1991 Berlin

30.8.91 Gatwick airport

I was here on Monday; and less than two weeks ago.  Life is so...hectic; interesting.  I can barely keep up with myself.  Work is crazy – editor of PC Magazine, Personal Computer Directory launching, publisher of Windows User, Electrical Retail Trade and (until today) Electronics Weekly.  Freelance stuff for the Daily Telegraph had to be done this week.  The novel barely touched for months…

Well, I sit now in the café of the main museum at Dahlem. Amazingly, outside, in the entrance hall, there is still (still? - the same one?) an exhibition of musics from the ethnomusic collection.  And one of them is Balinese.  So I came here to complete that cycle.  Alas, not symbolic, I hope, the headphones had been removed.

A strange day so far, but not unpleasantly.  Due largely no doubt to its sheer speciousness – there was no real reason why I shouldn't have come on Sunday – except that I wanted to see a little of the new Berlin.  So a little work this afternoon – more problems – but hey.  Then out to Dahlem.  Always so strange going back after all those years.  Too soon and things are spoilt, but leave a decent decade, as the memories begin to fade or simply get slightly mislaid, and the re-visit has a real charm.

So I recognised the museum and some of the pix.  And as for the Balinese and Sumatran musics…  Some new discoveries – the Burgundian stuff, Weyden, Campin, two great Canalettos – a pair of night scenes, one of which I saw in New York, probably on the day the Berlin Wall came down...ah, the connections, how I luv 'em…  But given the limited time, my main advance today was the Central American collection.  

Well, it had to be.  Having found an Afghan restaurant recommended by one of the guide books (Cadogan, which really seem to be taking off – some are quite good – lovely typeface too), Katschikol, Pestalozzi 84, I had to go.  Suitably Afghani cimbalom in the background, very full menu – better than Caravanserai in London by Paddington.  

Long walk here through mainly residential areas [Dooch turns out to be cool, milky, with cucumber and herbs – lovely for this weather.  Wow – vorspeise Torschi very hot – gherkins and fruits in vinegar and chili etc. - yow.]  I find it hard to get a feel for Berlin.  It is undeniably busy, but looking through the inimitably named "Zitty"(City Limits here) I'm not impressed by what's available.  The contrast with somewhere like Paris is painfully clear: there I felt immediately that this was a bustling city I could live in.  Here… [Main course badenjan, bonani, tschalau.  Dessert – falooda, plus Afghan tea – scented, quite strong.  Heavy but pleasant meal.]

31.8.91 Outside the Pergamon Museum

Strange to be back here.  It is all so different – just walking in – and yet the same – the wrecked or decaying buildings, the strange absence of something – liveliness? Museum not yet open.

On the way back last night, I walked along the Ku'damm.  Very like Champs-Élysées.  Interesting the prostitutes out – in regulation gear of body-hugging pants.  Many quite attractive – and young.  But what a life – what prospects.  Odd little Trabis everywhere – along with the huge, squat-brutalist architecture – damning evidence that architecture reflects the soul of a nation.

Sun very pleasant now.  Along to Alexanderplatz.  Amazing – a kind of grey Milton Keynes, now suddenly gone very tacky.  Poor Döblin.  To Moskau restaurant – very quiet, very civilised – fish soup (Baikal) followed by Uzbek plov (whatever plov is).  Opposite, across the eight-lane road, a cinema is showing Lawrence of Arabia… Behind looms the Hotel Berolina.  The air-conditioning whines.  The food – and general ambience of the place, with shapes and objects all slightly foreign – reminds me strongly of Moscow – not surprisingly.  The same is also true of East Berlin generally so far.  Strange to be here again after so many years.  Impressive main course – served in a hollowed-out cabbage, with lamb, peppers, mushrooms, rice, cream – huge and good.  Good value too – about £6.

Back to  Alexanderplatz, where I have to stop to read Döblin...but now how things have changed.  The U-bahn number 2 to below Unter den Linden, which I walk along.  The Oper, rather fine, a good square with crazy Pantheon-like church (hallo, Peter Greenaway).   Unter den Linden busy – I can almost imagine it as the centre.  To the Brandenburg Gate, now looking rather sordid with the Imbiss stands everywhere – the obligatory lumps of "wall" being sold.

S-bahn not open here, so I walk through the Tiergarten to the Neue Nationalgalerie – lovely cool woods – where I sit again now.  I vaguely remember the Neue Nationalgalerie – a huge bright slab – of nothing – typical van der Rohe.  The galleries are below.  It all works pretty well.  Lots of good stuff, but I am particularly struck by the integrity (sic) of the Lovis Corinth.  I must find out more.

1.9.91 Kleist's Memorial, Wannsee

I think I must be getting into necrophilia or something: first Proust's grave, now here.  So morose these krauts...but what a wielder of the German language. 

2.9.91

I'm getting behind, as ever.  Yesterday after Kleist to the Schloss Charlottenberg.  Rather rushed alas – I was meeting someone for business at 1pm.  So along to the Galerie der Romantik – for the Caspar David Friedrich – wunnerful.  Then outside to admire the facade – and enjoying the sun (too much, I fear).

Lunch um die Ecke of our street and Ku'damm.  Not much good – and lousy service.  Then into the former East Berlin on U-5 to Friedrichstrasse.  To the Brandenburger Tor along Unter den Linden for coffee and cakes in the café by the Oper – very nice, waiters with strange accents.  Very civilised.  Then back to the hotel for a shower and a rest.

Afterwards, we went looking for "Istanbul" – a Turkish restaurant, not surprisingly.  Closed for repairs.  Wandered around and found a Greek dive (ha!).  Eat there – with various fun trying to get what we wanted.  Had fun also trying out a list of Greek.  Walking back past the deceptively attractive prostitutes on Ku'damm.

Today, along to the Funkausstellung – not as bad as I expected, but bad enough.  Lunch up in the Funkturm restaurant – very nice.  Lovely view, cool and good food.  Then walk to here – after buying a ticket for the Israel Philharmonic tomorrow – an open air concert.

3.9.91 Waldbühne

Where I sit now, in a huge natural amphitheatre, to the west of the Olympic Stadium.  The sun has just set, casting a slight orange glow to my left; the sky, blissfully, is utterly clear.  The day much the same as yesterday: long, hot and sweaty, lunch up in the tower again – very nice – could get used to it.  Back to the hotel, quick eats, then out to here.  One bit of nonsense: I follow everyone out of the U-bahn, after buying my ticket for the return – and throwing away the old one.  But following everyone, I find buses to take us the rest of the way: will I be done for travelling without a ticket?  No, in fact…  Good few thousand around, eating, drinking, smoking.  We were given small candles as we came in...could be good.

The concert about to begin.  As the light changes, so does the aspect.  I see now the candles already lit being used by people for their supper – especially where they have a ledge for cloth and appurtenances.  Nice.  Pity about the smokers...

As I suspected, this place becomes more magical as night descends.  Sunset turned into a peach blur, the podium gradually stood out, and then the candles were lit.  Hundreds – thousands soon – of points of light, wonderful ancient symbols.  I shall light mine now...

More destinations:

1990 Munich

1994 the Danube: Neuburg, Vienna, Budapest

1999 Weimar, Venice

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1988 San Francisco

29.10.88 San Francisco

9.45am  Work done yesterday, I am free to wander.  Writing is a slight problem though: I do not feel entirely happy about my back.  I have therefore come to the Hyatt at Embarcadero, and sit amid the totally de trop splendours of its lobby.

For example, the glittering lifts descend like golden dew drops, smooth and fluid.  Fountains plash, with the water pouring over the basin's edge in an unbroken sheet.  From where I sit the lights catch it and make it look like some crude plastic sheet.   The design of this place is curious.  Two sides of the triangular shape are sheer, and have small plants every 18 inches or so, turning the face into a field on its side.  The third side hangs out over the lobby at 45 degrees.

