Friday, 1 May 2020

1990 Egypt II: Luxor, Aswan, Abu Simbel

22.2.90 Luxor

Classic early morning sunrise – or what I take to be one.  Durrell's nacreous sky, with palm trees silhouetted against it.  Cloudy, textured sky, the Nile not visible.  Apparently the train is to arrive on time at about 7am – for the first time (ever?).  Still no breakfast.  The sunrise turned from rosy haze to the dark red eye of Re – huge and monstrous – then soon turned yellow, then white.  The sun does seem a very basic fact already.  The north-south dividing line of the Nile probably helped in the sense of journey, of rising and falling, of a mid-point, of cycles.  Inevitable that in this land of the sun it should dominate.  The clouds burn off.

Off the train, to the Savoy Hotel and – they have a room, or a bungalow at least, although I haven't seen it yet, and can't until noon.  So, off for a wander.  Along the Nile corniche.  Magnificent view across to the Valley of the Kings; I can imagine it does get very hot.  Weakly, I am now sitting in Luxor – I should wait, but who could resist?  I am trying not to "do" it now, just be.  My legs are amazingly tired.

One thing: I feel my interest in the Savoy Hotel was piqued by old van Haag's references to it.  This convinces me that a more personalised kind of travel guide/book can succeed. Remember that the exhibits of most museums are the spoils of war/conquests of empire: the Rosetta Stone, for example, passing from France to the British Museum.  Note if English were written without vowels – phtgrphr – there would be little loss – mostly neutral vowels.  Ancient Egyptian may have been simplified because of collapse from proto-ancient Egyptian – like English.

At the end of the Avenue of Sphinxes – no tourists; just the muezzin.  The obsessiveness of the builders of them.  The pylon at the end, massive still, the obelisk, the Ramses statues (the bloody flies, ho-hum).  The colonnade beyond.  

Now on the hotel's terrace beside the Nile – windy, the sun hotter than it seems – fearing a hot time.  My room good – not facing the Nile, but south facing around the pool – looks tempting. Everything else usual tacky/non-functioning.  Back to the Luxor temple – not Karnak as I erroneously thought, making my task here long.  I see now that early morning is the best for reading the Battle of Kadesh – of which I have the transcription.  Old Greek graffiti abound.  In the first court I have a sense of how it must have looked when complete.  Beautiful papyrus columns, calyx tops.  

After lunch – if that was a goulash, I'm a Chinaman – out to Karnak, hiring a hantour for E£5 (shades of Andy Warhol).  How to formulate an adequate response to this place?  I made no attempt to write while I was there – it was enough of a job orienting myself.  The first pylon pretty damn impressive.  Indeed I was struck throughout by a sense of awe that mere mortals must always have felt upon seeing these godly works.  They make Stonehenge look pretty sick.  [Ah – Turkish coffee – yummy.]  The forecourt too: I could reconstruct the Kiosk of Taharqa with its huge swooping columns.  It must have acted as a huge visual brake.  The triple shrine of Seti II was interesting – if only because of the thoroughness with which the first hieroglyphs – Set – had been erased.  Bad vibes re Osiris?

The Temple of Ramesses III, though small, was powerful.  The famous Bubastite Portal a nice reminder of synchronous events – [The sun has turned gold, Re on his way down.  Fragrances in the air, the birds' dusk chorus.  Liquid yellow now.] – Shoshenq I's victories over the Palestinians – Rehoboam, son of Solomon. 

An orange tincture now. In the after image, I have hundreds of Res in my eye/retina.  The west bank looks like a Cadbury's Flake – I'm sorry, but it does.  Another Turkish coffee… For some reason, there is something about the sinking sun that reminds me of Peter Greenaway… - very European.  The first pinks in the evening air; birds going nuts.  Perhaps peach-coloured now; an artist [Monet] could study the effects for years. Re is slipping behind the hills, changing boats for his nightly voyage – as Thoth?/moon – it's all so confusing….  Red leaking out along the horizon, an unlookable-at segment.  Re is dead.  Feluccas serene on the Nile – I must try one… A falcon hovering low over the river – no wonder they took it for a god – Horus, too.  No spectacular sunset further, alas.

On the way to Karnak – probably a 15 minute walk – I could make out Hatshepsut's mortuary complex across the Nile: looks pretty damn good.  I could also see a few pylons – modern ones… The cab driver beat his poor nag occasionally; my moderations to little effect.  No baksheesh.  Perhaps I'm unfair.  [Parenthetically, try as I might, I could not find Rimbaud's graffiti; annoying.]  The Nile very beautiful at dusk, the golden-pink sky reflected in its waters like a sheet of silver.

Now at dinner – seem to be mostly French and Germans here – few Brits, Yanks or Ozzies.  So back to my day at Karnak.  The hypostyle hall is one of the most impressive things in its sheer massiveness. And still those words.  It is so hard for us to look at these buildings in the right way.  For the literate, every surface would have been alive, a huge billboard, with the king's name shouted, shouted, shouted.  Perhaps Piccadilly Circus or Japanese cities with their neon lights, Las Vegas, are the only equivalents.  Our ads the same: except we habituate to those, and many are ugly.  Here words use pictures too – a unique fusion - and are mixed with literalistic portrayals. For the uneducated, this double nature must have come through: they were recognisable images, and yet magic – words – too, but mysteries.  Perhaps some could have been spelt out – the obvious transliterations.  But otherwise it could only have increased the oppressiveness of the ensemble, emphasising the distance between gods and men.  In a sense these huge structures justified themselves, praising the godhead that was invoked for their construction.

Moving among the papyrus pillars – papyrus again the foundation for their architecture, as for their later writing and ultimate heritage – I felt a pygmy, wandering among a huge bed of papyrus stalks.  The fact that the central rows were roofed must have gob-smacked the proles, as the clerestories would have done.  Their surfaces covered with large, rather crude hieroglyphs, the walls too.  The perspective varies, constantly shifts as I shifted, a vision of eternity and infinity.

Perhaps the obelisks are appropriate, the only possible follow up.  Hatshepsut's is soaring, a simple inscription – plus the Sut health warning at the bottom, staking a claim: "I built this, O ye of the future".  Interesting effect that things get smaller as you go in – typically Western art tries to cap what goes before sequentially.  Here you feel that you are entering the inner sanctum – like the heart of the pyramid.  It is very effective, not at all an anti-climax.  More smiting of heathens – lists of the battle of Megiddo – Armageddon. Again, that shock of recognition, of ancient knowledge crystallising as reality on the face of a rock.

I forgot to mention: the colours on the upper parts of the columns and links in the hypostyle hall.  At several points colours survive – noticeably in the wall of Hatshepsut – colours 3000 years old.  We see the surfaces as covered in pictorial scratches: in fact, they would have been blazes of strong colours – red, green, blues, blacks – another instance of our misreading, our wilful misapprehension of the reality. [Parenthetically, it is rather neat that Ryman's have already entitled this book "Ruled".]  The size and single-mindedness of the design, the central axis, are noteworthy.  [I am trouble by a trifle: I cannot remember what or where the hotel was in Jodhpur.  I can remember the fort, the market, the museum – but not the hotel.  Hmm…] 

23.2.90 Luxor, west bank

Up at 5.30am, the Nile misty.  Down to the public ferry (20 Egyptian piasters) – a cold crossing. Then I hire a bike for E£8.  To the ticket office to buy around 10 tickets (ever the optimist).  Riding through the lush countryside, the air cool, the sky clear blue, reminds me of Nepal.  Hot air balloons circle overhead.  Long, long, ride – hard work on the still sore quads.  But worth it.  I pass the Colossi of Memnon, solitary, shattered guardians.  Signs to other antiquities, but I have only one goal: Hatshepsut, where I now sit, facing this extraordinary (albeit reconstructed) building, and its even more extraordinary (unreconstructed) backdrop.  

