.

❖ First-aid kit: Po chai pills, charcoal tablets, tiger balm, paracetamol and plasters.

❖ Dried food: Maggi noodles and vitamins.

Before stepping on the plane, my dad told himself one last time, “I pledge not to return home empty-handed, but instead, I shall return as a successful person in my family’s eyes.”

This was a serious pledge, bearing in mind that if he did fail in pursuing his higher education or even reaching London, he would not be able to face his parents again. He thought about their unconditional sacrifices and how they supported him despite his unconventional method of getting to London before he took his first leap of faith to step into the unknown.

FIRST STEPS

The aeroplane's wheels descended from the plane’s belly and its rubber tires soon came into contact with the hot tarmac below. My dad finally touched down at the Subang International Airport which was strategically located on the edge of Kuala Lumpur. Through this small humble airport came a steady stream of migrants from the outskirts who were hoping to strike their fortune in the big city.

After collecting his small luggage from the carousel, he caught the next available bus to YMCA Brickfields, Kuala Lumpur, to spend the night there before meeting Wayne Yetter and Peter Black the next morning for their first briefing session together.

Wayne was the first to address the enthusiastic group of 23 people. Their original plan was to have a few backpackers jump into their Volkswagen van. Taken aback by the overwhelming response, he and Peter knew the best way forward was to sell the vehicle and travel by other means of transportation.

Wayne took a deep breath before the crowd before speaking, “Good morning everyone. My name is Wayne and next to me here is Peter. Thank you all for coming.” To quell the excitement, he continued “We must let you know in advance,

those selected to join us must follow our strict travelling rules or risk being expelled from the group. There will be no disagreements on this trip. You must follow the instructions given by Peter or me. Your safety and the success of this trip depend on it. The rules include no cheating, no changes to the route, no drugs and most importantly is to keep costs down together.”

The group collectively agreed. A guy at the back raised his hand, “Wayne, if you don’t mind me asking, can you show us the route from here to Europe?”

Wayne brought out his map containing the plotted lines he made along the east-west Silk Road Highway. Excitement grew as he mentioned the Khyber Pass and all the cities en route to Venice.

Four groups were soon established and all were encouraged to travel in pairs. Anton Vandagon, who looked like a taller version of Sammy Davis Junior, was chosen to buddy up with my dad.

Wayne continued, “You are all advised to apply for visas in advance and buy inexpensive watches and alcohol along the way so that we can sell them in India for a profit. You will soon find out that Indians love foreign-made goods.” Some giggles from the group could be heard.

Each group went on to register with the 4H Club and YMCA for special student discount rates on lodging and transportation like trains, coaches and boats. Each member must have a

minimum of USD500 in Thomas Cook Travellers cheques to cover expenses ahead. Additional funds, whenever required, will be raised along the way, either by working or trading.

Only those with proof of vaccination were allowed to travel. If one fell sick, he or she would fall back in order not to endanger the health and safety of those travelling with them.

That very same evening at 9:30 pm on the 20th of February 1969, everyone regrouped at the nearest KTM KL station to board a scheduled train for Penang. It was both exciting and nerve-wracking. My dad had to keep reminding himself over and over again, “This is happening. This isn’t some trip arranged by a tour agency. This is real! This is hippie stuff!”

The train’s engine started to rattle to life and a sudden jerk signalled the start of a long journey for the young travellers, slowly nodding off to sleep as the train snaked north of the peninsula, cloaked by the darkness of the night.

The train's bunk beds were surprisingly comfortable, even though it was the cheapest night train tickets available. It was on this train journey that my dad and Anton quickly fostered a close friendship that would last long after the epic adventure ahead.

Upon arriving in Penang, the first mission was clear and it was not to visit the beautiful beaches of Batu Ferringhi nor the historical sites. Instead, they were on a tight deadline to load themselves up with tradable goods, which they could sell later in India for cash to fund the rest of the trip. The shopping list included fake watches, preferably those with visible prints

stating that they were made in Hong Kong or Switzerland. Everyone was told that these features seen on the dial of the watch would easily fetch a higher price in India.

The second mission was to enjoy as much local food as possible, as no one knew when they would return to these shores. My dad found a spot near the beach to sit back and enjoy the sunset. The thought of leaving his family and friends behind was not easy. He had to psych himself up to focus on the journey ahead, like Christopher Columbus venturing out to seek the New World. The prospect of the journey, although not straightforward, started to fill him with wonder and trepidation.