I walked over this morning to the Civic Center, down Taylor to Market Street – some of it pretty insalubrious.  Many homeless on the streets, more blacks here than elsewhere.  The UN Plaza full of homeless on the park benches.  Despite its grandiose architecture – totally inappropriate really – the place looks squalid and grubby.  The opera house and art gallery are simply dumped here: there is no sense of organic architecture.

One characteristic feature of San Francisco is the cable cars.  Not so much their quaint appearance, but in their absence the constant complaints of the cables which run beneath the streets.  It sounds as if the trolls of Nibelung are working away.  The often very steep hills – real Lake District up – transform the city, which is a grid system like New York, but looks nothing like it.  

I took the BART  – eventually.  First, it took me ages to work out how to buy a ticket.  Next, the station platform had no map telling me where I was going.  The BART itself is a strange mixture: poor and plush.  Thick carpets and comfy seats, but only lower socio-economic groups using it.

In the Cable Car Museum.  There are large wheels – "sheaves" – which circulate the closed loop of steel.  Cable cars grab this as they move.  The museum is like a circle of hell: huge, antiquated pieces of equipment, thrumming steadily.  

Back by Civic Center (alas), but the promise of Ethiopian food is too much.  Not yet 7pm, and already busy.  After beginning here, I then went to the bookstalls near Union Square, then back to the Museum of Modern Art.  Pretty poor.  Partly because the place is being renovated; but the exhibition of Chicago architecture very poor stuff.  Lunch at the café – the same artsy and uncomfortable chairs as the Design Centre.

Then on to the City Lights bookstore.  A gem.  Lively atmosphere – even chairs and tables so you can browse at your leisure.  City Lights publishers its own books, quite heavy stuff.  I was weak and bought Vikram Seth's book of poems – pre "Golden Gate" – and Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" – abridged, alas.  He seems to rabbit on about Santa Maria Formosa a lot….

I look up from my books – and see clear blue sky.  San Francisco is transformed.  I rush out, and go to Telegraph Hill.  The view is stunning, especially of the bay, stretching from the Golden Gate Bridge – a rather dull red colour – to Oakland Bay toll bridge. Hundreds of sailboats plus tankers et al.  Berkeley and its campanile visible [Honey wine tastes like cough mixture]. The rolling hills of San Francisco with their buildings: it's hard to see them as hills.  Sir Francis Drake must have felt pleased with himself claiming this bay: big and beautiful.  Now, bridges everywhere.

I decide to ascend Coit Tower on the hill.  It closes as I get there.  I sit and look, almost deciding to go back down to Fisherman's Wharf.  [The bread has the texture of cold foam rubber.]  I stay on the Hill for about an hour and a half, then descend towards the cable car on Powell.  No luck: full.  I walk up the amazing incline.  One bonus: the Cable Car museum (see supra).

30.10.88

I am totally knackered.  I have been walking for hours all day.  I woke early – clocks went back during the night – ate early, one of the big advantages here: you can eat anytime; then walked.

First up to Union Street, to see the Victorian houses.  Up incredibly steep streets – there was a race today in the brilliant clear blue sky – to practically the top – past rather decaying versions then to the genteel part.  Reminds me of Boston.  Shops – clothes et al. - nicely done out, surprisingly posh.  Everyone out for their papers – San Francisco Examiner, in about 15 sections, and weighing over a pound – and their breakfast.  Everybody seems to eat this meal out.  Parenthetically, John Dvorak has a Q&A in the San Francisco Examiner: rather feeble, I thought.  I like the Examiner; nice typeface, good style.  But they came out for Bush…

It is a picture: the neat wooden houses and shops, no two alike, the curving hills, the blue sky and radiant early morning sunshine.  Then down to the shore.  Foolishly, it being such a nice day, I decided to walk to the Golden Gate Bridge.  All the joggers are out – hundreds of them.  I am tempted to join in.  Out at sea there is a race: Indian-type canoes – about ten crews.  

Oakland is misty, but Alcatraz (= the pelican) is clear.  The bridge looms ahead, bright red.  I pass marinas chock full of boats.  Rich people/lifestyle here.  After about an hour (more?) I reach the bridge.  I am surprised that it would be so easy to leap off – and am vaguely tempted by that self-destructive devil within.  What is more frightening than looking down is looking up at the four cables every so often.  I have this urge to shimmy up them.

Golden Gate Bridge is big.  I walk less than halfway across and even that take me many minutes.  I see the Pacific for the first time (is Bali in the Pacific? Probably.)  Looking back downtown, the view is interesting: the skyscrapers, Coit Tower, the various hills.  Sausalito looks close, but I am already pretty tired.  In vain, I look for a taxi.  Finally, I find one, and go to Golden Gate Park.  It is much further than I think – thank god I didn't walk as I contemplated.  To the de Young Museum – quite one of the plainest buildings I have ever seen.  Lots of people milling around.  More joggers.  Lunch in the Museum.  Sitting outside in the courtyard and, the sun streaming down… not bad at all.  A quick tour.  Quite good Yank stuff, a few good Brit pix – the rest dross.  Everything seems so token and incomplete.

Outside to hear the Sunday brass band finish with a medley of tunes from "The Sound of Music".  Then wandering around.  The Arboretum, the Japanese Tea Garden, the hothouse, paying for most things.  The park is very big, full of people.

Because of the hour, the sun on the way down now.  Shadows lengthen.  I walk east the length of the park.  No bus, not taxis.  Foolishly, again, I decided to walk through Haight-Ashbury, along Pine Street, to the Civic Center.  It is a long, long way.  It is noticeable how past the green exterior of the Golden Gate Park, the neighbourhood turns crummy.  Am I too near the Western Addition?  Well, I make it, exhausted, back to the hotel.

More destinations:

1989 US, New Zealand, Fiji

1993 Mexico

1997 Seattle

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1992 Indonesia I: Lombok, Bali

13.6.92 Gatwick airport

Here again – but all is so different.  Up in the Village – less plastic than it looks, waiting for the flight to Jakarta.  Flight not full – so hopefully we will have good seats.  Outside, a brilliant summer's day; if the weather is like this en route, then the view could be great.  Flying via Zurich and Abu Dhabi.  Delayed take-off – weight of air traffic…

The sensation of a Jumbo lifting off has to be one of the late 20th-century's peak experiences.  That sheer mass of metal apparently defying the laws of physics.  Flying into Abu Dhabi. Dotted on the right tiny candles of bright orange flames – gas burning off the wells, I presume.  

14.6.92 Jakarta

Overnight non-stop flying.  With so few people we were able to move and stretch out along four seats.  We slept well.  Bodies completely out of kilter (seven hours difference) but relatively refreshed.  Another meal.  Over Sumatra: huge, roadless, great masses of clouds, blinding white.

Now in the Sate Khas Senayan, the most upmarket place on Jalan Jaksa – which is a bit third world, as is the hotel, alas.  Here we have standard food with muzak in the background, and aircon blasting out.  Room is not bad – clean, bath (cold water only).  Just a bit tatty.  Jakarta is a typical mix of skyscrapers with hovels.  Not very appealing as a whole, and certainly not the best intro to Indonesia.  We shall see.

15.6.92 Jakarta

What a 24 hours.  We came to Sate Khas Senayan last night; food was good, so I ate too much.  Passed the night OK – mended the WC ballcock, but it soon broke again.  Up late – 9ish, and I soon felt diabolical.  Later on, we stagger down to the Garuda office – the events of last night focusing my mind somewhat.  The road we are on typically third world: stinking sewer with all its usual smells, odd colours, dubious object – by a roaring main road full of New Delhi-like mini taxis and fully-fledged versions, plus flash BMWs and Japanese cars.