I take a shortcut across a moonscape of rubble and holes.  Then it all hove into sight.  The huge yellow-grey curtain of rock, shaped as if statues were emerging from it.  Below, the strata of rock; then rubble.  To the first colonnade.  Nice pic of Hatshepsut's obelisk being transported – a bigger boat than I've seen represented elsewhere.  I also find unexpectedly, but perhaps unsurprisingly, the cartouche of Ramses II.

Up the ramp.  This is the first Egyptian place that used the third dimension – Karnak is stupendous, but all two-dimensional; this is stupendous in a more developed way.  Nice to see Anubis getting a chapel for a change.  Birth room not as good as at Karnak.  I saw the most appalling thing: this bloody Frenchman first rubbed a coloured hieroglyph, and when that proved insufficient, then licked his finger and rubbed.  Bastard.  Hathor temple good; Hathor head very archaic – like the Narmer tablet.  Lots and lots of tourists now it's Ramadan.  Punt reliefs a little anti-climactic.  Best thing is the overall concept and setting; that wall…

The tomb of Ramose - lovely creamy-white stone, fine reliefs – full of life and its joys.  Tomb of Nakht – beautiful, intimate, his glorious wife "chantress of Amun" – the famous singing girls – so casually sensual.  High in the hills among the Tombs of the Nobles.  Looking for Sennefer.  But the view is great – I can understand the village and tombs better – also see the alluvial plain stop dead, sand all around.  The sun is high.  A haze hangs over Luxor.  This place is just honeycombed with openings of tombs.

I find it hard dealing with all the touts and trish-trash pushers – the tiny kids trying to sell their crummy dolls, or else a foreign coin.  A tiny sum to me is a huge sum to them; one hit per day could make all the difference. But it would become impossible.

I sit now in the Ramesseum, in the shade of one of the standing Ramses.  Deep and cool – I am dreaming of my Turkish coffee back at the Savoy already.  The tombs are fascinating for their (post facto) integration into the village.  A pit, a door, a tomb.  The weather is perfect: the air cool enough to wear a jacket and long trousers. The ground is so white here – and so friable.  One of the nice things about hieroglyphs is that as the sun swings around, the etched lines change according to where the shadow falls.  At this moment, I sit by the throne that Belzoni (1816) inscribed; the relief of Thoth, old Ibis-head himself, is beautifully clear. 

I like the Ramesseum.  Partly because it has a very personal feel to it – here, all the cartouches and images of Ramses II make sense.  Also its forlornness, its failure in the face of time – Ozymandias and all that (it is a superb piece of statuary – or was once).  I suppose too the proportions are right: first pylon (Kadesh again), second pylon (ditto), the Osiris pillars, the great hypostyle hall.  Nice to see it covered, it gives a good feel for the earlier actuality of it.  The papyrus columns mostly with their two types of capitals, are very elegant.  Trees too – junipers (?) - lend pleasant shade and scents – and of course the setting: the great amphitheatre of the hills.

It's funny how a famous graffito – Belzoni, Rimbaud – redeems itself; perhaps I should leave one…. The blue of the sky is unreal: hard and unbroken.  It leeches the colours out of everything else, stones especially.  Mosques with the Koran, a cathedral with words, are the nearest equivalent to these real books in stone.

Valley of the Queens – hot and desolate – real desert, and doubtless a foretaste of the Valley of the Kings.  Prince Khaemwaset II – vibrant colours, such clarity and confidence of form.  Queen Tyti less exciting – quite faded.  This should remind me again how multicoloured all the temples would have been – huge orgies of colour.

In front of the massive first pylon of Ramses III temple.  The hieroglyphs like a shimmering chattering, a sheet of mysteries.  The initial impulse behind all these temples was to keep the king alive: because he was the nation – keep him alive, keep the nation alive.  Alongside the Colossi of Memnon.  Shattered, faceless images, watching nonetheless.  The constant backdrop of the hills.  They look crippled; one is covered in gaudy red and blue scaffolding, the colour of hieroglyphs.  

[Note: the marks on the cover of this book: they can also be found on my Nepal notebook and for the same reasons.  They come from the back wheel carrier clamp on the bike – a necessary adjunct to travel, since my perfected equipment has at its heart a Samsonite carrying bag.]

One of the pleasures of travelling is establishing miniature routines.  They offer a double delight: that of familiarity, of safety, and of a paradoxical novelty – these are not real routines.  For me, these often centre around tea – for example, at Pokhara, at the Imperial Hotel in Delhi, and now here, in Luxor.  I am on the patio of the Savoy, the dying sun blah-blah-blah, waiting with trepidation for my (first) Turkish coffee.  This after a tiresome and humiliating jog around the town looking for some choccy bickies.

A long day: I arrived on the West Bank around 7.15am, and left about 4.15pm.  In the sun most of the time, but body doing well.  Ramses III temple in some ways better than the Ramesseum in terms of its completeness; but ultimately a rather different building, hollow at its heart.  The battles, impressive as they look, are a sham.  Old Ramses III fought few of them.  At least Ramses II – for all the he may have fudged the result – did fight at Kadesh, and Tuthmosis at Megiddo.  What battles: the fact that we have their accounts – form 3,500 years ago… [My chocolate bix are called "Ramsis".]

These mighty battles fought so long ago - except that they were probably not so mighty – see the poem of Kadesh and its limited captives et al.  But even so, the thought of what at the time, to their combatants, doubtless seemed like world wars.  But against that, consider the might of Egypt: the greatest civilisation the world had ever known, perfectly poised and balanced; and yet they ultimately lost their empire and their freedom.  All the civilisation counted for nothing…

But the temple of Ramses III was superficially a wonder: the whole of the outer walls covered in text and images – apparently the south side has the longest extant hieroglyph inscription.  The grooves in the walls: caused by believers extracting dust for potions.  Walking back round to the first pylon, I was struck by the sense of size: if I had been rabble coming up to it, I would have felt so inadequate, so worthless compared to this.  

Inside, passing through the still standing gate, soaring high above with inscriptions – to the first court.  Vivid scenes – including a priest tallying the enemies' willies in a mound – charming.  The papyrus columns as impressive as ever – I realise that the swelling at the bottom helps.  There is so much colour left – it is hard to imagine this as three thousand or more years old.  Also the covered parts – though unfortunately the final hypostyle hall is a wreck, with only fractions of the shafts left.

Perhaps because of its "completeness", Ramses III feels far more repetitious than others – for example the Ramesseum.  Endless images of Ramses III smiting this, that, and the other, of him being touched on the lips with the ankh of Atum.  Interesting that the palace was mud-bricks: still there, but crumbling – as at the Ramesseum, friable history.  And so into the second court, more heads rolling, but a beautiful sight.  And such a perfect sky, I can hardly believe it.  

In the dining room – only half full – groups have moved on.  A long walk along the Nile – a glorious evening – warmer than last night.  I pass up to Luxor temple, then all the way back.  The ferries cross without lights, the big cruise ships are berthed, preparing for supper.  It may be heretical to say so, but I feel that it must be fairly dull way to travel.  The boats are doubtless attractive enough, but there is little variety, and you are stuck with a schedule.  And the people…

The day is odd here: everyone up early, to bed early.  The mornings are very special: the mist over the Nile, the air.  I hope to rise with the dawn again tomorrow, out to Karnak.  

Back to my visit of the Ramses III temple.  I was content just to be there, surrounded by the very strong sense of how it was.  Plus the bonus of relatively few tourists.  How they must habituate – as I run the risk of doing.  I must say that the Egyptian guides seem very thorough – and fluent in their respective languages.  For some reason, I was particularly impressed by the bloke spouting in Japanese – shows culturally biased I am.