A DIFFERENT TONGUE

It was the early morning of 21st February 1969, and the band of young travellers arrived at Bangkok by train. Everyone disembarked with their baggage and for the very first time found their way onto a platform very much different from the one they came before.

Their first experience in Bangkok was with the immigration officer. Standing tall in his tight-fitting uniform looking rather sternly at the new visitors. The officer gave a long hard look at my dad and Anton, flicked through their passports and was sceptical of them even though they had their tourist visas to show. Soon, the sound of a mechanical stamping device came from behind the counter. With a flourish, my dad's passport was placed back down on the counter in front of him with a leaflet stating ‘Welcome to Thailand’.

By midday, everyone was acclimatised to the humid air that carried a fragrant smell from the nearby street-food vendors. The locals spoke in their distinct Thai language amidst the dusty roads filled with noisy motorbikes and buses honking their way through the crowded streets, skilfully avoiding collisions with other tuk-tuks and cyclists. Barefoot and often shirtless children would join the fray. Every kid seemed to have almost the same hairstyle back then, shaven around the sides and short on top.

Almost like they were ready to enlist themselves with the local army.

The youth hostel my dad stayed in was not luxurious. Nothing to complain about here as the group was often reminded to stay frugal with their accommodation in order to operate on a shoestring budget. This includes the idea of sharing rooms and finding the cheapest places to spend the night. To sleep by the side of the road with their baggage as a pillow was never a far-fetch idea. Everyone soon settled into their rooms and assembled their items for the next day’s tour, which includes more shopping.

My dad learnt a great deal about Thai culture through his temple visits. He later discovered that it was disrespectful in Thailand for a woman to sit with her legs facing a monk. Monks in return were not allowed to ask for money directly. Instead, food and clothing as donations were welcomed. Anton and my dad did take their own time to pray for Buddha’s protection throughout the trip. They also took the time to experience the traditional Thai herbal massages used as part of traditional Thai medicine. One would lay on the floor mat and the masseur would manipulate the body in certain ways to stimulate organs and improve flexibility.

After two days of sightseeing, it was time to proceed to the airport to purchase the cheapest plane tickets available. At that time, airlines tended to sell off their available seats at a very cheap price on the very last day, just to fill up the plane. This was a strategy that the group took advantage of whenever they flew.

Their next destination was Calcutta on the 23rd of February 1969, via a connecting flight through Myanmar. Myanmar did not allow entry at that time due to visa restrictions as the country was still under military rule, led by General Ne Win, who combined Soviet-style nationalisation and central planning. It was dangerous to venture outside the airport. While waiting at the terminal for the next connecting flight, the group yet again took the opportunity to buy more brandy and Marlboro cigarettes to sell later in Calcutta.

PREVALENT POVERTY

Thick and humid air filled their plane cabin as the doors swung open into Calcutta's Dum Dum airport. My dad became acutely aware of how toxic it was, a mixture of commercial diesel vehicles, the burning of dung cakes and garbage as a source of energy for the rural areas. It was unbearable to both the lungs and the eyes. The other extreme thing was the widespread poverty and the city's crumbling infrastructure all around.

At that time, Wayne quickly instructed the group to clip 5 US dollars between each passport as ‘baksheesh’. This made everyone nervous. Should it be that obvious? Would they be caught? Well, no one was stopped for questioning, and more importantly, no one confiscated the group's stash of alcohol, cigarettes and fake watches.

The next challenge was for the group to make it through the night. Everyone had to sleep in a dim, acrid airport that was heaving with people. The seats were uncomfortable and the backpacks weren't exactly ideal as pillows. However, sleeping at the airport meant that the group saved on a night's worth of lodging, which could be used to fund the trip ahead.

At dawn, the group set off towards the heart of Calcutta where cows are considered holy by the Hindus. The humble

creature can be seen finding its way across busy roads only to rest amongst a pile of nearby trash wherever possible.

Homeless street kids and pick-pockets were common. The poverty, made worse by overpopulation, drove them to extreme measures. There was one day when Anton decided to feed some leftover food to the crows in a park, only to be surprised when a group of kids ran across the street to hand-pick the food on the ground before the crows managed to even land.