Along to the main street, full of cars and motorcycles.  Very like India.  Up to Garuda, who helpfully send us to a travel agent nearby.  Very helpful, if slightly officious young lady.  We book a flight to Lombok tomorrow, one week at Sengiggi Beach Hotel, a flight to Bali, one week there, then on to Yogyakarta, plus a reservation at a hotel for one week.  

16.6.92 Lombok

Another crazy night, though for different reasons.  After eating at the same place – a huge, perfect dusky moon hovering over the detritus of Jakarta – we went to bed mind-blowingly early - about 8pm.  This was an attempt to be up at 4am, taxi at 4.30am to the airport.  Such a long, slow, sweating night, the body utterly at a loss.  The hours crawling by: 9, 10, 11 – surely later than 11pm?  Finally, release at 4am, the ayam jago aying outside, but still dark – you forget how short the days are here, assuming somehow that at the Equator the days will be long.

Strange, characteristic journey to the airport. The right one?  Broken conversations with the driver. Like any other early morning journey through a sprawling third-world metropolis – New Delhi etc.  People strangely going about their business: the warungs open, the street sweepers pointlessly sweeping.  Nearly dark – few street lamps lit.  Our taxi barely avoids running over somnolent wanderers in the dawn.

Boeing 737 – hazy day.  We fly underneath the topmost veil, below a misty landscape.  Alas, not much to be seen on our left-hand side except wispy views of the sea.  To the right, just visible ranges of mountains.  In to Surabaya (everyone together for the chorus…).  A small airport where we are now stuck, outbound flight delayed.  A little box of tea and cakes given to us.  Such a civilised people.  Two and a half hours late out of Surabaya, flying high, north of Bali, Lake Batur looking strangely small.  Lombok far lusher than I expected – hills thickly wooded.

Lombok, Sengiggi Beach Hotel (Room 107), by the pool, the sun beginning to sink down towards Mount Agung.  In the background, the pentatonic bamboo instrument – reminds me of something…  Now the waves shimmer calmly behind the ten or dozen palm trees; Agung has a delicate necklace of clouds.  Dinner, in the open, in the restaurant.  Nearby, yes – a gamelan, a rebab squeaking, fast and furious metallophones.  Smells of food wafting up, lights of the distant Bali twinkling across the water.  Not a rebab, some wind instrument – but too rough for a suling.  The moon incredibly bright – you forget that this is what the ancients saw – and just as with the stars, it is a shock to rediscover it.

18.6.92 Lombok

On the veranda, 50 feet from the beach, the rain falling pleasantly and quite heavily.  Up at 7.30am this morning, then to the beach. But I notice – belatedly – that yesterday did not exist.  So, as ever, to backtrack somewhat.

Long, long sleep Tuesday evening – after all, we are still only three or four days into Indonesia, and our bodies were smashed sideways by the journey, and then mine by the food – now almost fully recovered, and eating like a pig again – and drinking the water, which makes life easier.  So yesterday, to breakfast at about 8am.  Buffet, lots of fruits, sweetmeats etc. - good start.  Then we changed rooms: from 134 to 107.  A good move indeed.  This is more or less the nearest to the pool/bar/restaurant.  Noisy neighbours alas.  But to tell the truth, there are few people here.  40, 50 at the most.  In the height of the season, probably gets pretty crowded, but paradisaical at the moment.

Took the sun sensibly yesterday, breaking for two hours at noon.  Clouds came in at 3pm-ish, as they have now.  Probably a blessing, really.  Certainly as island paradises go, Lombok, or this part of it, is pretty fine.  The beach shelves steeply, and the currents are strong, but the view across to Gunung Agung (hi, remember me?) is great.  The sunsets too have been chocolate box spectacular, framing Gunung Agung.  The flowers here brilliant, huge bursts of colour.  The smell of kretek cigarettes everywhere, the characteristic smell of Indonesia.  And last night – salaks, a little dry and bitter, but good to find again.

Out on the road at last, paying 45K Rp. for a two- to three-hour trip round the local temples.  Now at Mayura.  Basically, a large artificial pond, with a water palace in the middle.  Cocks crowing, pop music playing noisily.  Sun is back, a lovely warm liquid.  After Mayura, we unconscionably miss out Pura Meru, but go straight on to Sweta market by the bus terminal.  This is rather refreshing – the biggest in Lombok, and very lively.  We buy one kilo of salaks – 1500 Rp., about 40p.  Flies on the dried fish, bright piles of seeds and fruits – but not quite Egypt.  A crippled child – we give 100 Rp.  Then to Narmada, a small temple complex – where we buy two hard-boiled eggs for the eels.  Who refuse to come out – probably sated, judging by the egg whites everywhere.  On the way back, we glimpse one – a huge grey, slug-like thing. 

Finally, after a further bone-crunching ride in the back of the Suzuki jeep, to Lingsar – the best, because living.  Nearly dusk, a great red wash spreading over the sky.  Mount Rinjani clear of the clouds.  A longish walk down to the river, then left into the compound after donning the sash.  Two areas.  The first, lower, dedicated to the fascinating Wetu Telu religion – everything in threes.  Inside, people praying, to strange wrapped figures – animistic, offerings, incense burning.  Full of kids, playing.  Women bathing near the river.  Islamic wailings in the background.  

Then up to the Hindu part, very serene, minimalist, a man planting a new tree there.  Coconuts burning on the ground, part of the offerings, with circles of water around them.  The mountains in the background like the Annapurnas (ah, those other memories).  Later, back with the gamelan, a familiar diminished fifth sounding during a martial dance ostinato.  Evening cooler after the rain, which happily held off for our rattle round some of the sights of Lombok.  From Lingsar, the high point of the day, back here in a long dark twisty drive.  I found my little Indonesian useful – and genuinely appreciated.  

20.6.92 Lombok

On the terrace, bats flying, frogs hopping, rum and cokes being downed, the melting sun behind  Gunung Agung, the sea a ruddy mirror, a perfect day, hot in the sun, cool in the room…  The volcano almost a perfect cone from here, falling down into the sea (Singaraja).  Thick reds low down, lighter pinks higher.  Today, on the beach, the sea caught us out, flooding us – and soaking Penrose's "Emperor's New Mind" – symbolic or what?  Such a peaceful afternoon, the sun low, a breeze, the sea receding…

21.6.92 Lombok

We stopped off at Kediri to see the market – pretty much the same as at Sweta: lots of tiny stalls, flies crawling over dead fish, disturbing legs of cows – sans meat, various fruits etc.  The melange of smells, some good, some bad.  Then on to the turning for Sukarara.  Big mistake.  Market day, it took 30 minutes to get through, destroying a few warung in the process – and knocking out the bus, whose air conditioning was so bad that we opened the windows to let in cooler air. Weaving at Sukarara.  Pretty enough, but nothing so special. Most interesting was the loom: the weaver sat in it, with the back braced against part of it. 

Giving Praya a miss, on to Sengkol (ditto), then to Rembitan – first seen from the road as a clump of grey-brown forms, like shaggy mammoths, gathered on the side of the hill.  We stop to photograph and then approach, leaving the bus on the main road.   As we approached Rembitan village, we could hear the unmistakable sound of the gamelan.  The village band practising in the shade – a real, living gamelan.  Mostly young men, the leaders older.  Right by the village gate – which is a real gate, a thing in a real village, a cluster of thatched huts on a hill, set amidst hilly countryside.  Here is very Lombokian in feel. All the kids gathered around, listening, the women on a veranda.  All the players dressed in blue.  A recording being made...if only they were selling copies.