Going back to the Queens' tombs: it was odd, seemed a lunar landscape.  Holes in the earth, into which you plunged to find photographs, almost of other times.  Strange to think they were sealed up in the hope that nobody would find them again.  And the Tombs of the Nobles too: especially on the hillside, a warren of the dead.  I am glad that I found the three musicians in Nakht's tomb: as it happens, I am staring at them now – they adorn my bedroom curtains, a rather bright lilac.  I find them very attractive; I keep on imagining them in the flesh, so to speak, or their modern equivalents. The tomb was beautiful, especially Nakht's wife. 

A slow cycle ride back to the ferry, passing intensely bright green sugar cane – even a sugar cane railway, as in Fiji.  The Memnon Colossi, as above.  The Nile plain is very lush: you can see what a miracle it must have represented 4000 years ago, plants from the desert, and how regulation, through the priests and king, was central.  The air clearing surprisingly, with the opposite bank's hills visible.  I wonder what happened to the balloons?

After handing in my bike – which served me well enough – to the ferry.  On it a young woman clearly in pain, and bloodied hither and thither.  As I correctly guessed, she had come off her bike, using the loose stones as sandpaper (I sympathise: I did something similar on Santorini, with an impressive motorbike skid on gravel…).  When we got over, I offered what assistance I could, but other Ozzies help out.  The ferry load was pure Egypt: rural men and women, darkly sitting there, the cake-seller ensconced in the middle of the deck, strange bundles to-ing and fro-ing.

It was a great day, reminding me very strongly of Nepal and Pokhara.  Cycling along, the sun pouring down, the wind streaming past, ascending to Hatshepsut's temple, to the Queens' and Nobles' places, discovering the unexpected glory of Ramses III – these memories will live with me while I have any.  And yet: there is still something escaping me, the sense of the past – a paradoxical consequence of the excellent state of preservation.  I must try harder, feel my way around…

24.2.90 Luxor, Dendera

Up early (5.30am ish).  Walk along the Nile to Karnak Temple.  Hot air balloon out again.  West bank glorious.  I enter Karnak, the sun low, cutting through the first pylon; I feel part of a priestly procession.  I enter the hypostyle hall: I have it to myself. 

Groups have begun to arrive, but the place is still nice (my fingers are cold, I can hardly write – shades of Walks with Lorenzetti).  Hatshepsut's obelisk, the side pylons seen through arches – all a bit (?) like Trinity College and its courts – rather grander… In the far distance, the train's huge diminished fifth bellow, a forlorn cry.  The hot air balloon floats into view.

Hieroglyphs always seem to fit perfectly, there is never a gap or suggestion of crowding.  In St Alban's Cathedral I seem to recall, there is a manuscript – about 10 feet by 8 feet – of the requiem mass.  Each part is written larger or smaller; this is the nearest I can think of to hieroglyphs in the West.  For example,  Hatshepsut's obelisk – such balance, especially the single line of hieroglyphs from halfway.  A strange, thundering sound, roaring about: the gods return?  I look up – there is the balloon, its burner making monstrous noises.  Amazing sight – view must be great – but probably fails to capture the majesty I see – you need the peasant's-eye view.  Finally the crowds arrived – so I left, at about 9am.  Amazing that I had it so long.  The old horse carriage drivers wanted ridiculous money, so I walked.  

Then sat in the sun for a while, an early lunch on the terrace, watched the clouds roll in, haggled for a taxi to Dendera – E£40 – and after a fairly hairy drive at 60mph all the way, along the widening Nile valley – impressive hills in the west, more distant on the east – passing through the tip of Qena, I find myself sitting comforted by the majestic pile of Dendera temple itself.  And the sun is out.

Roman Mammisi – definitely decadent, the Romans assimilated, not vice versa.  Inside dark, like something out of The Magic Flute – which begins to feel more real in its symbolism having seen all this.  On the north side, a staircase to the roof: brilliant view of the temple in its blocky harmoniousness and above all the great wall of hills behind, lit up and craggy.  To the east I can see the other hills.  The Coptic church alongside looks footling.  But best of all was the ascent: the turning staircase wall was covered in shallow reliefs, hieroglyphs, but all rather old and grimy – again, perfect Magic Flute stuff.  Coptic church also has grooves in its side – holy stone again…

Dendera is a gem.  I write now up on the roof, blowy, but a brilliant view.  To the west the hills; huge sand mounds, then stratified rocks, yellow turning to pink.  A vast string of pylons lope from horizon to horizon, a wonderful lesson in perspective.  From up here, you can see the brick walls particularly clearly, girdling the place four-squarely.  An excellent sense of the Nilotic plain here, wide enough to support an empire.  A curious sunken court – the sacred lake – with six swaying palm trees.  Rubble all around the place like a huge rubbish dump.

So, the temple itself.  What is striking of course is that it is dark.  We are too used [the bronchitic squeals of a poor donkey rend the air: what abject lives they lead] to ruins, open to the glorious sky.  But temples were usually covered – this was part of their majesty: they were secret, closed-in places.  Dendera is closed in, it retains the mystery.  Perhaps this is why it keeps reminding me of Die Zauberflöte: that is, about dark mysteries, about secrets.

The outer hypostyle is majestic, but the inner, because darker, and within the outer, even more powerful.  The decorations are frankly unexciting: poor workmanship, feeble hieroglyphs.  Interesting to note that most of the figures have been chipped away by the bleedin' Copts – vandals – but they left the hieroglyphs: why?  Respect, ignorance?  The Hathor heads that do survive – notably in the temple on the roof – tap straight into the Narmer tablet – 3000 years before them – longer than the entire christian era.  Things turn full circle…

But generally the images repeat listlessly, in enervation, the tradition burnt out.  Perhaps it was ripe for the Arabs with their fire and their new religion [I am being left alone on the roof – again, that feeling of abandonment, as if cast back through the centuries.]

The central sanctum is one of the most atmospheric of the holy places I've been to here.  Again, because it is dark, because it really is the holy of holies, hidden away.  You can imagine Hathor herself residing here, with her great wise eyes (how primitive all these animal-gods are).

On the east side, another mysterious staircase: long and straight, a steady ascent with knobbly hieroglyphs; on the west, a turning staircase past several rooms/chambers.  A great mini-Hathor chapel on the roof, hidden away.  Then modern stairs to the raised front.  As ever, no protection: a sheer drop.  Retro me sathana…  It really is quite cloudy now, though the sun has just broken through.  No great tragedy – I need to be moderated, but I hope the weather is better in Aswan.

At the front, by the edge, were more graffiti than usual; mostly Brits: James Mangles, Charles Inby (May 1817); T Sproat, CP Parker (1827); John Gordon (1804); and John Malcolm (1822), Holroyd (1837), DW Nash (1836), EK Hume (1836).  As I descend, the sun's rays break through the clouds – and form a perfect pyramid…

Downstairs, I am clobbered by one of the guards – who shows me the crypts – beautiful carvings, and fine picture of Hathor – unmutilated.  The mutilated stones are pock-marked, as if with a disease. Down in the crypt – down a creaky stair, crouching on all fours – the stench of cigarettes on the guide's breath.  

The sanctuary forms a complete room within the building.  

Between the first and second hypostyles: light and dark.  Hathor has a cheery face.  The half-screen at the front works really well, letting in light, but maintaining privacy.  The locks of Hathor – blue – hang down like drapes.  There is no real awe here, but occult power.  The stones on the stairs: worn right down.  I find Cleopatra – but no matching cartouche.  

