Harking back: Munich 1972 Olympics and the Lahori hitch-hikers

Exactly 50 years ago two Lahore GC students after their BA examinations decided to hitch-hike to Europe to see the Olympic in Germany. So a London-return plan was hatched which everyone though was a mad-hatters one.

My dear schooldays friend Asad and I started planning in earnest, with me purchasing a canvas backpack for Rs5, and after much effort collected Rs2,800, a handsome amount in those days. Mind you the UK pound equalled Pak Rs8, which by March 2023 standards equals Rs117,000. Asad manged twice my collection. So off to Peshawar we headed and stayed at the house of Prof Ahmad Hasan Dani, the renowned archaeologist, historian and linguist, whose son Anis is a great friend. On hearing of our daring plan, the learned scholar’s eyes lit up and he gave us a look which said: ‘Mad lot you are’.

After getting a transit visa for Afghanistan we got the bus to Kabul and stayed at the cheapest bed-only hotel. After getting a transit visa to Iran we prepared for our very early morning bus trip. We missed the bus as my dear friend refused to get up so early. So the next day we made it. Near Kandahar the bus stopped in the middle of the wilderness. It was prayer time. We remained on our seats as everyone disembarked. An Afghan came to the bus and loaded his rifle. We rushed to join the prayer line.

So we made it to Iran and to the ancient city of Mashhad and visited the exquisite shrine of Imam Reza, the 8th Shia Imam. Within this shrine is also the grave of the Abbasid Khalifa Haroonul Rashid. From there on a train to Teheran, which took 38 hours. That was an eye-opener. Girls in mini-skirts abounded and these two GC students were left gaping, till a shopkeeper asked us if all was well. “No Sir, we are from Lahore.” He understood.

On the way we met two French hitch-hikers, namely Jean-Michel Lubouk and Didier Maurique, who over the years became good friends. We split into two groups, it was Asad and Jean-Michel and I joined up with Didier. So to Turkey we headed getting several free rides on the way, not to mention a few free meals. In Istanbul I managed to stay free in a lunatic asylum run by French nuns. As it was holiday time the asylum was empty and we fitted in well.

Then after the essential tourist trips to the Blue Mosque we set off for Greece. At Thessaloniki I remember getting very home-sick and I sat on the railway line loudly singing “500 miles away from home”. Didier was a wee bit puzzled. But as luck would have it we got a lift from two Swedish students through the then Yugoslavia to Germany. We thanks the students who took us on this three-day journey, not to forget how we escaped a drunk Yugoslav soldier who kept pointing his pistol at us. We had all slept in an open field and escaped at super speed

So to Munich we made it only to discover that a group of Palestinians had held up the Israeli contingent. As we witnessed the episode a German uniformed person asked us if we were Palestinians. “No, we are from Pakistan”. He walked away and we decided that it was safer to head towards France and stay at the house of our French friends.

So to Priva we headed. On the way I ran out of money and someone suggested that I work in a vineyard plucking grapes. It was a three-week slog but the pay was excellent. Finally, I reached Priva and was taken for an excellent Sunday lunch of Chateaubriand steak. It was raw on the inside. It was ‘properly’ done for me, but then the liquids more than made up.

We continued our journey towards Paris and checked into the youth hostel at Palais de la Italia. Young people from all over the world abounded. In the breakfast line the next day before us were three beautiful girls from Israel. A group of Arabs were teasing them and actually ‘plucking’ at them. They stood scared stiff.

Asad the ever-ready ‘pious’ Lahori took offence and stopped them. The result was that I was attacked. Before I could be hit I delivered the decisive hit on a nose. It burst with Arab blood oozing all over the place. Before we could even say ‘pardon’ in a French accent the police swooped out of nowhere and we were both put behind bars. “I told you to ignore the Arabs, now we do not even know anyone here,” I said. His response was: “We are Muslims and this is not acceptable.” I cannot narrate what I said then.

But before any police paperwork could start in walked an elderly gent in a suit along with those very three Israeli girls. He signed some paper and we were released. “See, the hand of Allah is on us,” said my friend. We were invited to breakfast at their embassy. I whispered in Asad’s ear: “When we reach the gate, run for your life, or the ISI will not let us return home.” For once he listened to me and we headed towards London. Imagine we saw those very three girls on Oxford Street and we ran like hell.

In London, my dear friend Asad was up to his unstoppable antics and I decided it was time to head home alone. I got a lift to Dover, crossed on a ferry and at Calais got another life, this time through Italy. At Trieste as I was getting my transit visa I met an Indian who had purchased a new German car and was driving to India to sell it at a profit. “Sir, I do it twice a year and earn over Rs100,000 a month.” It was an eye-popping proposition.

So I got this longest lift of my life. At every border crossing the tricky Indian would distribute gifts to the border police and officials, and we went ‘flying through’. And so we reached Rawalpindi, where he started checking in a posh hotel. “Forget it, I am in Pakistan,” I remember telling him. I picked up my rucksack and on a minibus headed home to Rattigan Road, Lahore.

After a full six months I knocked at my door early in the morning. My English mother opened the door, looked at me and said: “I am sure you would like a nice cup of tea.” Oh, it was music to my ears.

My seven brothers and sisters soon woke up and the stories started. They are stories I must narrate one day, especially the three fights I had in Iran, France and in Turkey with a Pakistani shopkeeper who thought I was a European and tried to fleece me. My Lahori Punjabi vocabulary flowed freely.

Just one detail. I left with Rs2,800 and returned six months later with Rs3,768 in my pocket. Not bad for a Sheikh with a hole in his palm, as my father used to joke.