Walking round the village, amazingly intact.  The paths well beaten, mud.  The houses have two rooms: the living/cooking room, and above it, the bedroom.  A talkative boy takes us to his.  Inside, his old crone of a grandmother (?) chewing betel nuts.  We are offered the same, but decline.  Past the thatched mosque, and the great rice drying stores with their characteristic high thatched roofs.  Back down to the gamelan, still thundering away.  The boy explains that it is a visiting gamelan, from a nearby village.  Yesterday had been a nice harvest, he said, and today's gamelan was presumably in its honour.  The best rice around, they say, is from Lombok. He points out a particularly beautiful young woman, under a veranda, also from the village.  He wants her for his girlfriend he says… 

Down to Kuta, a beautiful beach with white sand, a ring of coves as far as the eye could see, and emerald-turquoise water.  Plus a natty market and a couple of warung.  A few bungalows popping up – I was offered one for 7K Rp.  There, our bus finally broke down, and a little man tried another – rather better, but we couldn't stop where we wanted, and so I docked him money: 80K → 50K Rp.  Still plenty, but I feel bad playing the petty imperialist. After lunch, to the beach, but by now, as so often, the intermittent clouds were gathering – but probably better for us.

Through the market, which is set up on the beach once the sun loses its force.  Practise my haggling ("what's your best price? - Too much…").  Eventually down to 3K Rp. For a t-shirt – initially 6K Rp.  50% discount seems about right.  A quick dip in the sea – currents and coral the main threats, then rum and coke – life can be a beach, as they say...

At dinner this evening, Nalayan music – voices, flute, "guitar" – very Lombok, the men all dressed in black, no gamelan influence, very drum driven, nasal male and female voices.  Reminds me a little of Nepal, but the drumming is very Indian in its tremendous complexity and cross rhythms.  Before dinner, rum and coke (I'm afraid), watching the huge bats, the slow, diffuse sunset framed by coconut trees, the shattered mirror of the sea.  Incredibly peaceful.  Looking at the hills from the curve of the beach you see bungalows creeping up one: I wonder if in 5 years the whole place will be developed?  Interesting the change in Kuta beach (where we went this noon) between my old Bali book (c. 1988) and the new Indonesian one (1991.92).  Kuta has moved on, but is still pretty quiet.

A strange day – one week after we arrived in Jakarta.  Glad there are still three weeks to go – I couldn't bear to be going back now, but glad to be moving on.  Here is stunningly beautiful – but alas a trifle too touristy, and getting around the island is a bit of a pain.

22.6.92 Lombok

A long, lazy day on the beach, reading, sunning, soaking, eating…  Then a final dinner (after a double rum and coke) – fried spinach/water cress and meats, nice.  Followed by fermented rice – black, sweet, delicious.  This place is very well ordered.  Early in the morning, we eat breakfast (for us, buffet – fruit and Danish pastries), the pool is cleaned, the reclining chairs wiped, new towels fetched.  The whole place bristles with attendants, and yet the price – about $60 a night for 2, is nothing really.  We have been lucky that the place has been so quiet.  Today a big group of Dutch arrived – curious the old empires – and gave a glimpse of the horrors that could be here…

Bought our first pineapple on the beach – 1000 Rp. - expertly carved by a 15-year-old girl.  Bought two t-shirts for 6000 Rp. (haggled), ignored a tiresome little man who was still trying to sell us visits to the monkeys…

23.6.92 Denpasar

An hour or two to kill before leaving, that strange in-between time that is so often full of melancholy.  And should be: it should be sad to leave a place you have enjoyed – and you must leave it then, not later, when it has begun to pall.  We, at least, have the prospect of Bali literally and metaphorically before us, so this loss should be a gain too.  

Seeing the manager – in his distinctive black suit – I stopped to thank and congratulate him.  He seemed genuinely pleased.  I know from my own experiences that it is always pleasant to have praise given explicitly and personally in that way.  To the airport.  Clearest day so far.  Rinjani totally proud of its clouds.  Fierce heat.  All sorts of extras to pay: tickets miscalculated, 5000 Rp. insurance etc.  At least the plane has arrived already – turbo prop.  Above us a fan beats with the uneven rattle so beloved of Deep South films...

Here I am then, by the beach at Sanur, at what I find is the "La Taverna" beach bungalows – with the banners cracking in the wind as before, as have remained in my memory for four years, with  Gunung Agung as ever misty in the distance, the island in front of us.

Ajit's Beach Bungalows – well, a little run-down, but amazingly, the prices identical: $37/single, $40/double.  Lots of renovations underway, but I still find its situation pleasing, at the end of the tourist beach, by the fishing boats.  Java tea, we are drinking, my preferred beverage at this hour, as the shadows lengthen on the beach, and the world packs up its wares.  And the kites, of course, lunging in a wind even stronger than I remembered.  Great swooping (did someone say "skirling"?) birds of prey.

24.6.92 Denpasar

A long "hard" day at the beach.  Which remained almost empty for the entire day – even emptier than when I was last here.  (A lovely silver light in the air now, 6.20pm, I've tried to photograph it…)  Clouds hung mysteriously in the sky so as to block the sun just for us (really).  Helicopters came and went, throwing sound everywhere (that strange circular platform in front of the Hotel Bali – so that's what it is for…). We just lay there, soaking in the sun.  The wind tremendous – far stronger than before – but perfectly cooling.  As the heat few stronger, so did the wind.  The water provided little respite – very shallow, with rocks close in.  But pleasant in temperature.

Parenthetically, the day began with a fine sunrise, perfectly visible from our room (#20).  We took breakfast on the open air veranda – bread and tea, nothing much – perhaps we should try the Sunrise Restaurant, where we ate yesterday evening – for about £4 – well, and almost the only ones there.  Everything is so quiet.  What have I missed?  Some party elsewhere?

Lunch under the sign of the lobster – even better than I remembered – big portions of good food.  Under the shade of the trees, the wind tremendous.  Some new trees planted in front of the Bali Hotel, I notice.  We managed to confirm our flights to Yogyakarta today, in a freezing cold Garuda office in the Bali Hotel.  Then we blag some loungers, and bask and bask.

Then, perversely, we walk to the road.  I want to (a) check on the prices for a Suzuki jeep and (b) try to find Wayan Pater, who is said to hang out at one of the hotels further along.  We tried phoning his old office number this morning: it worked, but nobody answered.  It feels strange pursuing this dalang in this way.  Who knows what has happened to him in the intervening four years?  The heat on the road was hell's furnace to the beach's cool balm of heaven.  

We walk through La Taverna hotel – beautifully kept – pity about the $120 price – to "our" table, and I take tea under my banners.  A tremendous cracking like rippling water.  The usual beautiful end – Agung mighty in the distance – to a perfect, lazy day.  Off tonight to the Legong dance at the lobster – better than nothing.  Out on the road we passed a school or something: sounds of a gamelan inside...tantalising.

25.6.92 Ubud

We sit under the stars at Peliatan, awaiting the start of "Semara Madya" kecak dance.  We arrived here in a bemo (our first), from the well-organised arts centre in Ubud.  What looks like a netball court – and probably is – in front of a great gate – very fine example, the clothed demons/gods in front.

We arrived here after a long day.  Up early, in to central Denpasar after breakfast – alone at the Sunrise Restaurant – the sea breaking on the sands below us.  Denpasar very large – the road in long, straight, hot.  The tourist centre – empty, people lounging around, waiting for business.  A helpful chap – laughing gently when I ask for a programme for the current Balinese Festival – they had one for themselves, and that was all – but a more useful guide to the dances in Bali – when and where.  We also raised the vexed subject of hiring cars.