Crazed drive back.  On the terrace.  Though the sun is not setting yet, it is already golden-yellow with the haze.  Very high above, swifts careen around.  The odd falcon.  Dinner is not yet served, and so – at 7pm – along to Luxor Temple.  I am sitting in front of the Kadesh text, garishly illuminated by sodium, making the stone look like a huge orange ice lolly. The whole place is ghostly.  A clear night now, stars spangling it brilliantly.  To the south wall of the first court: where I find the ancient representation of the temple itself, flags a-flutter.  Ramses II is so clearly the key – no wonder Mailer based "Ancient Evenings" around him.  In retrospect it does convey the details well and painlessly.  I think it fails to capture the majesty, the sheer sense of empire.

25.2.90  Luxor, west bank

Up early again, across to west bank.  Hire bike, but along to Seti I temple this time.  Nice – though nothing impressive like the others.  No other tourists – but there are archaeologists, and lots of fellahin digging holes, wheeling barrows.  It's gonna be hot today, methinks.  Up to the crest of the hill between Valley of the Kings and west bank.  The Valley itself is scorched rock, a barren, dry Lake District.

Ramses I: simple but good.  Each god's attributes are like the iconography of saints.  I find Osiris, his skin green/blue from death, wrapped in a mummy's shrouds, the most affecting.  Tuthmosis III – a real warren.  At the end of a defile, up stairs, down stairs, along corridor.  To the antechamber – strange, quickly-drawn images – a list of hundreds of gods.  Total silence.  In the tomb chamber, more line drawings rather than paintings.  Eerie.  Some of the text slants very oddly.  Tawsert and Setnakh – a nice contrast: long with gentle gradient.  Again, Osiris memorable.  Seti's tomb – beautiful low reliefs – and walls of hieroglyphs – including rough sketches – still waiting for the chisel.  A light red.  Looking to the entrance, the light catches the hieroglyphs – like a crazy wallpaper. An unknown mummy, dried to a crisp.  The white stone just begs to be caressed – or touched – it is almost sensual.  It is strange standing outside: looking down a huge black shaft; bright rock all about, brilliant blue sky above.

Horemheb – not a name one meets often – unusual cartouche.  Great scene with Ma'at, Anubis, Hathor, Horus, Osiris.  Tomb very long, very very deep;  Other side has Isis – with throne on head. Beautiful in her white dress to the breasts.  Amenhotep II: deep, very spare design inside, blue tonality.  Very austere.  Ramses VI – the most impressive in size.  Lots of unusual drawing – occult stuff.  It seems appropriate to finish with Tutankhamun – which in some ways is about tourists – the queues to get in are ridiculous.  Fine wall coverings – but all so small – footling really.  Enough.  

In the rest house, I think I am getting addicted to 7-Ups.  Tutankhamun was amazingly feeble, one room, and the sarcophagus and a few walls nothing compared to the other tombs.  This place must be a real cauldron of god in summer.  The heat from the bodies in the tombs is oppressive too – must be ruining the paintings.  Generally, here and throughout Egypt, the sites have  been very well preserved and restored – but not protected from us, alas.  

Valley of the Kings looks like a huge quarry, with an odd causeway of white winding through it.  Before the tombs were disturbed it must have been theoretically an extraordinary place: stuffed with the good and great of hundreds of years – a Westminster Abbey au naturel.  [It is such bliss to put my deeply pretentious/expensive Ray-Bans back on.]  One thing Tutankhamun does emphasise is what a tip it must have been when discovered.  The room so small, so many items.  The position of Tutankhamun is certainly rather drole: right under Ramses VI – no wonder it was lost.  

I sit now perched high on the crest between Valley of the Kings and the west bank.  A plane is coming into land; the Nile stretches out in one enormous straight band; I can see the opposite hills for miles.  The great temples – Ramesseum and Ramses II are before me like child's building models.  The Colossi of Memnon are dolls.

Halfway down to Hatshepsut's tomb – the dust is playing havoc with my eyes – the wind is getting up and a few clouds are appearing again.  The rock face behind Hatshepsut's looks like a literal curtain with folds; also I can see lots of Dantesque squirming figures as if struggling to emerge.  Grit in my mouth, too.

In the Ramesseum after the worst bike-ride of my life – blinded by grit.  As well as the Battle of Kadesh, there is the story of Dapur.  In fact the seizure of a city by storming must have been fairly innovative.  In Ramses III, second court.  The osirid columns, in different stages of  disrepair, look like Matisse's sequence of female nudes from behind: meditations on a theme.

I have been sitting staring mindless at the outside south wall, the huge hieroglyphic poem, the distant hunting scene, the sheer – still ungraspable for me – immensity of this achievement.  There are worse things to do on a Sunday afternoon in February…

Coffee on the terrace – then out on a felucca – haggled down from E£30 to E£8 plus E£2 baksheesh – still too much.  On "Rendezvous"… Sun sinking, wind "stiff".  Two on the boat, talking in Arabic – that coloniser/colonised again.  Best sunset yet – Aten a golden liquid globe as we pull across to the west bank.  The hills I climbed today now turning blue – a Leonardoesque chiaroscuro.  River very quiet now – a few feluccas upstream.  Honking madness on the east bank.  Aten turns orange behind palm trees.  Now deeper red, the cloud back to pink – the light reflected in cabin windows of the moored Nile cruise boats.  I should think travelling by boat – of whatever size – gets rather limiting after a while – this time period is far more satisfying for me.  The wind is up again, the ropes creak – I can see the attraction of sea writing – all that evocation.  Aten gone – the sky like a washed bandage, sun-dyed and faded, the colours turning grey.

No birds – but this morning, a flight flew over – long and almost straight – just the odd straggler spoiling the line.  A huge diagonal.  In the Nile – here as in Cairo – the odd piece of floating greenness – it looks like some lily.  It gets caught around the docked ships, stagnant with flotsam and jetsam, trapped with it all.

26.2.90 Esna, Edfu, Kom Ombo

Up early, then along to Karnak for a quick farewell.  What a place.  Then hire taxi down to Aswan.  First stop Esna – dusty, fly-blown place.  But in the middle of the souk, a huge pit – and a miniature Dendera.  Amazing.  But the sense of degradation of style inside – coarse hieroglyphs as if they no longer meant anything.  Nice flowery capitals to the columns, though.  

Beyond Esna, the desert really asserts itself.  The road on the east bank is the boundary between it and greenery.  The Nile's inundation must have seemed truly miraculous to the ancient Egyptians, life from death.  Everything would revolve around it.  We pass some mounds that could be crumbling mud pyramids, plus ugly factories belching smoke unceasingly.  The rocks of the surrounding cliffs beg for tombs.

Edfu.  Impressive, even in its late (only 2000 years old) Ptolemaic trappings.  Interesting that hieroglyphs have gone into the background.  Now images dominate – shift of emphasis.  In the court of offering: the  hieroglyphs look almost Chinese – they have lost their precision.  Entering the outer hypostyle is very like Dendera – gradual descent into darkness, into mystery.  But, my word, how depressingly bad the  hieroglyphs are…

To Kom Ombo, the Nile narrowing greatly, the vegetation losing its greenness, everything drier.  OK, a good ruin.  Also for its location – not some squalid circus pit, but on the promontory by the Nile.  Perhaps that is the main difference – the aesthetics of the site.  This late style reminds me of High Victorian Gothic – all gilt and fiddly bits.

What a day, which I am trying to redeem with a turkish coffee at a restaurant on the Nile – on a pontoon to be exact – every time people move, the whole thing rocks.

Anyway, my worst nightmare fulfilled.  I get to the hotel – Abu Simbel – only to be told that the last room had just – one minute ago – been taken – the offenders were still filling in the form.  Then a hunt around – to about five others – none could offer more than two days – even tried Kalabash Cataract – full and surly.  So two days it is.  After that...well, there was one other, too grubby to contemplate, but they may have a better room later. Ho-hum.  Aswan itself looks pleasant enough – a long corniche giving a Mediterranean feel..  The sun is descending behind Elephantine, the feluccas are out.