The next day, the group needed to catch a bus to the central railway station. The plan was to catch the night train to New Delhi. The bus station was filled to the brim with travellers, hustlers and everything in between. Everyone stayed close together for safety, and were extra vigilant as it is not often here that you see foreign ladies wandering the streets at night. No one had any doubt that the group with such a diverse concoction of ethnicities would attract unwanted attention. None of them spoke Hindi.

Soon, Wayne managed to find a bus that would take the whole group. This wasn’t easy considering that it was already near the end of the day. There were so many people around the station looking to catch the next bus home and were left with a couple of buses with just enough space for everyone to stand in, sardine-style. Passengers tried their best to adjust, some stood, while some sat on the hood. It was clear that the bus was taking more passengers than it was designed for. My dad hung on for dear life, clearly mindful of his belongings that were strapped to his body. At least if there was an accident, he might just come

out without scratch just by the support of the bodies pressing against him.

Arriving at the train station was indeed another challenge for everyone. There were thousands of people. The platforms swelled with food and chaiwalas, and home-goers were quickly making their way to the rooftop of the train. To access the carriage, one could either enter through the designated entry point on the side or do it as the locals do, climb through the window. It was insane, but also pragmatic.

My dad and Anton eventually moved hastily to find a carriage that was bound for New Delhi. Once they were in, it was time for them to start wearing their watches and sell them fast. The prices for the watches kept rising as the train gained speed, passing Agra that offered a glimpse of the Taj Mahal. By the time the group reached New Delhi, they had made enough money to live comfortably in the capital, and to buy precious stones, crafts and leatherwear before travelling again northward by road towards Pakistan.

THE NEW CAPITAL

The journey from Calcutta to New Delhi took almost a day’s travel, bypassing multiple intricate railway stations and vast scenery. The group managed to recharge for the next leg of the journey, despite the uncomfortable bedding and the constant clanking of train-tracks beneath.

Outside the New Delhi Railway Station, away from the hustle and bustle of people, lay a beautiful central park where the group spent most of the time resting. It is famous for housing Connaught Place, along with nightclubs, bars and other amenities that backpackers find very convenient. There is also a post office nearby where the group took the opportunity to send their postcards to their loved ones back at home, and trust that the post system worked.

For the time being, Wayne and Anton decided to scout around for cheap accommodation. Anton walked past a church where a pastor casually greeted them.

“Hi there, can I help you?” the pastor asked politely. “Hello pastor, we just arrived in New Delhi, and we are looking for a place to stay. Would you know of any place that is affordable and convenient for backpackers?” Anton replied.

Anton took a glance at the church, which looked quaint and welcoming.

The pastor continued, “You don’t have to worry about how much it costs, as long as your travel mates lend a hand to clean the church every day.”

Anton, without a second thought, happily accepted the offer and decided to check-in for the next few nights. The rooms were located at the back of the church together with furnished bunk beds. As advised by the pastor, the only condition to stay here was to help out and leave the hostel clean and tidy for the next occupants.

Unfortunately one day, the pastor caught Anton trying to sell watches on church grounds, which was clearly prohibited. He was asked to leave immediately to find a hotel to stay for the night, and eventually found a public park nearby that day to continue his sales activities. It was easy to see that he was a foreigner, just from the way he dressed and the fact that he was selling something made outside of India that made it even more appealing. Soon, like bees to honey, Anton attracted a crowd of people which helped him boost the price of the merchandise at the end.

The next morning, the group travelled on a bullock cart to tour the old city. The pollution and penury soon caused everyone to tear up. The streets were dusty and lined with the homeless and destitute. No other place they had been before shown people this close to starvation. In stark contrast, my dad

“I believe I do, may I have the honour of offering you a place at my church dormitory?”

noticed that the country was starting to embrace industrialisation as a way of lifting billions out of the poverty trap.

One of the hardest things that my dad had to cope with early on in the trip was coming face-to-face with death. Nothing prepared him for the dead and the way he found it. There was this one time when he visited a thriving port where a nearby research hospital was located. Blocks of ice were stacked outside in front of its gates, each containing within it a fully preserved human body for medical purposes. It was hard to digest the scene - here was a human, totally stripped of value and dignity, laying naked within an ice block for everyone to see, and for no one to claim but for medical students who require them to practice their medical skills.