He of course knew someone.  We got embroiled.  His mate brought the car round – not the newest, we somehow went off, but gradually fell out of love with it – bad tyres etc.  Said "no" – and they proceeded to take mortal offence, and demanded money to drive us back to the tourist centre.  Pity really.  Especially because the chap there knew of Wayan Pater – confirmed he was still around, but a little elusive now.

We passed a little time at the Denpasar Museum.  Rather good really, well laid-out, interesting exhibits.  Then a taxi to a place we encountered yesterday.  Seemed more professional – but inevitably the nice white ones – new etc. - were gone, and we were left with a rather battered black one, but the tyres seemed quite good, test drive threw up only a dodgy hand-brake (great), so force majeure, we took it – very cheap, about $80 for three days including insurance – another reason I was unhappy with others.  Ah well, we shall see.

Back to Alit's, where everyone proceeded to sulk because we didn't use their suppliers for the car.  To Sunrise for lunch – alone – then on the road.  Petrol first – at the station I'd used before, four years ago.  I must say that I'm not overly happy driving here – they are such maniacs that you never know what will happen.  The sense of responsibility…

We stop off at Celuk, and see huge rooms – warehouses – full of silver, intricately wrought, very cheap – and there are hundreds of such shops.   A Borgesian vision of hell.  Gradually, the road climbed, the fields grew more lush, more Balinese.  And before we knew it, we were in Ubud.  A long, long, main drag, lots of shops, very busy – lots of Westerners, lots of hire cars – shown by their "Rc" – Rental Car – on the number plate.  You learn something every day.

We drive through Ubud, descend to the river, then across the bridge up the other side – straight past the Hotel Tjampuhan we were looking for.  U-turn, and back.  No wonder: it is a facade, a shell.  Uniquely, in my experience, it hangs down a gorge, the bungalow rooms found down steep steps.  As is a beautiful pool, tennis courts etc. – an old palace this, where the artist Walter Spies stayed for years.  Our room is newish, but huge, with a high roof, wire netting instead of walls, and a huge rotary fan in the ceiling – no air conditioning.  A separate bedroom, veranda overlooking the gorge, trees and flowers everywhere.  Only $52. 

Waiting for the bus here, dancing practice in Ubud opposite the palace.  The teacher shouting out commands, the gamelan muted, then surging forward.  Everyone in t-shirts.  

Now at the Lotus Café – very swish, very cosmopolitan, very nice – for dinner after the performance.  Lovely pond.  

26.6.92 Ubud

Sitting on our veranda, the sun directly before us, as we wait for breakfast.  Surprisingly cold last night – the difference a little altitude makes.  

So, the performance last night.  The lights dimmed, and at least a hundred men, naked to the waist, entered from the right-hand temple door, shrieking and screaming and generally making monkey noises.  Impressive sight.  Then they formed into a circle around the lit shrine.  A priest entered, blessing the players with holy water.  The kecak itself began – a huge minimalist pulsing, led, I notice, by one Charles Bronson lookalike who gave a high note repeatedly as the marker – with considerable force, and exhaustingly, it seemed.  They swayed, raised their arms, shook their fingers, a huge sea of bodies, shouting and waving.

Gradually, the other characters entered: the princess, the prince, the baddie.  All were of a consistently high standard, the women supple and delicate – the princess an absolute stunner, the prince a semi-comic character, all tics and hunched shoulders, flicking fingers.  I have never before felt that I could read the gestures and actions so clearly; it was also so wonderfully explicit.  The kecak sometimes subsided to low chants or a voice narrating the story.  Wonderful unison notes, a perfect fourth apart, very strong.  The only annoying thing was the constant barrage of flashes – blinding, distracting.  But under the Balinese sky, before the temple, magic, basically, my first kecak dance.

Then back to Ubud in a confusion of bemos (is that the collective noun?), then to the Lotus Cafe for dinner.  Very swish, the lotus pond outside exquisite, the food very upmarket.  More expensive, but very good.  Gamelan music as background, but rather too many world-weary Americans for my liking… After, to the Bridge Café – almost alone – interesting contrast to Lotus Café.  This is much more traditional in architecture – beautiful portal, lovely traditional stonework, similar open roof. Fine view of the river gorge.  Coconut tree outside the window – including smaller ones growing – bright orange.

Anyway, back to today.  Up late-ish, because we thought breakfast only served late.  Worth waiting for: two pancakes – one ratatouille, one banana (a green pancake), the fruit salad, toast, tea etc.  To Ubud, to buy tickets for tonight's performance – alas, it turns out that the Barang had been cancelled – because there is a special performance of a grand new work – with 120 performers – to be entered in a national competition in Denpasar on the 29th.  This will take place at 8pm in the academy next to the palace, where we saw a rehearsal last night.

Then we went to the market – and it was market day to make things worse – to buy some nuts to give to the monkeys in the monkey forest nearby.  This took a while, since mostly on sale were sensible things, like vegetables.  But we found some.  So, staggering through the temporary one-way system, we made our way down to the marshy forest.  No monkeys at first, then one.  We feed him/her.  It wants more, grabbing hold of my trousers.  I give more.  It still wants more – and then starts biting.

I have antiseptic wipes with me, and we use those.  We ask the guard at the entrance if the monkeys are dangerous; he rushes off for some antiseptic – I hope not more dangerous than the wound.  Then back to the hotel where I ask for a doctor to be called.  But today the doctor appears not to be around – so there is the clinic.  The address is complicated, so I luckily get to take a taxi.  Luckily, because it turns out the town's doctor is at the clinic – and about to leave.  We just catch him.  He reassures somewhat: not serious – he's had to suture cuts before – the monkeys aren't rabid.  More dubious-looking antiseptic from a crusty bottle – I hope these are OK – and then sent home.  A really worrying episode.

This is a wonderful hotel – I set now on the shaded veranda, looking down on the river gorge, a couple of temples visible (this is Room "Bukit 2up"), and thatched roofs of other rooms.  The place is a maze of pools and rooms and huge trees.  The view from the bar, a split-level affair, is stunning, with one particularly huge tree notable.

27.6.92 Ubud

In Klungkung, in the judgment hall by the crossroads.  A gamelan – yes, another - plays nearby.  I recognise Klungkung – lovely name – but seem not to have been here before.  Strange.  Called in at Goa Gajah, nice enough coming to the cave, huge fingers in the rock.  Inside, suffocating, lack of oxygen – and the smell of paraffin.  Deep in a river gorge, down to the pool, lily-covered – with a frog.  Small headless Buddha… Then to here, traffic busy, survived so far.  Main drag of Klungkung really attractive; again, familiar…

Back at base. So, last night.  After eating again at Lotus Café ("our place"), still full of Americans and chain smokers – along to the performance area opposite the tourist office and palace.  Fifteen minutes before, already filling up.  Glass of water and cake handed to us as we went in.  Hard metal chairs.  People bundling in around us; tourists, but hundreds of locals – notably grannies and mums with tots – some less than a year old.  Complete with squeakers to amuse themselves. The band arrives – forty-odd, gorgeous purple costumes, bright golden headgear.  More audience pile in, onlookers climb walls, pillars, temples etc. - this is the event.  It starts late – 8.15pm, and will go on for a long time.

The story seemed to be the usual good versus evil stuff – and wayang wong, with the dalang doing all the funny voices.  Plenty of slapstick, plenty of noble pathos, lots of attractive young women – very good dancers, lovely fingers.  The music: very loud, very energetic, very Balinese.  And impressive in keeping up a 2.5 hour Wagnerian backdrop of sound – now fast and furious, now gentle and sad, now minimalist, now thunderous.  Lovely syncopation, triplets even – adventurous.  The plot long and seemingly never-ending – this must be the end, I thought, but again and again, always one more scene.  Some nice touches: the field of plants hiding the baddies: men with leaves; the river of blood bled by the same, a long silk train.  Brilliant use of twirled umbrellas for chariot wheels, gods raised up on shoulders, supported by spears as the third prop.  Great stuff, utterly quintessential.  