Driving through the arid desert today made me long for Cornwall.  Perverse, me?

The sun catches the Aga Khan's mausoleum high on the hill opposite.  At least I have a flight booked for Abu Simbel tomorrow, out at 1.30pm and back at 4.15pm.  I thought I should try all modes of transport to get the context.  It will be nice to see the desert from above.  The Oberoi Hotel in front of me is an ugly construction, like a water tower – Greenaway would like it. There is Euro pop in the background; how can I say it? Nice.  I'm obviously getting homesick.  The elegant ballet of the feluccas.  Lovely synths – I'm so tempted to get one.

Along the corniche, trees with huge red blossoms like rhododendrons that fall heavily with a dull squelch.  The pavement is littered with this prodigality.  Today's situation reminds me of Udaipur – when I read "Ancient Evenings" – and was rather ill.  Nice effect as the feluccas' sails curtain the sun briefly.  The almost-view – if I stick my head out – reminds me of the hotel in Queenstown.  Because of its resort air, this doesn't really feel like the end of an empire/land/country.  The sun hits the hills, liquid gold.  Re is gone for me.  A flock of birds, far away, like a changing dust cloud, peppering the sky.

Hell's bells – a kingfisher just dived in – and came out with a fish.  Mosquitoes out.  Watching now, as I watched last night: the felucca sailors climb the mast and pack the sail away (technical term needed).  A long walk back through the souk – the best I've came across in Egypt – lively, real – with smells: incense, spices.  Forms again – the pyramids of oranges, the subtle variation in dates, the baskets of deeply-coloured spices.  Nearest to India yet.

27.2.90 Aswan, Abu Simbel

Up to a slightly unsettled day: where will I be tomorrow? Yesterday evening I bought a ticket for Friday to Asyut – so I need two more nights somewhere.  To Abu Simbel at 1.30pm, so a quick trip here first.

A walk along the corniche, the public ferry to the island – I get lost in a maze of narrow streets – then to the old town.  Not much to see.  Nilometer, Temple of Khnum.  Good to see the Ramses II cartouche even here.  Lovely view of Aswan, Cataract Hotel etc.  Also of Elephantine rocks at the water's edge.  

Still nothing fixed – though lots of "come back laters".  It is strange how the aspect of a tour is transformed according to whether you have or do not have somewhere to stay.  Yesterday, as we drove around, the place was nothing but a hot unfriendly place, without form or beauty.  Sitting at the Saladin floating restaurant again, I could – for a moment – savour the sun and the tranquillity.

To Aswan airport early, to get a good seat.  But thwarted by bureaucracy – no seat allocated.  In other words, a mêlée.  I sit now in the deep shade of the outside cafe, waiting to get in line.  On the way here, via the old dam – the Brit one.  Fine lake to the left, straggly water to the right.  Then into desert – the airport is a long way out for some reason.  Real desert, terrifying.  A forest of pylons carrying electricity from the dam away into the shaking distance.  It's gonna be hot in Abu Simbel.

Travelling freely really is about the will: I wish it, and it happens; with tours, you are without volition – you just do as you are told.  The two could not be further apart.  

Well, this is Egypt – a delay of one hour – at least.  I stood for 45 minutes – yo – and now sit down, and will probably lose my window seat.

Amazing flight.  It confirms my worst fears about the desert: utterly implacable – definitely Empire's End.  Pure sand – just a tiny road, the Nile a distant presence.  A few dunes, later, strange rocks – this is how the world will end – dust, sand, heat, nothing.  This is how Egypt ends.  How all empires end.  Nearer Lake Nasser – huge, but drying up – there were clear signs of old mud – former levels – this last imperial folly too is a failure.  As we fly in, I see the temples – looking like sand castles made by a child – pretty one side, nothing the other – a strange jelly mould.  The statues stare pointlessly at the lake, face east to the rising sun.  Sitting in the coach – the sun is pitiless – at 3.30pm – deadly rays.

Temple of Nefertari.  Striking facade – the striding king and queen – last rays of light still catching it.  Inside, good Hathor heads on pillars.  Strange: even though the work throughout is rather crude, it has far more vigour than any Ptolemaic stuff.  Colours partly preserved.  Good to see queens represented so much.  Striking too the pose of the king smiting sundry baddies – the power of the legs' fulcrum (a triangle, the straight line of the arms, the twist of the hips – pure karate).  

Outside, a smile plays across his features.  To the big one, where Ramses seems not to be smiling so much.  Lovely baboons up top.  The poor man is covered with scratched graffiti, mostly Westerners – what a humiliation.  Hittite marriage stela – practically indecipherable.

Inside, powerful effect of osirid columns – some Upper Egypt, some Upper and Lower.  That same pose: smiting the enemy.  The king attacks a Syrian fort – and he does with a lively image of what it looked like.  But what an immense distance to travel – the penalty of empire.  Something I realised looking at the Syrians: they are bearded; ancient Egyptians never (?) are.  And today, you rarely see bearded Egyptians.

In the side chamber, I feel the first stirrings of that ancientness I sought.  Perhaps because it is crudely lit.  Everything else is too well-preserved and looked after – I have lost their ancientness.  They need to look more like the caves of Lascaux, or old castles.  I need some of their fear, their awe: electric lights banish this.  Torches – flaming light – would be better.  Also the unevenness (in castles) of the walls and ceiling helps.  I feel their uncertainty in the world.  Perhaps I need the junk of Tutankhamun's tomb.  I can relate these side chambers to my idea of the Philistines/Assyrians stuff of the same era; but not the others.  The fact is, the battles live more for us than offerings to Amun.  Therefore Ramses II lives more than any other.

Superb effect as you emerge from the innermost: bright light, the sky, a glimpse of the water.  Designed to catch the early sun, February 21/October 21.  To illuminate the four statues.  The Battle of Kadesh; again.  But reversed in direction – whatever the reality, one of the most powerful scenes in all Egypt.  The mighty king, the confusion of war, the great city portrayed in some detail.  I read the "Battle of Kadesh" text in its presence.  In the bottom right hand side the signature of its author, his own pleas for immortality.  Which he has.

Outside.  Unfortunately the building blocks look very silly – like some child's construction set.  The hills on the opposite side of the lake: huge wind-blasted cones, moonscapes.  

Window seat again: real blood-red sunset – sinking in the haze, a huge red band swathing the sky.  The desert as frightening as its shadows lengthened.

1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna
1990 Egypt IV: Alexandria, Wadi El Natrun, Suez

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Tuesday, 28 April 2020

2019 Reykjavik

23.1.19 Reykjavik

Back here, after many years (how many? Eight? Ten?).  In the Eyja Guldsmeden Hotel with a view of the sea.  Flew in last night with Easyjet – very cheap flights, since it's low season.  To the new airport, rather far out.  Took the Skybus, taxis so expensive.  Fine except when it came to change to the minibus for the hotel drop – had to wait in the cold, then the back door didn't close, and we had to change.

Hotel OK, but like everything in Iceland, very expensive for what it is.  Snowing when we woke today.  Out in the dark, which would reign for two more hours.  Reminded me of Russia, when I went with Intourist, those crazy Soviet trips.  After a pleasant coffee in the Sandholt Café on Laugavegur, then to the new Culture House.  Practically empty of people, not much in the way of exhibits either, but that's understandable.  Then to the harbour, which is completely transformed from last time – building going on everywhere.  To the Reykjavik Museum.  Mostly awful, but Erro's work stands up well.  After, food at the Reykjavik Fish Restaurant: I recognise this from my previous trip, but don't remember it as fish and chips.  

