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It was Wednesday 19 March 1975 when I saw Albert for the first time. Clad in green and yellow he was very handsome. True, he had seen better days but what else would you expect from a 1947 ex-Sydney Albion double decker bus? He was going to carry me from New Delhi to Istanbul for the princely sum of £83.
Albert was owned and driven by an Englishman, Andrew Stewart, and was on its 15th (and final) trip from Australia to England carrying mainly young Australian and New Zealand embarking on working holidays in the UK. I was the odd man out: I was a youthful civil servant who was between assignments and in no hurry to return to London. The bus had been converted to take 16 passengers: we slept upstairs in sleeping bags whilst downstairs, there were sofa type seats and a kitchen area. We bought fresh food en route and took it in turns to cook the evening meals. It worked well.
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We travelled though northern India and Pakistan and through the hazardous Khyber Pass to Kabul. Afghanistan, under the rule of King Mohammed Zahir Shah, was an unspoiled and peaceful country. The formidable Hindu Kush, the vast expanse of the Turkestan plains and the seclusion of the southern deserts reflected its natural beauty. We were lucky enough to see the National Buzkashi Championships which were only held in Kabul biennially. To European observers the game (a cross between Polo and All-In Wrestling) appeared to be one of mass mayhem and the simplicity of the rules was lost in the furious action of the contest. To us foreigners it was spellbinding.
Having rested in Kabul for a few days, Albert then faced what was then the only main road in the country leading down south to Kandahar and thence upto the Iranian border. The road had been built by the Russians and was notorious. The slabs of concrete had not been joined properly so that every six feet there was a jolt as Albert hit the gap. After two days of this our bottoms were relieved to reach Iran where everything was Western built and a different world. In Tehran we were fortunate enough to see the fabulous Iranian Crown jewels (including the Peacock Throne) – I wonder what happened to them?
We continued on towards Turkey and, nearing the border, had terrific views of Mount Ararat with its snowy peak. Mountainous eastern Turkey was more isolated than previous countries we had passed through. Albert, perhaps sensing he was nearing Europe, seemed to charge up and down the steep inclines ignoring the oncoming truck traffic which, at any moment, might force us over the precipices. Having dipped our toes in the Black Sea we continued via Ankara to Istanbul and its magical mosques and the deep blue Bosphorus. It remains the trip of my life.
Footnote: Albert was retired after the trip and now rests in a garage in Ayrshire awaiting restoration. His duty done.
Photos © Andrew Stewart
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