My dad’s paradigm was challenged again during his visit to the Yamuna River, when he witnessed the Hindu cremation of dead bodies. Sometimes, the bodies are known to snap when the fire took control, forcing the cadaver into a sitting position as if it were alive. Sometimes, the fire did not do its job and the unburnt bodies were thrown into the flowing river beneath. Of course, the vultures circling from above were ever ready to feed on the remains flowing downstream.

Connaught Place could have been a different country, a different world altogether. It was one of those travel destinations where a tourist in New Delhi would reconsider extending their stay just to hang out longer. The flower power movement had already taken hold, and anti-war hippies were wearing bell bottoms and beaded necklaces, most already tripping on psychedelic drugs. This was another reason why Westerners

flocked to India - it had become the home of spiritual awakening. Everyone had an answer, a solution, along with the best place to get the best marijuana and hashis.

Food, like spirituality, was also easily available. There was always a Sikh temple around the corner, serving free vegetarian meals. Meditation classes were also readily available in Connaught Place. It's no wonder why everyone felt a renewed love for the world through India. However, no sooner after being reawakened by New Delhi, it was again time to move north towards Pakistan, with a short stop in its capital, Lahore. Nothing could have prepared them for the violence that lay ahead.

MELTING POT

It was the 4th of March 1969 when the group got to Lahore, a large city steeped in history, built upon numerous empires before British rule. As a city, Lahore’s future would eventually lead to the independence movement of India and Pakistan in 1947. It would be the deciding city to host the historical declaration of Indian Independence and the calling for the establishment of Pakistan. Ever since then, Pakistan and India were always at war, especially over Kashmir.

My dad never doubted they would cross the border without any challenges. The tension was palpable as they approached the border, the imaginary line between two countries that were constantly on the brink of war.

Unfortunately, one of the members of the group, John Kannan, was detained because he stated his religion as 'Hindu' in his declaration form. After some coaxing in the form of cash, the Pakistani border officers let them all through.

Upon entering Pakistan, one could instantly see its historical past carved into its buildings. The structural imprint left behind by Mughal and Sikh Empires seemed to silently compete for every visitor’s attention, up to its interior. While the weather remained much the same, there was a marked change in attitude

and religious restrictions. Men were often seen carrying prayer beads and buses were regularly seen parked on the side of the road while its driver performs the daily prayers by the side of the road.

Weary from the long journey ahead, the group decided to check into a YMCA for a few days' rest. It was a good time to check for mail and send postcards home from the Lahore Central Post Office. The post office building itself was built in 1887 to commemorate Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.

The next day, Wayne went to Lahore’s central bus station to make the necessary transport arrangements. Keeping costs down meant any mode of transport - trucks, buses, vans or even lorries were acceptable. This coincided with the phase of the journey when the group split up to travel independently with their buddies. Some travelled by train, while some took the bus. Everyone had to reach specific meeting points, which were simply called points A, B and C. This was where everyone could regroup. Those who did not make it on time would then aim to regroup again at the next point.

My dad and Anton wasted no time. They quickly gathered their things to travel up north to Rawalpindi, a place steeped in Buddhism, dotted with countless stupas, statues and ancient relics that would one day be stolen.

From Rawalpindi, they moved swiftly on to Islamabad, the City of Islam. Boasting admirable architecture and town planning, the city owes its layout to Greek architect, Constantinos Apostolou Doxiadis. It quickly became the new

capital of Pakistan, replacing Karachi, in the 1960s. The city was divided into eight zones, including administrative, diplomatic enclave, residential areas, educational sectors, industrial sectors, commercial areas, and rural and green areas.

Peshawar was the last border town before entering the middle-east. It is one of the oldest cities in Pakistan, and the most special thing about this city is its citizen's hospitality. Beautiful architecture and intricate facades from the past seamlessly blend with modern buildings. This was a magical experience for my dad and Anton, who had read about Peshawar's Storytellers Bazaar, where travellers from the Silk Road used to enjoy a cup of Kahwa while recounting stories to one another.

Peshawar would be the entry point into the Afghan desert, through the famous Khyber Pass. Both my dad and Anton applied for an Afghan visa at the consulate general, which meant they had to stay in Peshawar for a few days. During that time, Wayne searched for modes of transport to take the different groups to Kabul. Their journey was about to veer off the beaten track.