Two things: on a bend in the road, high above rice fields: a beautiful temple, simple, and two oxen ploughing the field.  Also, in Klungkung, next to the palace, a museum.  In it, the most touching thing I've seen: old Dutch newspapers from the beginning of the century, when the colony was still strange and new.  To the Lotus Cafe, after buying two books with promise: Sumatra, Irian Jaya… Outside, the lotus leaves sway hypnotically.

28.6.92 Denpasar

Well, back in Ajit's Beach Bungalows, on the veranda by the the sea – Sunday in full swing, despite the absence of sun.  The sea full of bobbing dark heads.  Good to be back, for all its faults – that curious sense of home from home, when you can go back to a hotel you have used as a base for an extended excursion.

A procession passes by, out on the beach, a long snaking, singing file of people.  A Sunday procession, almost.  (For some reason, my thoughts keep turning to Aldeburgh – the Festival is on now, and it's the first year for many that I've not been there.  Perhaps it's "Prince of the Pagodas" that is doing it…")  Amazing the building going on here.  We are now in room #69, but many more are being built.  Does it really get that busy in July/August?  Perhaps the capital outlay is low.

Up early today, a final breakfast on our Ubud balcony with its splendid view.  Then the laundry back – about 18 items for £4 – we pay our bill and leave.  Traffic surprisingly busy for Sunday.  Stop at Celu, for some haggling over silver – basically to 50%: 80K Rp. for three pieces, quite nice.  Then to Alit, change, round to Laghawa Beach Inn.  I had been told that Wayang Pater gave wayang kulit performances here.  And miracle of miracles, so it proved.  The place seemed deserted except for the receptionist, but he was helpful – probably bored - and had a number for Wayang.  We rang it and there he was.  He remembered me when I reminded him of the trip to the hills.  Unfortunately he was rather ill at the moment – diabetes – and so would not be performing Monday, as normal.  But he kindly said he would try to meet us beforehand at 6.30.  So it will be interesting to see if we can meet up.

Then to the beach – driven there by a man from the car hire, who tried first to demand an extra day, the cheek.  By the lobster again, soaking up the sun.  Curious thing though: the tide was out, and kept on going out further.  Until it was impossible even to dip in the water.  The wind got up even more, and the kites came out, until finally one about 20 feet across and 40 feet long was hoisted aloft – very impressive as its cords drummed in the wind.  Then back here for tea.

29.6.92 Denpasar

Near the puppet show, hoping that Wayan will make it despite his illness.  Gamelan (recorded) thundering away behind us...

1992 Indonesia II: Yogyakarta, Solo, Jakarta
1988 Hong Kong, Bali

More destinations:

Moody's Black Notebook Travels

1988 Nepal: Kathmandu, Pokhara

23.11.88 Kathmandu

Sorry about that – a bit premature – excitement, doubtless.  To Delhi airport, where I succeed in getting a good window seat on the left-hand side of the plane.  No problems with customs or whatever, and we take off in brilliant weather, climbing steeply.  We follow the course of a great river, which gradually diminished, its fractal windings becoming ever-more delicate. Eventually the clouds on the horizon turn into mountains: the Himalayas.  First a few isolated peaks, than an unbroken range.  Brilliantly white, catching the sun as it turns westward.  We turn ourselves towards them, starting a descent which surely will take us into the foothills.  These are brown and hunched, then covered with thick pathless forests.  There is little sign of habitation.

Passing further on, we reach the real foothills, which have farms perched precariously on their tops, and terraces on their sides.  As our descent is almost finished, we seem to be skimming the rooftops.  We could wave to the farmsteaders.  Then Kathmandu valley comes into view.  Quite flat, with buildings and farms everywhere.  In the distance the peaks loom even more magnificently.  In no time at all we have landed – far more smoothly than Indian Airlines, and we are out on the runway. Everything looks incredibly flat, rather like Kashmir, but nothing is quite so much a surprise as Kashmir; here it seems more expected, somehow.  It is very fertile, and the setting sun adds its own rich tones to the landscape.  

Customs are quite thorough, going through my luggage.  The tourist desk is helpful, and soon books me a room at the Yellow Pagoda Hotel – one I had tried to ring, but in vain.  Quaintly, the time in Nepal is 10 minutes later than in India. I take a taxi in.  Driving on the right – that is, left – side of the road, and things look quite Indian, down to the signs and dodgy traffic laws.  But already a number of differences emerge.  There are a lot of attractive wood buildings, covered in grilles and patterns.  Although poor, the poverty is not abject and grinding as in India.  It does not appear to be squalid.  We are soon caught up  in the Kathmandu rush-hour (ha!).  Kathmandu itself seems relatively large, with extensive suburbs.

We arrive at the hotel.  Not deeply impressed.  Inside, even less impressed.  For a nominal three-star hotel, and $40 a night, this looks like a rip-off.  My mood has probably been influenced by the same young Sharon I met in the train.  She had said how disappointed she was with Kathmandu.  Naturally, my heart sank.

Even though it was 5pm and dusk was falling, I decided on a whim to go for a walk.  One slight problem with my room is that it gives on to one of the main roads, which India-style is a cacophony of honks.  But I hope that I can live and sleep with this.  Walking along it, I see quite a number of tourists – this is the peak tourist season, after all.  Again, on impulse, I turn down a side street.  Gradually its drab buildings give way to the characteristic wood and stone ones.  Brightly coloured wares are on display everywhere.  As in India, these twilights remind me inevitably of Christmas, that jolly, contented feeling.

Walking alone, I am reminded of many places.  The form of the shops and houses reminded me of Austria or Bavaria; of Hong Kong, of Paris, of Srinagar.  And yet Kathmandu is also quite Westernised.  Western goods abound, along with tacky tourist shops.  And it does not seem to have lost its original spirit.  The people help: the women in particular have a beauty, a warmth about them. And many of the men are taller than Indians.

I move on, and reach the Hotel Crystal.  Turning right, I hit the great market place.  On one side is the old palace, a fantastic construction; implausibly paired with a hideous neoclassical design in white.  Then beyond, four or so curious temple-like structures: shall investigate tomorrow.  People selling vegetables everywhere, tiny offices busy above even tinier shops.  Much cleaner than India, no real putrefying dirt, the children seem better fed and shod.  A maze of back alleys.

Turning right behind the palace, I came across a shrine surrounded by people, fires blazing, and musicians playing raucous reeds.  I step away, and as I return the crowd suddenly rushes away from a corner of the shrine.  A liquid spouts up in the air.  A red liquid.  A young kid has been sacrificed, and its blood doused onlookers.  It is strange watching an animal, newly slaughtered, being cut up.  I am surprised by how heavy each piece seems.

I pass back the way I came, the dusk deepening.  Above is the clear, perfect "O" of a full moon.  What could be more apt for my first night in Kathmandu?

24.11.88 Kathmandu

Up early and along yesterday's path to Durbar Square.  The sun is just beginning to appear, but the air is very chill – my breath is visible before my face.  The square peaceful – few people around yet.  Sitting at the top of the main Maju Deval temple, I watched the light stretch out, the sun's disc finally appearing over the white portico opposite.  

Back for breakfast, then out to the RNAC offices.  I confirm my flight to Delhi – India seems so far away now – and also book a flight to Pokhara for Sunday, and the mountain view trip for Thursday.  The sun by now is beginning to blaze, just as in Kashmir.