Back to the hotel via Hallgrimskirkja – bonkers, but beautiful.  Fab organ.  As we came back, the sun was setting (at 2pm), and the snow on the mountains opposite Reykjavik blazed.  We went down to the sea – with difficulty, since the snow was thick.  Amazing views.  Back to here to rest before venturing out at 7pm to seek northern lights…

24.1.19 Reykjavik

In the hotel after a tiring afternoon.  Last night was slightly disappointing.  Despite the "high" aurora activity, we saw them only faintly – but we did see them.  The coach took us out to Thingvellir – but nothing very visible.  Cold: -4°C, and so an experience.

This morning we rested, then went back to Sandholt Café for our second breakfast, bought buns and croissants for lunch.  Then out to the Blue Lagoon.  Ridiculously expensive, but a thing one does.  Out towards the airport, then left through barren, empty landscapes – really depressing.  Then into the pool of naturally-heated water at 38°C.  Water lovely, but the driving sleet and snow stinging.  Eventually the snow stopped, and the skies cleared.  Leaving quite a pleasant experience just soaking there.  Very few people – must be horrible when it's full.  Drank the complimentary glass of cheap red wine – revolting, but helped fend off the cold.  After 1.5 hours really rather nice.

Back to the hotel, and then a pleasant meal of fish soup, salmon and herring (raw) for supper.  Simple but wholesome.  Back to UK tomorrow, not too early – 12.20pm flight, so fairly civilised.  A nice break, all-in-all.  Still amazed how small Reykjavik is.  But then no doubt it's developing fast – the changes from last time I was here are evident.  A confident people, proud of their past, and rightly so.

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Monday, 27 April 2020

1994 Trieste, Ljubljana

30.9.94 Venice, Trieste

Not in Venice, alas, but in the station, having arrived from Brescia.  On the way to Trieste, then Ljubljana.   But already a sense of being on the edge: the train half empty (overflowing to Verona), the land about to become undiscovered territory for me.  Reading "Trieste" – Magris – rather dry, but giving a good sense of that smarrimento.  Fine pale blue sky outside, hurtling towards the edge.

Note how each art has its peak when form and content match.  Architecture – the Romans, when engineering meets art; painting in the Renaissance, man the measure; music – eighteenth-century Austria.  Only literature has many – because language is arbitrary and changeable.  Other arts – architecture, sculpture (Greece), music, painting – all have an obvious measure, that of reality, harmony, representation…  Words are different (only poetry has non-arbitrary structures – sonnet the peak of these in some sense).

Trieste – in the Piazza Unità d'Italia.  Entering it I had the strange sensation that the fourth side was a huge white wall (clouds – though the sun is quite strong now through the clouds).  Hotel Roma (couldn't find the bathroom – behind a curtain of what looked like a windows).  Changed money into Tolars – confused by the rates, but I think 1T is about a halfpenny (that is 5000T = £25).  Delighted to hear the hotel receptionists talking in Slovenian – which I recognised from its similarity to Czech (and just why do we spell it that way?)

Cappuccino here – plus water and sweets: L.4000. - civilised.  I sit, of course, in the Caffè degli Specchi.  Miramare glimpsed on the way in (and Duino – thus Rilke – nearby).  To the Teatro Romano, - reminds me of Alexandria – not very moving, bricks mostly.  Sun very watery.  Sitting now (5pm) on the superbly-named Molo Audace.  Very strange – everything very strange.  Huge rucked sky above, very high clouds; sun recognisably that of Venice.  Air cool and full of the smells of water.  Men and boys fishing (can't helping thinking of that short story I wrote decades ago…).  A huge wharf being rebuilt – the sound of a man hammering carries so clearly across the water.  The aspect of the city strange as if falling into the sea – it doesn't stop.  Very long front.  To my right I may have seen the Miramare out in the haze.  Fish (small and round) in the (deep) water by us.

Before, spent a couple of hours in the bookshops here.  Aptly for Joyce's sometime city, there are many, both for new and – especially – for old (bells clang tinnily, a boat putters by).  Wandering in and out of the worlds held in these bookshops (old pornography, manuals – in Italian – for the Sinclair ZX80, poems in dialect, German literature in 50 volumes, 2000L each – alas, Grillparzer incomplete) I suddenly realise that this is precisely what the Internet is like: a huge warehouse of barely-ordered books.  Hence the excitement (mine) and the frustrations (of most people).  Next to me, two old men chatter in something that seems to hover between heavy dialect (alla Veneziana) and Slovene.  Doubtless the latter has heavily influenced the former.  People beginning to take their promenades now.  Light on the water like pale gold.

Bought: Slapater "Il Mio Carso" and Sabra – selection of poetry - plus book on Trieste and northern writers (Rilke, Joyce, etc, and Magris – all my heroes, well, almost).  Certainly this sense of the edge, a cavallo various lands and cultures, makes this my kind of place. I've not ever bothered "doing" the city such as it is: just being here, drinking coffee, roaming around in bookshop is enough.  I'll perhaps rise early and go for a morning stroll before leaving tomorrow.

Along the front, practically every large building has pillars or pilasters stuck on, purely as ornament.  To the Sala Tripcovich – right by the station, and so by my hotel – for a concert – Sibelius (Swan of Tuonela"_ and Bruckner #2.  Strange edifice: modern, shell-like – perhaps while they're restoring the Teatro Verdi.  Bloody pilasters again.  Probably sold out (few seats when I booked – 30,000L.), violins desperately practising.  Very well turned-out audience – I feared I'd be the only tie-less one.  The ushers very flash in their black uniforms and brass buttons.

1.10.94 Slovenia

Just inside the border.  A long passage – it began to feel quite menacing, a mistake.  That sudden sense of no longer understanding the language (though its links to Czech are clear).  Outside rolling green hills, neat houses, cheap cars.  It is very strange to be in a country I barely knew existed.  Ljubljana is wonderful – but closed: 1pm is the witching hour here.  Now, in Gostilna, near the Shoemaker's Bridge.  Gorgeous autumn day: warm sun, stiff breeze, the trees turning, leaves falling as the branches shiver.

Hotel (Grand Union) looks excellent value for about £40 – big room, clean, view of Miklošičev park.  Young women quite swish here – relaxed and sophisticated-looking.  [Music in the distance – saw ZDF van – the Germans invading already.]  German tourists, Italians, Japanese.  Flash Ferrari parked nearby – there is money here, it seems.   Rushed around madly, looking for two things: toothbrush and film.  The former found, but not the latter.  I have decided to speak in Italian here – seems generally understood.  

On the train, families laden with consumer goods – but the customs not too nosy – probably good for the country.  You know you crossed some invisible line when you're not only allowed to traverse the railway lines – but have to, in order to leave.  Ljubljanica the river here.  Fine Baroque facades everywhere.  A kind of Balkan Dublin (Ljubljanica ~ Liffey).  How far away that city seems… Once again, I have that schizophrenic sense of being in Ljubljana – and not being here, because this is clearly impossible.

A nice trout, heavily garnished with garrr-lic.  Two decilitres of white wine, patate all'Istria – what more could one ask…?  [The music last night variable: the conductor (American?) rather stiff – except in the last movement of the Bruckner 2 – the best I've heard.]  One thing: small noses are rare here.  With the coffee, a tiny chocolate – Croat – whose flavour is pure Mallorca of 30 years ago.  2050 Tolars all told (there's that contingent onomatopoeia again) about £10 – not that cheap – but least they take Visa.

Walking along the chestnut alley of Tomšičeva ulica – a rain of conkers – are they 56ers or 45ers – what is the magic number?  Beside the opera house – wild Empire style – playing "Die Fledermaus" tonight – I think, since it is in Slovenian.  But passing to Cankarjev dom, I see a sign advertising Pogorelić – tonight...hmm. After the National Gallery (the usual nth-rate Italians and Germans – touching in their own way), across the Ljubljanica to Stari trg – and a bookshop/gallery that is open.  Škuc galerija – typical over-excited young people's stuff – nice.