A NARROW PASSAGE

On the 9th of March 1969, the group received the green light to cross the border into the Middle East. It was hard to fathom that a boy from Kuching, with so little in the way of life experience, was now on the Silk Road that Marco Polo himself used to trade valuable items like antiquities, silk, gems and spices.

With little travel experience, it was a blessing that Johnny from another group decided to join forces with them for the rest of the perilous journey. He had a deep voice and the sort of manner and physique you didn't want to mess with.

“Hey, Robert! Anton!,” shouted Johnny, “I was wondering whether you both are okay if we joined forces?"

Trying not to look relieved Johnny had asked, my dad casually replied, “Yeah, I don’t see why not. It is going to be a hard road ahead, and best if we stick together throughout the Khyber Passing until we reach Kabul.”

The Kyber Pass was and is still the single most important land passing that connects East Asia to the rest of Europe. It was the major trade route that many rulers and empires fought over for control; the only route on foot from Peshawar to Kabul. My dad was the first to catch sight of the famous Khyber Pass entrance at

Landi Kotal. He knew that travelling on foot alone was not going to be enough, they would have to rely on the kindness of strangers to give them a lift if they were to successfully navigate the mountains of Spin Ghar before reaching Kabul.

Wayne spotted several drivers. A chat, nod and an exchange of cash did the trick. Soon, they were heading towards the entrance of the Khyber Pass. The windy narrow road meant buses regularly had to stop to take turns to pass.

Even with their thick clothing, everyone started to feel miserable as the icy cold weather began to bite. The air was approximately -25 celsius. Everything was blanketed in blinding white snow. The strong cold winds cut to the bone. Sometimes, the weather was so severe that if you spit, it would turn to ice before hitting the ground.

The gruelling journey was made more challenging by the lack of toilets along the way. Luckily, they were in a van that had a trap door at the bottom for anyone to straddle above it, and just pee onto the road below. The icy cold air gushing up from beneath the moving vehicle created an odd sensation that did not aid one's bowel or bladder movements.

At every Khyber Pass checkpoint, there were big signs with these words in bold - DO NOT TAKE PHOTOS. One unfortunate Japanese backpacker failed to spot it and an Afghan warrior in heavy armour soon appeared on horseback almost out of nowhere to confront him and grabbed his Nikon camera, placed it on a rock and smashed it with the butt of his gun. Afghan

warriors, like Native Americans, believe that cameras can steal a person’s soul. Poor guy.

Most of the groups arrived safely in Kabul on 7th April 1969. Some were delayed to wait an extra 3 days for a young Penang couple to catch up. They finally arrived late one evening. A truck dropped them both in the middle of the Kabul square and quickly drove off. The group later learned that the couple had been kidnapped and the man's girlfriend was gang-raped. The couple were too traumatised to continue their journey and decided to go back to Penang. It was a devastating blow for the group, but everyone was determined to push on the next day.

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

One could smell the local restaurants in Kabul from afar, wafting from their doorways. The aroma had evidence of local afghan delicacies and the smoke of opium. It is normal to see locals congregating outside a restaurant throughout the day, animatedly exchanging the day's news over kebabs, flatbread and chai. Further out into the desert, the group came across beautiful tents with Muslims praying on their prayer mats just outside, some fiddling with their prayer beads as they recited a koran phrase with their eyes closed. Traders in Kabul can often be found selling tea and bread alongside dry jerky and oranges. If you preferred something sweet, they had pistachio nuts, yoghurt, goat's milk, cheese, dates and exotic sweets. As for the woman, they wore black burkha dresses to protect themselves from the blowing sand.

My dad and his travel mates found themselves caught in a sandstorm one day, where they were forced to take refuge behind a sandstone wall in the middle of the desert to avoid breathing in the sand. My dad only had a scarf to stop the sand from getting into his eyes and mouth. There he hid for what felt like an eternity, surrounded by the orange glow of blocked sunlight.

The next day, Anton stumbled upon a munitions store. A couple of local bearded men were happy to allow him to fire an Afghan rifle. He was curious to see how good this rifle was so the gun store owner placed a coke bottle across the street, loaded the rifle and handed it over, gesturing to Anton to fire. Anton squeezed the trigger and surprisingly was able to hit the bottle on his first shot. Almost immediately, applause broke out amongst the locals.