Back to Asan, where I stand and stare for 15 minutes.  I forgot to mention that I am also reminded of Étretat – the dark wood and brick, I suppose.  It is such a lively scene – some six roads converge here, with market wares everywhere.  Plus the temples – everyone seems to be genuinely religious, with flowers and offerings, and bell-tolling.  A seed shop – "Annapurna seeds", proclaims itself a member of the Royal Horticultural Society.  As well as intricate carved wood, ornate grilles on the windows are noticeable.  Big transformers even manage to blend in somehow.

To Durbar Square where I sit and sit.  The porters, huge loads strapped by a band to their heads.  The kids – with bikes, digital watches, playing marbles… People hawking and spitting everywhere. An old woman sits to my left, picking out fleas from her clothes, and crushing them with her thumbnail; to my right, a spider has jumped on a fly twice its size, and holds its head in its jaws, a slow dance of death.

From here, I decide to walk to the stupa at Swayambhunath.  The lying Lonely Planet book says 20 minutes from Durbar Square: more like 40 minutes.  Down Pig Alley – fairly squalid – and then across a rope suspension bridge.  Curious feeling as the resonant frequency interferes with my own walking pace.  Up through more back streets, poorer suburbs of Kathmandu.  Pepsi Cola signs everywhere.  The inhabitants barely glance at me.

To the foot of the hill, where several hundred stone steps, of accelerating steepness, lead to the top.  I, of course, charge up, and am fairly knackered when I get to the stupa.  The main stupa itself – huge and white, with piercing eyes of Buddha – is photogenic enough.  Around its base, prayer wheels – to be used in turn clockwise.  Around about there are smaller shrines, great bells, sounded now and then by worshippers – and monkeys.  These bare-arsed creatures live by eating offerings on the altars – and anything else they can grab.  Monkey mothers with babies, fighting males – a whole, all-too-human clan.

The view from the top is over much of the Kathmandu plain, emphasising what is apparent from the air: how houses dot everywhere, making the whole plain look very domesticated.  A haze-cum-mist hangs over the city.  In the distance, the jagged teeth of the Himalayas gleam whitely.  They remain a shock amidst this ruralism.  The sun's rays are amazingly powerful in the thin air.  Liquid heat.

After lunch, back to Durbar Square, pre-eminently a place to sit and do nothing – I can see why the 60s freaks settled here.  Still one or two ageing hippies around, looking very spaced-out.  Back there in the evening, pausing at my favourite Asan.  I think evening is in many ways the most characteristic time of Kathmandu – there are fewer tourists, and everything glows with local warmth and colour.  Durbar Square more or less deserted.

25.11.88 Kathmandu

Not a good day.  I awake at around 5am with gut pains.  I blame Varanasi's cheapo Ashok hotel, god damn 'em, and a dodgy cold chicken sandwich.  Alas, I know full well that as a result of a stupid starter that I ate my first night in Kathmandu, I shall have just as bad problems in a couple of days.  Indeed, today has been spent slowly easing this liquid poison around my intestines, with gurgles and squelches as it marches towards its inevitable destination.  Yuk.

Being ill – for short periods – is quite interesting.  I have felt like doing nothing today, and slept for three hours this afternoon.  I am not a very courageous invalid; I could never compose symphonies/novels etc in this state.  In the mistaken belief walking might help, I did struggle out to the Royal Palace.  Little is open, but what is, is impressive.  On the outside wall, a curious inscription in 18 languages – including English and French.  Set up in the 17th century, the words are "Winter" and "L'Hiver".  Strange.

Nasal Chowk is splendid, with characteristic architecture, gleaming white.  The Basantpur Tower provides good views, and a queer feeling of coming into contact with another civilisation – generally lacking in this cosmopolitan city.  Then a quick dash back to my room – and bathroom…

Clouds in the sky today: I had assumed there were none…

26.11.88 Kathmandu

Not quite so deathly today – I slept for an astonishing 12 hours last night.  For the third night running, a crazy brass band has walked its ghostly way.  In the morning, by autorickshaw to Patan, once an independent town, now more or less a suburb of Kathmandu.  Again, I am amazed at the deceptive distances – glad I didn't walk.

Patan's Durbar Square is rather quieter and in some ways more impressive than Kathmandu's.  Partly, I suppose, because you get a better feeling of what Nepal was like before the West had an impact.  Hard to describe: a collection of pagoda temples, Garuda, Ganesh, Hanuman, brilliantly-carved wood facings, a courtyard with a holy stone ("It is prohibited to touch the holy stone"), a sunken pond.

Back in Kathmandu, most of the day sent reading – a luxury in itself – on the pagoda steps in Durbar Square.  As the sun drops, the foothills to the south look like pleated velvet.  Walking back past Indra Chowk and the rest, the setting sun shines straight along the road, dazzling those proceeding due West.  A long, straight road, a dramatic effect.

27.11.88 Pokhara

Up reasonably early to the airport.  I screw up, and do not get a window seat, though in the small twin-prop (Hawker-Siddeley), nothing is far from a window, and I am at least on the right side.  But a pity, nonetheless, as the views were stunning.  Not just the peaks, creamy with snow above their high snowline, but the long, laborious valleys which led to them too.  You got a sense of real scale from those valleys, with their tiny, infrequent habitations. I longed to go walking through their almost endless folds.  One day…

Pokhara airport is the smallest I have ever landed at.  A kind of dirt track runway, a couple of sheds – you grab your own luggage.  I went to the Royal Nepal Airline office to book my return flight if possible.  The usual ruck.  I finally get to the counter, and ask for a ticket: number 44 on the list – there are only 44 seats on the plane, so I appear to have got the last seat on the last plane out – I hope they have not miscounted.

Now I sit in the garden of the New Crystal Hotel, which seems pleasant enough.  In front of me, unbelievably, lies the four peaks of the Annapurna range, but the view is dominated by the striking Machapuchare – the Fishtail mountain (it took me ages to work out why it was so called…).  Tea-time now.  The westering sun throws deep shadows on the faces of the Himalayas.  Annapurna (I) is swathed in tufted clouds, Machapuchare stands magnificent, and the other Annapurna peaks look as if dusted with icing powder.

This afternoon, I hired a bike – for 50p all day.  I rode down to the lake – which was nothing like I imagine it.  Surrounded on three sides by steep, thickly-wooded hills, there is a wonderful sfumato in the distance.  Large boats are out, with two or up to eight people, slowly padded.  Along the lakeside, the travellers' area.  Reminds me of Bali somehow.  Then on to Pokhara itself.  Huge and boring.  I try to find the starting point of the trail to Sarangkot; after half and hour of pedalling I have only just reached the bazaar.  Back to the lake, where I sit and look and look. Everyone else – young – sits, looks, or is out on the lake.  As the sun begins to sink, the sfumato deepens.  Far away there seems to be a pass, opening to blue sky.  Paradise, surely…  Very high, long formations of clouds like an armada, screen the sun. I wonder how the day will end: in a red sunset with the tips of the mountains illuminated last?

The quality of light around Machapuchare is changing: it is as if it were ringed with a white line.  The sky has changed colour subtly.  It is the same with the other peaks.  Salmon colour takes over.  A beautiful effect: as the foothills in front of the peaks darken, the Himalayas themselves seem to glow like red coals, a choir of them away into the distance.  Like something out of a John Martin painting.

One advantage of this hotel is that it has "Nepali cultural programme" – that is, folk dancing and singing.  The former is not very skilled or graceful compared to Bali, say.  But the dancers were young and lively.  As were the singers, including one woman/girl – about 15, perhaps – with a nasalised voice like a buzzsaw – beautiful.  The music is mostly 4/4, major, some modal stuff, very repetitive, both melodically and structurally.  Nice, though.

Sky very clear – I've never seen the planets so much brighter than stars before.  No moon visible.

