The Hippy Trail Gets To Burma

We share the following submission from a guest writer:

I had never been one to share my story easily. But maybe now, with a cigarette in hand and an audience who wouldn’t pry too deeply, I could share a bit about my journey. It was 1973, and I was just a young hippie from Mexico, part of the growing wave of dreamers drifting east along the Hippie Trail. My name is Lupita, and my journey began in a Volkswagen van in Europe and ended, impossibly, in the mountains of Burma. Looking back, I still find it hard to believe I made it.

We started in Spain. Barcelona, to be exact. My friend Alejo and I had bought an old van—one that we painted in bright greens and yellows. It had flowers, peace signs, and a little bit of rebelliousness scrawled across its rusting sides. The journey was to be our escape from the confines of family expectations, societal norms, and the predictable mundanity of life. We took the ferry across the Mediterranean, and it wasn’t long before we were traveling through Morocco, the world shifting around us, becoming more vivid and raw with each passing mile.

Istanbul was the first place where I felt the weight of the journey. Alejo had a bad habit of losing things, and that night, it was his passport. We were staying in a hostel near Taksim Square, sharing a room with a German backpacker named Klaus, who had been to India and back twice already. He seemed seasoned—someone who knew the ropes—and so I followed him down a labyrinth of streets to find Alejo, who had wandered off in a panic. We ended up in a tea house with velvet cushions and a haze of smoke. The men there, dressed in suits, barely acknowledged us as we entered, but Klaus charmed them in his broken Turkish, somehow convincing them to let us stay until Alejo reappeared. Hours later, Alejo returned, clutching his lost passport as if it were the Holy Grail. It was a long night of chai and the strum of the saz, with the deep voice of a local singer lulling us into a trance. In that tea house, I learned that the road would test you, but it would also reward you with moments of surprising beauty.

Crossing into Afghanistan was something out of a surreal dream. We’d made our way to the Khyber Pass, hitching rides with trucks transporting everything from spices to caged chickens. The mountains there were vast and unforgiving, stretching endlessly. We met an old Pashtun man who offered us a ride in the back of his lorry. He wore a turban, his eyes lined with the years of harsh sun and wind, and spoke a few words of English. As we bumped along the rugged roads, he gestured at the mountains, speaking passionately in Pashto. He smiled when I didn’t understand, his laughter warm and hearty. He gave us dried apricots and a loaf of flatbread, and we shared what we could—bits of conversation, glances, and laughter. It was moments like this that made me realize just how interconnected we all were, despite the distances and differences.

Nagaland was not even a planned destination. We had made it to India by then, somehow making our way through Pakistan and into the vibrant chaos of Delhi. From there, I had heard whispers of an untouched place, far to the east, close to the Burmese border. Alejo was hesitant, but I convinced him—“just a few days,” I had said. We ended up with a group of travelers, some from Europe, others from the US, all intrigued by the promise of Nagaland. Crossing into Nagaland was like stepping into another world. The villages were remote, seemingly untouched by time. We were hosted by a family in one of the villages, staying in a longhouse built of bamboo and thatch. The mother, who spoke no English, would point at her children and then at us, as if drawing invisible lines between our lives. One night, there was a celebration—drumming and dancing around a fire. I remember one of the elders painting my face with red and white pigments, the thick scent of smoke mingling with the chill mountain air. For a moment, I felt like I belonged to that place—caught in an ancient rhythm, a dance that had existed long before me.

The final stretch was crossing into Burma. It wasn't supposed to be possible, but somehow, we found ourselves slipping across the border. The air in the Burmese mountains was cool, and the paths we followed wound through dense jungle. We were low on money and had run out of most of our supplies. But the people we encountered—they were kind. A monk took us in for a night at a monastery. He was silent, his eyes smiling as he watched us, this ragtag group of wanderers. He offered us rice and tea, and we sat in silence, the evening darkness settling around us. The next day, a villager showed us the path forward, and as we walked through those mountains, I felt a deep sense of peace. We were in Burma—something I had dreamed of but never thought possible. It was a land caught between worlds, not yet touched by the tides of globalization, and I knew even then that what we were witnessing was precious, fleeting.

Looking back now, the journey feels like a story I read once, almost unreal in its intensity. I think of Alejo, of Klaus, of the people whose paths crossed mine for only a moment. The journey wasn't just about the places; it was about the people, the connections, and the fleeting beauty found on the road. And though I tell this story reluctantly, I understand now that it has shaped me more deeply than any other experience. The world is much larger, and yet far smaller, than I ever imagined. And as I sit here, cigarette smoke curling in the air, I can almost hear the drums of Nagaland and feel the cool air of the Burmese mountains once more.

My English, maybe, it’s not so good. I learned it from travelers, from people like Klaus, from hitchhiking and sharing stories by the fire. I don’t have the perfect words sometimes, but I hope you can understand. It is not the words that matter, but the feelings, the people, and what we shared along the way. My journey, mi camino, it was something I never expected to tell, but I think now, maybe, it’s okay to share, even if it’s not perfect.