Around this time, Wayne’s Afghan friend who goes by the name Kadir had arrived and was giving everyone a warm Kabul welcome. He was a student at Kabul University and was fluent in English. The young man shared his knowledge of Afghan history and culture with the group and was kind enough to invite everyone back to his home to meet his family, who very well explained how the Afghans learned to survive in their harsh landscape. His father had three wives and played the baby sitar extremely well. Each of them had intricate tattoos, known as Khaal, on their faces, which served both to beautify as well as to protect themselves from evil.

Kadir also helped to arrange a day trip by van to Mazar-iSharif, an Afghan-Russian Border town famous for its high-quality hand-woven carpets made from the hair of the Angora goat, also known as Mohair. Just like double cocoon silk, Mohair is durable and resilient and feels warm in the winter and cool in the summer. It is also one of the oldest fibres still used for textiles. Once a carpet is made, it is soaked in a local mountain stream for weeks to 'fasten' the dye permanently. My dad bought an

Afghan carpet on this journey and it found its place in our living room when I was young.

The last stop, after Mazar-i-Sharif, was Kandahar, the border town known as the birthplace of the Taliban. The group arrived on the 13th of March 1969 and was surprised and slightly uncomfortable to see that it was customary for men to hold hands whilst walking in Kandahar. Men and women had led such separate social lives here that it was no surprise for men to display love for another men, or boys, who were sometimes known as Halekon. They were groomed for sex. This was a wellknown secret, even though homosexuality was frowned upon, and the punishment was severe under Taliban rule.

After a few days of enduring the sounds of gunfire every night, the group gave up trying to sleep and decided to depart earlier for the warmer arid desert, in the hope of making a smooth crossing from Afghanistan to Iran. Crossing any border was always going to be tense, as it was common to expect delays, unnecessary questions and endless documentation requests. However, my dad's student card and college letter proved useful. U.S. dollars helped smooth things out at the checkpoints too.

After the border crossing lay the Iranian border town of Mashhad. This is where the group gathered for a few days to rest and visit a few famous mosques. When visiting these sacred places, my dad and his companions were advised to avoid getting on the wrong side of the law or face harsh punishment. It is considered haram to touch a woman in this part of the world.

If caught, one would be tried under the Syariah court and possibly be ‘rajm’ - stoned to death.

Tehran was the next destination. Even from afar, one could already see how beautiful this city was. The cheapest and fastest way around the city was by horse and a tonga. The tonga, which had two wheels, didn't look very sturdy. Nevertheless, my dad piled in. The horse, hitched to the contraption, reared forward, pulling the group forward, closer towards Europe.

GATEWAY TO EUROPE

After a gruelling journey, the group reached Ankara, Turkey’s second-largest city after Istanbul. Ankara was known as one of the gates to Europe. For them, reaching Ankara was a milestone - a city where Europe and Asia converge. They were now truly intercontinental.

To the northwest of Ankara, you have the oldest country in Europe, Bulgaria. Head north for a short visit to the Black Sea for a swim. To the northeast and east, you will find Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. To Ankara's southeast, Iraq, and the south, Syria.

Parades are often held across from the Ankara citadel, where it is quite common to see black goats milling about and dotting the valleys. The goats provide milk and meat for nomads and wool for the tents that they lived in. Goatherds could be seen nearby, some took the milk and wool to the marketplace to trade for other items.

Camel caravans lined the streets. Hanging from their humps, were large sacks filled to the brim with the day's tradable items. The surrounding rivers are where Anthony and Cleopatra were thought to have bathed.

It was hard to leave such a picturesque place, but the group pressed on to reach Istanbul on the 25th of March 1969. There, they spent eight days exploring its narrow streets. It is an ancient city, with both Christian and Muslim heritage, and is home to one of the world's most contested religious buildings in the world - Hagia Sophia. For nearly 1,000 years, it was the biggest and most important house of Christian worship in the world until it was converted into a mosque in the 15th century, after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Empire.

My dad, standing at the edge of the Golden Horn, was fascinated by the steady stream of boats ferrying people and items across the waterway, between east and west. Fishermen were busy selling their catch from the Marmara Sea. Nearby stands the Galata Bridge that spans the Golden Horn. To truly experience Istanbul, the best vantage point is from this bridge, which gives travellers a bird's eye view of the cultural melting pot beneath.

