1989 New York

8.11.89 Heathrow

Heathrow airport, on board flight BA 175.  Well, dull it isn't.  After my burglary (my burglary?  Well, more of that later on), a real, live (ha!) aborted take-off.  I was dozing at the time, as is my increasing wont.  We accelerated, then the brakes were slammed on – not hard, but hard enough.  Later, the captain explained that strong winds were blowing us skew off the runway.  We were already one hour late; now we are waiting for the brakes to cool.  I bet the hijackers on board are annoyed…

Read my first Paul Auster; it begins to fall into place: the New Metaphysicals: too clever by three-quarters.  Fun, but Auster rather empty.  Unlike some on this plane, I am calm.  I think the burglary taught me something: that I am essentially untouched by these events – because it does not matter.  Nothing really does.  If life is meaningless, so are delays and inconveniences.  The robbery of my flat was also a delicious experience in serenity; my heart moved not a jot.  Messy, perhaps, but interesting too: you need excrescences on the surface of life; a totally aerodynamic world is boring.  I definitely need to get married and have kids – now there's excrescences…

Room 1502, Hotel Dorset.  Amazing view from my room.  AT&T Building to the right, and the strange light-haze from the nearby Citicorp.  Flash room. $190/night.  NYC ground to a halt because of the rain.  Opposite me great chess boards of light.  West 54th Street below, together with the dwarfed rooftops of the apartments.  The hiss of tyres in the wet; aureoles of rain around the lights; car and truck horns.  I really like New York.

9.11.89 New York

An interesting day.  Up early (late body time), hashed beef breakfast – yum – then out to walk in the wet rush hour.  I find a CD hoard, then to the Frick.  A lady cab-driver tells me about her sushi-eating habits – but insists she is "not anal-retentive".  I find the Frick familiar.  Gob-smacked by the Bellini.  Again.  Great Vermeers (3), "Polish Rider" et al.  To the Guggenheim – disappointing again.  Lunch in the Met – where I see they have Canaletto….

To work.  Back in a cab driven by an Albanian: World War III is imminent, Gorby is a cunning commie.  He (the driver) escaped from Albania in '53, came to London to see an Albanian hit-man – killer of three KGB agents (?!).  Totally paranoid, bent by his past.

Then to the Met, an orgy of Canaletto.  Many early pix I've never seen.  And so close up, the paint almost tactile.  Bought the catalogue – and see that Constable is back in print - $260 – but I must get it.  I still feel strangely free of material possessions, even in buying them.  Writing now in MOMA – shades of Auckland, I don't think.

10.11.89

A bad, bad day.  Walked out of Ziff meeting.  Anyway.  Back at Met after stroll through beautiful Central Park.  Coffee and bread pudding in candle-lit cafe (K284 playing live) then – to the Canaletto, inevitably.

The Liechtenstein pix are a revelation.  The light and colours radiate, yet the skies are so moody.  Rio dei Mendicanti: contrast of white walls on the left, ragged, lived-in chaos to the right.  Figures very vague.  Physicality of brush-strokes in the sky.  A boatyard to the right.  Washing on roofs looks like festival pennants.  No dogs.  Is the building next to the church religious?  If so, why the flower boxes?  A tree in the centre.  

The first, famous (to Walks with Lorenzetti) Piazza San Marco.  It manages to be grand and provincial – a ragged Nowheresville that happens to be Venice.  Birds (aargh).  The stalls' shades like beach umbrellas.  Dogs.  Notice often greenery growing from buildings – desuetude.  The crowds by the clock.  Unlike Canaletto's later pix, these look even better further back – like the Impressionists.  San Giacomo di Rialto – this and a later one remind me of Kathmandu – Durbar Square, or between it an Freak Street.  The market.  The strange pictures like huge playing cards.

Some just don't work – that of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.  Rialto Bridge from the north: lovely light and shade: deep, dark colours, a slash of crimson.  The thing about the Grand Canal is that often you get extreme compression, which with the windows articulates the surface.  La Carità: something I've not seen before: a fire.  Venice is so watery – the embodiment of this element, it seems antithetical, the fire.