Well, I didn't go to the concert (I don't even know if there were tickets…)  I'd like to have seen old Igo (lovely waistcoat), but the concert (Tchaikovsky – 1812, Piano Concerto #1, Symphony #4) would hardly have shown him off at his best.  Instead I watch the news on RTL (why do female German newsreaders all have this blonde Nazi look?), and then wander the city (under the castle, which seems the happening place in  Ljubljana, although small).  I sit, horror of horrors, in the Pizzeria Ljubljana Dvor – not really hungry, but I want to be near the river.  I can see the castle tower from here.  Interesting (though hardly surprising) that Italian is often given as language #2 on menus etc.

Walking around the city – including dank cathedral alleys – it felt very safe – old ladies doing the same.  In many ways, Slovenia looks to be one of the most successful "new" countries of the Eastern Bloc.  It must have been pretty exciting as it broke away from what the Balkan Times (published in Greece) insisted on calling FRYugoslavia (along with FYROM – Macedonia to you and me – ah, these children…).  A lovely city to stroll through, of course, with the river, the castle, the Baroque facades casting deep shadows, the bridges… Reminds me of Budapest, or rather of Buda, the back streets…

One thing that is increasingly clear to me are the cognitive spheres of influence.  For example, if you want to know what is happening in Eastern Europe, you read German newspapers.  For the Middle East, French; for South America, Spanish.  For Japan and Far East I suppose the US press is more alert – though less so than the others, aforementioned.  Which begs the question: why read UK press?  For the ex-Empire, perhaps – India, South Africa (doesn't sound very convincing…). Walking around the National Gallery, the sense of how difficult it is to start from so little. I/we take so much for granted in terms of cultural assumptions – how much is a given.  [For some reason, this restaurant brought back memories of the café by the Pergamon Museum…]

2.10.94 Ljubljana

In the Gallery of Modern Art.  Rather less depressing than that of the National Gallery: after all, creating great modern art is (theoretically) open to all.  And even though the exhibition here is pretty weak, I wonder whether Slovenia in a sense is a hope for the future.  After all, it has only two million inhabitants, but has an opera house, various museums, theatre, etc. - that is, is functional.  If the world does split into thousands of "nations", perhaps they can survive and thrive. Note that the great galleries – in London, Paris, New York – are all built on power – empire/money etc.  - but not here.

Large if not wonderful breakfast.  Then to the market – to find that today there is no flea market – perhaps because of a bloody ZDF concert (the strains of sickly-sweet Bavarian sentimentality fill the air).  Also a few spots of rain initially, but these soon pass.  Sky clearing, sun trying to emerge.  On the way here, passed some kind of French cultural institution.  Stuff on Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.  Must read his books: the ones on flying across the desert et al. Look tremendous – the prose carries an exactitude but also a tremendous sense of being spent – French culture guttering in a century that it is extrinsic to (the Magris effect).  

At the top of the Castle Tower – hazy air, but fine view.  Unfortunately, the ghastly music comes up too.  No café here, and I'm starving.  I see that the café on the "skyscraper" is open, so I may slog back there.  Hills everywhere.  Very strange place: even though the castle itself is undergoing renovation, and therefore dead, buried deep in its bowels is this trendy bar (no food, alas).  Thumping bass line, gaudy neons, rough iron walls – feels very New York. All the young trendies here.

The National Museum had the usual Roman tombstones and stuffed birds – plus a rather fine display of bronze age stuff, including a stunning ceremonial cup/bucket with interesting scenes.  Among which a man playing the pan pipes...ah, to hear that music.  Unreasonably, I like it here.  Basically, inside a gutted castle building, lots of polished marble, grainy wood, metal (fine double staircase).  Stone walls of the castle evident.  Well stocked bar.

Afterwards, to the hotel for an apple, then to the 12th floor of the skyscraper.  Worrying coming up here: rickety old lift, and when I got to the kavarna – it wouldn't let me out.  Also slight put off by appalling pix of the strip-tease that apparently takes places here at night.  These poor 30+ women looking ridiculous as only sex performers can, with bored customers sitting around.  Fine view here (sun casting shadows in the right places).  The triple bridge just visible – what a great symbol for a nation: three bridges.  It's impressive: from here I can see the Dragons' Bridge, the three bridges and the Shoemaker's Bridge. 

Finishing the day in Tivoli Park.  A wonderfully autumnal feel – the smell of deciduous leaves, that chill in the dusk air.  The end of the weekend, of my trip, and of the season.  Into the church of Franciscans: very dark and gloomy.  Outside, the bloody ZDF Germans are nearly gone, leaving a focal point for the city.  I have noticed: no beggars in Ljubljana (though a few semi down and outs) and few signs of "dog dirt".  Prague felt far more oppressively ex-communist, and poor.  Perhaps the Tito years of later alternative communism bore some sweet fruit (the current war in Bosnia being its bitter crop).

As so often, I am back for my last meal where I had my first: in the riverside restaurant – having "Ljubljana schnitzel", and half a litre of wine (I didn't think I asked for so much, but it's good, so…).  Air cooling, but lovely to sit out in a jacket.  "My" pizzeria (pizzeria moja?) opposite.  Italians behind, Germans to my right.  Also opposite me, on the rather ugly concrete wall by the river, is the phrase: "Muki je moj, jaz ga ne dam…"  The wine has an almost flowery taste – rather drinkable…

Good to see the pages filling up these past few days – shows my brain has been loosened up – as I hoped.  I need these selfish solo trips to think hard about things I too rarely have time for – novels/ideas etc.  The countries in Europe still to "do": Sweden, Iceland, Luxembourg, Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Romania, Bulgaria...I might give Ukraine a miss.

And another thing: last night, while wandering the streets, I came across a group of itinerant Andean musicians – they really do get bloody everywhere.  But what a theme: musicians from so many thousands of miles away, so far from home, do gigs around Europe…  Excellent escalope.  Mad guitarist has just played "House of the Rising Sun" – I've no idea what the song's about, but it goes to the roots of my childhood memories. I've drunk nearly half a litre of wine – too/not enough...

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Saturday, 25 April 2020

1994 Sri Lanka

16.2.94 London, Amsterdam, Abu Dhabi, Colombo

A smart place – stuffy, but smart.  Strange, I don't really regard Sri Lanka as far: a short hop really.  Usual preoccupations of whether the taxi-driver will immediately tell his chums about the joint to be rumbled.  And strangely too an excitement about coming back already – largely because of the Internet, which is changing my life.  Apart from the fact that it is consonant with many of my ideas, it also offers the perfect for writing about from anywhere: truly global, all you need is a SLIP connection and you're there.  And as for Mosaic…

Trip long, not particularly comfortable – though the landing at Abu Dhabi was the smoothest I'd had in a Jumbo.  Abu Dhabi nicely familiar with its tiled plume in the centre of the lounge.  Plane full on both legs;  From Amsterdam sat next to Sri Lankan reading leaflet on Thailand in Polish… On the second leg next to a young woman who slept folded up like a deckchair.  As we came in to land she signalled that she wanted me to fill in her boarding card.  Aged 31, she was a housemaid in Abu Dhabi – and her passport was valid for only one trip out and back.  After immigration man came up to quiz my status as a writer – seemed very interested in "Windows User".  Bags arrived safely, found our hosts here.  Surprisingly their house is at least half an hour from the airport, which lies well south of the city.