One of the main attractions of Istanbul is the Grand Bazaar. It was one of the world's oldest covered markets, selling everything from tea, nuts, and spices to Turkish delight. The best thing about the Grand Bazaar is that you can sample the food and smell the different fragrances, flowing through its 64 streets. If timed well and knowing which shops to visit, my dad could eat for free, which was fortunate as by this time he and the group were fast running out of cash, even though he tried to sell most of his goods to raise funds to complete the European leg of his journey.

Although funds were limited, the group also knew that they would soon have to part ways once they got to Europe. So, a decision was made to dine in a proper restaurant for the first time since they began this adventure, celebrating it with a belly dancer who could certainly entertain with her gracious ability to roll coins up and down her belly.

WESTERN CIVILISATION

The next day, the group managed to cross over to Greece from Istanbul. It was unfortunate that there was not enough time to visit some of the historical sites in Athens, the home of democracy and Mount Olympus, but like the Greek gods, everyone had to make haste as cash reserves were low. Some of those in my dad's group even had to consider borrowing from others, although it was highly unlikely that anyone would offer to loan their limited money at this point. The situation was starting to look desperate and it was about this time that my dad started to warm up to the idea of selling his blood.

There was a hospital nearby that was in urgent need of blood. It was offering to pay donors and handsome fee. At the time, the Greek government did not advocate sharing of blood, so when a patient is admitted and needs blood, a good price can be negotiated in exchange for the right blood. Donors were often seen waiting in the hospital reception for an ambulance to arrive. That day, my dad and Anton joined the queue, they sold their blood generously to survive themselves.

With enough money and a little less blood running through their veins, both my dad and Anton now had the funds they needed to reach Corfu, a small Greek island en route to Italy where it was just lovely to walk in between the lanes up the hill.

The elders could be found spinning cotton by hand into thread. Donkeys, used as transport lumbered on this very same path that soon sneaks through a labyrinth of shops and side markets. The island had a magical rhythm.

Before departing Greece, Wayne and the rest of the group decided that the final leg of the journey would end on the ferry ride from Corfu island to Brindisi, in southern Italy's Apulia region. Standing on board, with the wind caressing my dad’s face and the sun on his back, he knew it was going to be the last time the whole group would take a photo together. My dad and Anton decided to travel together from that point onwards towards London, while the rest bid farewell to head elsewhere in Europe.

To get to Florence, my dad and Anton sold off everything they had left from Afghanistan to raise the cash needed to purchase their bus tickets. The best place to get the best price for their goods was at the Trevi Fountain in Rome. The concentration of tourists there meant that my dad's precious stones and his Afghan coat were sold in no time.

It was with this money that he used to get to Germany, to hitchhike from Zurich to Munich. It was fairly easy to thumb a lift in Europe at the time. Strategic hitch-hike locations could be found at highway exits and roadside rest stops. Anton and my dad got lucky when a kind Italian man gave them a lift in his small Fiat 850. He used a route through Masseria Bongo, where he made the stop to cook up some pasta for dinner and offered them a place to sleep.

The next morning was an early ride to Como, and then towards Lugano. Lugano, at that time, was known as the 'Italianspeaking part of Switzerland'. Its charming lakes and dramatic architecture built into the mountains can take anyone’s breath away. Anton was reluctant to leave Lugano, but he knew they had to head north to Bellinzona, Lucerne and Zug.

JOINING THE ARMY

It was the 17th of April 1969 and Munich was in October Festival mode. The streets were lined with robust-looking Bavarians both men and women, serving German Lowenbrau beer & Bratwurst throughout the city.

It was the perfect setting to celebrate how far my dad had come since he left Kuala Lumpur. After several pints of this delicious beverage, with its pale colour, citrus notes and crisp finish, he and Anton took stock of their finances. This was a rather unfortunate decision as they sobered up instantly knowing they had to quickly find work if they wanted to survive in Germany.

The next day, the slightly hungover travel buddies took a walk around Munich and noticed a sandwich board in front of a US office. On it, written in bold - ‘US Army Employment’. At that time, the U.S. army was still operating in Germany, despite World War 2 ending a long time ago. The U.S. army had offices around Munich and an army base nearby. My dad and Anton decided to try their luck. They entered the office and the first thing they saw in the centre of the room was a large desk. Next to it was a large pair of boots. The whole place stank of cigars.

A deep voice boomed from behind the desk, catching Anton and my dad off guard, “What do ye want?”

