Crossing A Dangerous Border -

On foot, and with a puppy, no less

At the end of Part II of my Travel Journal (and here is Part I, in case you missed it), I had just been robbed of almost all the money I had made, and the rest of the hashish that hadn’t sold yet, was gone too. And that was good, as it turned out – I had rather conventional aspirations; with the money I had made I wanted to rent a fancy apartment, buy a fancy car, and get fancy clothes. I’m so glad this didn’t happen. 

Instead, I bought an old VW-camping van and, together with the then-boyfriend and another male friend, drove overland from Munich to India.  The journey through Austria, Italy, former Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan and finally to India could easily fill several posts. So would the year-long travels through India, Kashmir, and Nepal. But this has to wait for another time. 

I sold the van and ditched the boyfriend. I was running out of money, although at the time of my travels – from 1970 to the end of 1971 – one could easily get by on $5/day. Heck, even $1/day was enough if you rented a little house where you could cook your own meals. No matter; my funds were getting really low and finding work was impossible with a tourist visa.

It was time to return to Europe, and I wanted to take some hashish with me so I wouldn’t be penniless. Afghanistan seemed the best place to buy some, and I found a German couple in Benares who were driving there and agreed to give me a lift. At that time, at the end of 1971, Kabul was a fascinating city. Little girls went to school and young women went to university. One rarely saw a burqa (I just learned that they’re called “chadari” in Afghanistan). People were open and friendly. There were many foreign visitors, some expats, and a steady stream of hippies from Europe to India and back. It was the perfect transition spot between laid-back Asia and hectic Europe, and I decided to hang out for a few weeks.

The guest house where I stayed had a big, lovely courtyard where people  could get together, socialize, and share meals. I became friends with Gilles, a French traveler who had been to India and was on his way home, like I was. He had bought a dog, an Afghan puppy, named Osiris. And then he found out that he wasn’t allowed to take the dog out of the country – they “belonged” to the King. Yes, in 1971 Afghanistan was still a kingdom. I don’t remember why but Gilles had to return to Paris rather suddenly, and he offered to pay for my plane ticket from Pakistan to France if I’d smuggle Osiris across the border. Sure – I loved the dog and was always open for some adventure. Plus, it would be much faster and way more comfortable than an overland trip.

I bought four kilograms of hashish and hid them in the double floor of my suitcase. Next, I secured a ride across the border with some people I knew from Munich and who were on their way to India, with their  VW camping van. The distance from Kabul to Peshawar/Pakistan (from where I was going to fly to Paris) is about 180 miles. We had to cross the infamous Khyber Pass, which even then was notorious for all kinds of dangers…

Photo: Mohsin Ali

We didn’t want to risk the dog being confiscated by border officials, and my friends and I hashed out a plan. We’d wait until it was nearly dark, then I would take Osiris and leave the car a few hundred yards before the border, walk parallel to the road under the cover of some near-by woods, and then join the road again and hopefully meet my friends and the van.

And that’s what we did. I took Osiris, got out of the car, and started walking – but the puppy was too scared to run next to me, so I had to take him up in my arms and carry him. It was pitch dark and I could barely see where I put my feet. Ominous cracks of broken twigs and  sudden flashes of light indicated that I wasn’t quite as alone as I had thought – this was a popular route for smugglers. I stumbled along… I have no idea why I didn’t get hopelessly lost. Finally, I met up with the road again and waited. And waited.

Keep in mind, this was many years before cell phones. There was no way to communicate with my friends or anybody else. I doubt that I even had any identification or money with me; I had left all that in the van. I don’t know why I didn’t have a nervous breakdown but I kept it together somehow and decided to go back to the border crossing, hoping that I’d find my friends…

After more staggering through the dark, bumping into trees while carrying a young dog, I was finally back where I had started. Lo and behold – there was my friends’  van, parked on the road! Apparently, the border crossing closed every night when it got dark, and they couldn’t drive on. Was I ever glad to see them.

The next morning we decided to keep the dog somewhat hidden in the back of the van and just risk driving across the border. And this worked – they barely checked our passports, and we were on our way. Whew! In the next village my friends bought some ten kilos of hashish and just put it all on the floor; no need to hide anything because smoking was legal in Pakistan (as in Afghanistan). 

Photo: Usman Sahid

Absolutely wrong decision. After some 20 or so miles we encountered a road check; passport control, the officials said. We handed them over, and while they were being  checked, a guy in uniform came closer, looked through the window, saw the dog – “Oh, how cute” – when his eyes got really big after he saw the hashish on the floor. We had to pull over and get out. “Check the vehicle, in particular the suitcases”. Of course, they found my stash too. “We catch people here all the time”, they said proudly, and showed us a quite spacious shed that was filled to the ceiling with all sorts of contraband, mostly hashish. 

They arrested us and drove us to a jail. I pleaded with them to leave Osiris in the van and to give him food and water. The border control officers were actually quite nice and promised to look after the dog. They put the four of us in one cell which was nice too; they brought us lots of good food for dinner, and even a big chunk of hashish to smoke – that’s legal, they said. Large quantities that indicate the intention to take it out of the country – NOT legal.

The next morning they took us to a courthouse where a judge heard the cases of hundreds of people, taking a few minutes for each. When it was our turn, the judge stated our crime: trying to smuggle 14 kg of hashish out of the country, and gave us a fine: the rupee equivalent of $15 which has the value of about $110 - $115 today. We had very little money, so we told the judge this was too much. “How much can you pay?” he asked. $5, we said. Done. We were free.

I was only too relieved to find Osiris well-fed and unharmed in the van. My friends left me and the dog in Peshawar where I had a crate built for Osiris’s flight, and I got some sleeping pills from a vet so the poor doggie wouldn’t notice much. Giles sent the plane ticket, and we both arrived tired but happy in Paris…

In December  of 1971 a war broke out between India and Pakistan which ended with the independence of Bangladesh, former East-Pakistan. I just checked my old German passport. I landed in Paris on December 3, 1971, the day the war broke out officially. We were arrested about two weeks earlier. I’m sure the German embassy advised the Pakistani customs officials to let us go quickly, that’s why we didn’t spend more time in prison. There were plenty of horror stories about foreign travelers languishing in Middle Eastern and Asian jails because of drug offenses, worst of all Iran. But only one night? I always credit my Guardian angel.