To the copperplates – and the world is suddenly full of light – no dark scumbling.  The clouds are thick.  The lines in the windows etc. are ruled – adds to the sense of certainty of the pic.  Sky not blue, but pale grey-blue.  The figure pissing against the Rialto bridge.  Very Levantine – the boats, the hats.  In this context, the Stonemason's Yard looks even more extraordinary.  The broken stones look out of place in this city of smoothness.

West end of Molo – very light in technique, like Guardi, lacks detail.  Pic of Orologio – beautiful bustle – a very people-centred pic – at eye-level for a change.  Scratching dog, lounging man.  Very thick paint on buildings.  Strange to see completely new pic – and viewpoint.  For example, San Cristoforo, Michele and Murano.  Square format – very thin paint – almost a sketch.  Odd angles – impossible view.  Mainland is disconcerting.  Pentimenti on Queen's Entrance to the Grand Canal are like ghosts, hovering beneath the surface.  Piazzetta looking north: brilliant red of figure; extreme perspective of loggia; very theatrical. 

The pen and ink drawings are ecstasy close up – like intricate Bach chorale preludes.  Studies are fierce – full of energy.  

The Fonteghetto della Farina – a shock to see images no longer there.  It is fun to see – and recognise – the Houston pix.  The shops in Canaletto are also like Kathmandu: small caves, huddled away – San Geminiano is deeply disturbing in Piazza San Marco, disruptive.  North-east corner of Piazza San Marco – big, bold treatment.  Messy details – planks, dogs, stalls, shades, very urban.  Shades look like bauta masks and hoods.  

Beautiful peaceful capriccio of house, church, tower and bridge by the Lagoon, delicate washes, free brushwork.  His Accademica pic is very theatrical, lovely diagonals, stage stairs, entrances and exits, unusual upward view – normally filled in by the sky.  The late pic of the Rialto – very busy (like Kathmandu) – the greenery, pots and pans.  

Perhaps the most surprising pic in the whole exhibition is Night Festival at San Pietro in Castello.  Night?? In Canaletto???  Reminds me of my Night Movement II – lanterns at night.  Here there are spots of light – especially intriguing inside the building.  Beautiful clouds with moon behind.  The confused bunches of people, the dark water, rich reds, the campanile.  I suppose in part the effect is helped by my ignorance of the scene.  Where are we?  Is it realistic?  Palladian facade.  The cloaked figures – a chill in the air.  The wooden bridge.  The dog in the boat; the Punch and Judy show (you can see Mr Punch's stick).  I have realised that I have regarded this as an island – not part of Venice…

Aha! - as I thought: it is an island – but also part of Venice – see map.  Its orientation is completely unexpected – a typically Canaletto re-ordering.

11.11.89

Remembrance/Veteran's Day.  I was roused by my early morning call at 5 – an attempt to return to GMT.  A strange feeling for the day, rootless, almost.  Glorious walking weather: 50°F, brilliant New York sunshine – reminded me of 5 years ago….

I sit now in The Saloon, opposite the Met (opera), nice bustly place – very Village Voice.  Failing to achieve figs and prosciutto, I am forced to make do with medallions of tuna, followed by marinated duck in aubergine.  A fairly strong Sauvignon accompanies the meal.

Yesterday at the Canaletto exhibition was really good.  Looking very hard at these pix, close up, some of which I knew, some not, was like an intellectual/pictorial work-out.  I kept on seeing more but forced myself to go yet deeper.  A paradigm of all seeing – and understanding.  I can see that Canaletto will be an obsession for the rest of my life – Walks with Lorenzetti has not exorcised him.

Down by the subway to Canal Street – partly after seeing an early Channel 13 (PBS) on Laurie Anderson – what a brilliant, spiky woman – who lives here.  Then around Broadway, West Broadway, Tribeca, Soho, Greenwich Village.  All vaguely familiar, but not exactly.  I could see myself living here, very bustling, young (ish).  Failed to eat at a Polish and Yugoslav restaurant – they took no credit cards, I was low on cash – thanks to my burglar (what fine word).  Back to the hotel, then to here.

More destinations:

1988 Boston
1988 San Francisco

1989 US, New Zealand, Fiji

1990 California 

1997 Seattle

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