Anton replied, “I am looking for a job, sir.”

The sergeant took his bare feet off the table and peered at Anton, as if seeing him for the first time, “Hey, you speak English?”

“Yes, sir”

He smiled back, “Then, you're hired. Fill out the forms here. Once done, I'll tell you how to get to McGraw Kaserne, the U.S. Army Base, where you'll be working.''

The two young men were given comfortable barrack beds at the McGraw Kaserne dormitory. A few weeks after they arrived, they were given the responsibility of keeping the army dining cafeteria running. This included jobs like checking the inventory, refilling the snacks and drinks bar, filling dishwashers and keeping the dorm clean.

There was an interesting Italian guy they met later at the base. He went by the name of Franco Ricardo who has a talent for figuring out a way of beating any system. He knew many useful tricks, from how to hack vending machines, to extracting fuel from the car's petrol tank, which was going to be very useful for them later in their travels.

My dad, Anton and Franco wanted to visit Venice one day so they clubbed their earnings together to buy a second-hand American Pontiac Bonneville. They used this car not just for transportation, but also for accommodation. Sometimes, they would get stopped by the police for sleeping by the roadside. It was always an odd sight to find a white guy sleeping in the front

seat, an Indian guy slumped over in the back and a Chinese guy snoring in the trunk of the car.

Once they got to Venice, the three men celebrated their arrival by indulging in Italy’s famous gelato and coffee. Venice was where they had always planned to end their Silk Road journey. Knowing they had achieved an adventure of a lifetime, unscathed, and having made firm friends along the way made it all the more special. The sense of achievement was bittersweet because both knew from the very beginning that their journey would end once they arrived at this dreamy and romantic lagoon. At that time, my dad had to head for London for his studies, while Anton and Franco had other plans that would later take one of them across the Atlantic. All three decided to take their last photo together near the Bridge of Sighs.

When they returned from Venice to Munich, my dad would often head to the central post office to send postcards and to visit the hostels to get cheap food. In these hostels, there was always a notice board available for any traveller to leave messages for anyone to see. This was a primitive and slow text service in a time before the internet. Fortunately, it worked. While scanning the notice board, my dad spotted a note to them from Johnny, announcing his recent arrival in Munich. He was working in a restaurant not too far away. Before long, the trio were reunited. The good thing about Johnny working at a restaurant is that he could collect all the leftovers for their supper. He would bag the food scraps throughout the day and throw them out back for his two buddies to collect. It wasn't much, but to them it was a feast they enjoyed as they sang the night away. This arrangement saw them through for months until

my dad made enough money to take his next leap of faith. He was to continue his journey for London.

NEW LIFE

It was finally time for my dad to bid farewell to Anton, Franco and Johnny. They had several memorable months in Munich and became very fond of the local Germans and their way of life. It was time to take the 'bull by the horns', and head for London to continue his studies.

After regrouping with his travel buddies, and saying their goodbyes one final time, my dad knew what he must do next to fulfil his promise to his parents back in Kuching - that is to enrol himself in a university to further his art studies. He wasn’t yet sure about which course he would pursue, but believed it will all turn out fine when he gets there. His first objective was to get to London by September and figure it all out when he is there.

To get from Munich to London, he took the train from central Munich to Brussels, and later a connecting train to Ostend, which had a ferry service that would bring passengers across the English Channel to Dover. The trip would take almost a day. Before long, England was in sight. The journey, which began as a figment of a young Kuching boy's imagination, had become a reality and a once in a lifetime experience in itself for a young Kuching boy. The world was now his oyster and he was about to make the best out of it.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my dad, Robert Ong, for sharing his travel story with me. I was sure that it was time to document this part of his life, and what better time to do so while we were both experiencing Covid lockdowns together. For my sister, Angeline Ong, who had to read my draft. I know it is not easy, thank you. Also to my supporters like Oliee, Riley, Sophie, Uncle Anton, Mar, Zee who made this possible early on. Thank you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard Ong believes that positive change can be spread through the way we connect and share knowledge. He is a technology leader and innovation coach with multiple IBM Bravo awards. He was met by King Charles to discuss his entrepreneurial efforts in Malaysia, and was featured on national radio. In 2011, Richard earned his Masters in Business Administration from Victoria University. He is currently the Director for Startup Grind Kuala Lumpur.