In 1967, like so many of my contemporaries, in my ‘gap’ year before entering university, I set off on what was then called the hippie trail. I wasn’t even 19 at the time. My parents, surprisingly relaxed, simply said: stick together with your friend from school, send us regular postcards and don’t do anything too reckless. Beyond that, they offered no objections.
This was a world before mobile phones, before the internet, before instant communication of any kind. If we wanted to contact our parents, it was by writing airmail letters. Of course, phones existed, but international calls were unreliable, expensive, and rare. By the time we reached Delhi, my friend and I went to the embassy to check for letters from home. The lady at the counter reminded us not to worry our parents, but reassured us that frequent letters would suffice.
From the very beginning, the journey felt extraordinary. Every country we visited outside of Europe—Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan—was, in 1967, remarkably stable and accessible. Wars, international crises, bombings, and the humanitarian catastrophes that we now associate with these places were mostly absent. We took trains, crossed deserts, and explored cities without fear.
We started in Turkey, traveling from Istanbul to Beirut by train. It was a simple, elegant journey—something that seems impossible today. From Beirut, we visited Syria and Lebanon, still calm at the time. Jordan, too, was stable, though the political realities of Jerusalem reminded us that the world was never entirely free of tension. A warning about a divided Jerusalem, with Israelis on one side of the wall, was our only hint of real danger.

Traveling across the desert from Amman to Baghdad, we were met with courtesy and smooth border crossings. Iraq, now associated with ISIS and decades of conflict, was then peaceful. Kuwait followed, another oasis of calm. From there, we entered Iran, which left a profound impression with its vibrant culture and rich history. Though border formalities reminded us of political tensions, the people were welcoming and generous.

Afghanistan was another highlight—a country of extraordinary beauty and friendship. Women in burqas and women in miniskirts existed side by side, illustrating a fascinating cultural diversity. Pakistan followed, and though the border formalities were stricter due to tensions with India, there was nothing resembling the violence we see today.
We took risks, of course. In Iran, we even entered the great mosque of Qom by disguising ourselves—a daring act that might be unthinkable now. Yet, despite these adventures, we never felt the sense of fear that dominates travel in many of these regions today. We were young, perhaps naïve, perhaps just reckless—but also free in a way that seems almost unimaginable today.
Looking back now, almost sixty years later, the contrast is striking. Many of the countries we visited have been cast into turmoil: wars, insurgencies, foreign interventions, poverty, and humanitarian crises have changed the landscape irrevocably. Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, and parts of Pakistan are no longer places for ordinary tourists to explore. Even when travel is technically possible, the risk and political complexity make such journeys unthinkable for the average young traveler.
It saddens me to see that the world has become split in this way. Today, a traveler can easily visit Thailand, the Maldives, or Peru—but Afghanistan? Not for leisure. Iran? Only under careful planning. Many of these brilliant, proud countries now exist under clouds of conflict or political interference.
In the end, my reflection is simple: 1967 offered a freedom, an innocence, and a sense of adventure that is largely lost today. It’s not that travel itself has become impossible—the world is more connected than ever—but that geopolitical realities have reshaped the very nature of possibility. I look back on that journey with gratitude, wonder, and a tinge of sadness.
The world changed. We didn’t. And yet, in those letters, trains, and border crossings, in the laughter and daring of youth, there was a glimpse of a world that seems almost impossible to imagine today.