28.11.88  Pokhara

Sunrise shorter than sunset, but in some ways more spectacular.  A white light, which throws all the peaks into wonderful relief:  Machapuchare looks to be a cwm, I think, and the true disposition of the various Annapurnas is clear.  Everything glistened as if created this morning.  Not a cloud in the sky.  The sight of these mountains reminds me insistently of La Plagne – what, 10 years ago? - A memory tinged with sadness – les paradis perdus – since I will probably never ski again.  I'm glad I have my story.

Up to Sarangkot – eventually.  I hire a bike again – it seems the best way to get there.  Except that it is much, much further than I think – I get lost again.  I am getting good at taking direction from the sun.  On the way to Bindhyabasini Temple, I pass a procession: a crowd of people following musicians – drums, raw oboes, curved horns – and men carrying plants and dragging a goat – the sacrifice, presumably.  The music strange: a drone on the reeds, then every so often weird, skittering out-of-phase fanfares on the trumpets – a cross between Varèse and Tippett.  Other music: on the way, I passed a drove of pack donkeys.  Each had a crude bell around its neck – a bit like St Patrick's in Dublin.  The collective clangour was strange and haunting.

Finally to the temple.  I take the track for Sarangkot – then get lost, then park the bike, hoping it will still be there when I return, and start walking.  A gravel path, well worn, flanked by close-cropped grass: strangely English – the Lakes, almost.  Along the winding track, small houses.  People – mostly women – carrying loads strapped to their heads, to and from the road to Sarangkot.  On the way, I pass terrace fields which look like the delicate lacework of a mayfly's wing.  Thick forests, rivers cutting deep in the land, their milky-blue waters reminding me of the road up to Kashmir.  Also an army camp, rather crudely stuck amidst this beauty.  Through more villages, quite a few selling drinks, but happily the tourists are scarce today.

This written on the tip-top of Sarangkot, whereon a derelict structure within stone walls.  The view is utterly stunning.  To the north, the Annapurnas and Machapuchare, looking as if I could reach out and touch them.  There are just a few foothills between them and me, and then just pure up.  The treeline is very high, as is the snowline.  A river winds its way in front, two valleys, one deep and high, the other flattish and truncated at right angles.  Beyond the Annapurnas, more Himalayas.  

To the east, the main valley of Pokhara, flat and uninteresting.  Terraced fields à la Bali, though not so lush, falling down to the lake.  The airport's runway and the main streets visible.  Ominously the city maps shows the site of a proposed bigger runway – Airbus size.  Pokhara will soon be too popular. South, to the lake.  Up here, it shimmers like a fine mesh.  The hills opposite are that rough velvet, cut with deep v-shaped grooves.  The boats out on the lake are like tiny pond-skaters.  Behind, endless rows of hills fading into the mist – just like Kashmir.  A few clouds on the horizon. Then to the west, the main river feeding the lake, winding its way through the valley, up to the foothills.

How does one leave a place like this?  You just go, with one last glance.  Then the jolt down – far worse than up, for me.  Without the wind on the top of the hill, the sun beat fiercely.  But soon down – amid the smell of cow dung – also like England.  Sarangkot seems to be at about 1500 metres – Pokhara is at 915 metres, so an ascent of only about 2000 feet.  Tantalisingly, the trail goes on...past a river called Modi Khola.

Dinner at the hotel: surprising number of Chinese here – from Taiwan.  An odd place to come?  Lots of Germans, a few Americans, Japanese, not many Brits.

29.11.88 Pokhara

On my bike again.  To Lake Phewa, about 9.15am, where I hire a boat – a large canoe, big enough for 10.  this I paddle for six hours.  Phewa is large: it is also a pleasant place to drift with the wind.  Memories of Lake Bratan in Bali, especially the foliage.  And rowing myself is infinitely preferable to being rowed: more interesting and warmer.  In fact, I found the rhythmic bodily movements very soothing, especially once I worked out how to steer in a straight line padding just one side – essentially, as with a punt on the Cam.  Over to the other side of the lake, where it meets the valley of the river which feeds it.  One disadvantage on the lake is that the mountains are obscured by Sarangkot et al.  What can I say?  It was beautiful and peaceful.  

Back to the hotel, admiring the view of the range of mountains from the road – still hard to believe they're real – and that I'm here.  Then back for my last sunset over the Annapurnas – this time, at least…

Started reading Montaigne – and read a couple of essays on the lake.  Bet that's never been done before…

30.11.88 Kathmandu

An easy last day in Pokhara.  Up to watch the sunrise, everything so fresh – then I walked down to the lake, sat, read for a while, and now I am eating lunch before my flight.  Homeward bound…

To the airport.  A decent seat – 10A – this time.  As we take off in the great shuddering, dust-spewing thing, there are more clouds than usual – typical.  But in a way this only serves to emphasise the majesty of the Annapurnas.  As we climb above the clouds – at a mere 15000 feet or so, Annapurna II in particular cleaves the cover like a gothic cathedral rising from the petty roofs around it.  My respect for such mountains has been increased enormously.  Flying along the range, I am struck by the thought that this is really the spine of the world, and that Tibet lies beyond.  I am also amazed at how it just goes on and on – the scale of the thing.  What a crazy kingdom Nepal is: barely a road or plain in it, everything tracks across lurching mountains.

1.12.88 Kathmandu

Hard to believe it's the first of December.  I awoke to find the valley full of mists: typical, with my mountain flight today.  Very cold and damp at the airport – an hour's delay, not surprisingly.  Since window seats are at such a premium, a lottery system is used.  On the Boeing 727, only the outer two seats were used.  So a 50% probability of getting a window seat.  Needless to say, I do not.  However, all is not lost: money rules everywhere.  A little man grabs my boarding pass and tells me not to worry.  An hour later, by fair means or foul, I have a window seat, albeit over the wing.  He is 30 Rp. richer.

My eighth flight of this trip.  As in the journey from Pokhara, the vista of mountains into the distance.  Also the main pass to Lhasa, Tibet beyond, looking even more moonlike than Nepal.  Then Sagarmatha, George Everest's baby, towering thousands of feet above us, even though we flew at 20000 feet.  I was struck by its blackness – very little snow – and its elemental, pyramidal shape.  The surrounding mountains looked almost pastoral.  A lake was visible, god knows how high.  Perfect weather – even the Annapurnas just visible behind us.  An experience, and worth the wait.

This has definitely been the worst holiday ever for illness: I now have a streaming cold.  However, it is quite interesting overcoming these tiresome difficulties.

I am now in the Yak and Yeti Chimney room, where for less than £10 I have had a slap-up three-course meal, plus a gin and tonic – which I couldn't eat.  I fear my stomach has shrunk.  This afternoon, along my favourite street.  I bought some Nepali tapes and postcards.  Sat in Durbar Square – but not really in the mood.  And so to bed.

2.12.88 Delhi

A day of trivia.  To Kathmandu airport, where two ugly Ozzie women jump the queue.  I remonstrate, to no avail.  The flight good: a brilliant view of the Himalayas, especially the Annapurnas.

To New Delhi airport.  First, I forget to pick up the change at the taxi desk; then my taxi breaks down, so I transfer to a rickshaw; then he takes me by very back routes to the Imperial – the Imperial Cinema, a real fleapit.  Finally to the hotel, as civilised as ever.

An idea: why not get an earlier flight?  Which I do: leaves 1.25am tonight.  And why not?  It is strange, this holiday has been the utter worst for illness, but the travel (ha!) still seems to shine through.

1988 India: Delhi, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Varanasi

More destinations:

1986 India I: Delhi, Agra, Fatehpur Sikri
1986 India II: Kashmir
1986 India III: Jaipur, Udaipur

1994 Sri Lanka

Moody's Black Notebook Travels