Lots of trees everywhere – unlike India – and the cars are surprisingly modern – though also old British models in evidence.  Driving pretty insane.  Usual mess everywhere – bricks, rubbish, glass, paper.  Very flat, few higher buildings – and those mostly drab.  A few colonial remnants, quite attractive.  To a cul-de-sac, the house with large spacious rooms, overhead fans.  Air thick and warm, very like Indonesia.  But not oppressive.

18.2.94  Colombo

Well, yes part of the foregoing was 17.2.94 – but then time is so fluid here.  Pretty tired yesterday – crashed for a couple of hours after lunch (toasted cheese sandwich), then went for a walk to a "monument" – that of independence.  Pretty poor, a statue, a hall (built by the British) with curious friezes inside, showing scenes from Ceylon's history – weird, alien-like people.  Our host is negative about the people here, how nothing changes, nothing is done; and the rather tired monument confirmed this.  And yet there is a certain atmosphere, of Paradise Mislaid, that makes this place potentially interesting – and different.

Fine red snapper fish for supper – fortunately fish in abundance here.  Pudding crème caramel.  Then to Colombo – to the Hindu temple – wild orgy of colours and forms – 3D explosion of gaudy statues.  Sun out now: hot and humid.    Inside, shady.  The Big Ben chimes – electronic – outside.  Corrugated iron roof, cawing crows.  A view into the main shrine: rooms leading to room – like Denderah… Past the Buddhist temple, to the associated  ordination palace on the lake – very like Bali.  To the sacred Bo tree and Buddha.  A padlock on a shed: Made in Italy.  To Liberty Plaza – where clusters of men gawp at TVs – Sri Lankan cricket.  Very like Jakarta.  Then to Oberoi for lunch.  Salad – nothing special.  Impressive hanging drapes in interior space of hotel.  Then to Paradise – a real cornucopia.  Home to sleep – again.

Now at tea under a rotating fan, CD of Caldara playing – Gérard Lesne singing – very fine.  Rich treacle tarts, fine jasmine tea – very civilised, the advantage of visiting friends abroad.  I am haunted by images from across the continent – Kashmir (poor Kashmir), Nepal, Tibet (ah, Tibet – one day….)  Down Galle Road, to Beach Wadiya – on the beach.  We cross the main railway line (four tracks) to get here after parking the car.  Incredible night noises – birds and insects, the breakers – the sea at last.  Reminds me, of course, of Sanur, and of the restaurant with the lobster.  The meal punctuated by the scream of trains on the track.  Very atmospheric.

19.2.94  Sigiriya

On the road.  Here by a fine tank full of lilies, our host mad about the birds (feathered).  A baby elephant on display.  Also adult elephants on the road – very large, very majestic.  Dead fruit bats on the electric wires – short-circuited themselves.  The rain comes down, pure Tarkovsky.  Rich, verdant countryside, very Bali, shimmering under the grey skies.  Mad drivers everywhere, but ours – "VJ"  relatively considerate.  Rising up into the hills, the coconut and palm trees thin out.

Along the way we pass the potters village, the pineapple village, the honey village and most memorable of all, the cashew village.  Most memorable because of the alluring maidens signalling for us to stop; apparently they are offering more than just cashews.  Our host tells us that Sri Lanka is now picking up some of the sex trade from Germans frightened by AIDS in Thailand.  Sad that these paradises are corrupted in this way.  Sad, too, that this place seems to be drowning in corruption and inefficiency generally.  Life is perhaps too easy – the way everything just grows here.

The rain and the surrounding greenery remind me of the Lake District, except that there you go out in the rain.  As we arrive at Sigiriya Hotel, we see the rock, rearing up very sheer, shrouded in mist.  Volcanic plug, I assume.  Along the way, the usual small shops à la Indonesia, mostly with signs in English.  Road signs in Sinhalese, Tamil and English.  Fascinating the story of how the Tamil troubles began – linguistic discrimination caused by better education of the Tamils and so more of them in the civil service.  Monkeys visible here – and looking very similar to the ones in Bali. 

Yesterday, we had rather fine jaggery for tea, as well as molasses and cashew tart.  At the seafood restaurant we had fried fish (sardines), crab (very spicy), a huge and succulent lobster, prawns and white fish (grey mullet).  Back at our lodgings we have watalappam: delicious buffalo curd and molasses treacle – wonderful.  Rain finally stopped, but still very overcast.  Cooler now – that's another thing: stupidly I left my jacket at the house… mozzies pretty savage outside.  Sri Lankan roulette given the diseases they carry.

Lots of Bartolini's (ah, Budapest).  Evening noises: birds, frogs (there is one in our bathroom), bats (seen emerging most cinematically from the swimming pool's pump-room – their fluttering wings caught in the single bulb's rays, casting magnified shadows on the wall by the door.

This room reminds me strangely of Fiji, the room at Nadi, by the airport.  The Sigiriya rock also reminds me (perversely) of Ben Bulben, and makes me long for Connemara.  Indeed, in general, tropical countries make me feel a huge nostalgia for the cold and wet…

Being on a Jumbo full of other tourists: you wonder where they all go in Sri Lanka…

20.2.94  Avukana, Anuradhapura

Rain fell as if from a billion taps last night – such intensity.  I understand the word "monsoon" a little better (still not brilliant, so we put of ascending the rock, which is anyway wet).  A troupe of female monkeys groom babies on the roof, their faces black and terribly stern.  Again that sense of how close they are to humans, especially from close-up.  Sun shining now – hot and damp.  That feeling of the Raj, of Western civilisation meeting something so alien, so other.  And also the challenge of maintaining the British stiff upper lip in the face of it.

To Avukana.  Shoes off as we ascend the path to the Buddha – 30-40 feet tall.  Lovely garment, strong face.  Everything so green here.  Fine edible sandstone.  Rustling of the forest, hot sun – and flies… Offerings of flowers, dark schoolgirls in white dresses – cloth provided by the state.  Along the way, huge tanks.  Fields of coconut trees, wet and glistening after the rain.  In to Anuradhapura, for lunch: a hotel with a pool beside a huge tank.  Looks more like the sea, or an estuary.  Few tourists around – Sunday.  Few cars, too: on the back roads, waterlogged and rutted, this could have been a problem.  Lovely breeze.  Strange atmosphere in the restaurant here: empty and echoing, the staff moving around, unclogging salt cellars.  The Germans have arrived… Miridiya Hotel.

To the Holy City.  The Reclining Buddha, huge and serene, yellow and red.  Full hips, black curly hair.  The cave of the bats, squealing.  The Isurumuniya Lovers, a lively couple – she swelling, he paunchy as befits a prince.  Lots of movement for 500AD.  Further on to another – chanting – Hindu, even though Buddhists.  At the Bo tree – time incarnate.  To the main stupa here – Ruwanweli Maha Seya – really Cheops-like in its solidity.  A faded white, with elephants along the outer wall, and a few Balinese pennants – or tatters thereof – flying plus a line full of flags and offerings – a huge display of fading colours. That thought: here I am in Sri Lanka looking at this…  The skies turn pewter.  To a small dagaba, surrounded by pillars (Thuparamaya?).  Again, the flags. 

To Mihintale.  We cheat, and drive up half the way.  The steps remind me of the stupa in Kathmandu – no cheating, me weak on my pegs.  View over countryside from here – first we've had, really.

21.2.94 Polonnaruwa, Giritale

Last night – after we had gone to bed – a knock on the door: mosquito nets.  The first time I've slept under one.  Great  - though slightly strange feeling with this film hovering above you.  But also makes you feel deep in the heat of the tropics. Hotel here like at Sigiriya – open plan, rather as at Senggigi Beach Hotel on Lombok.  Interesting to compare here and Indonesia: the latter far more exotic, and interesting, truth to tell, though travelling here has also been fascinating, it's just that Indonesia is such a different world.

To Polonnaruwa – three tanks, glorious, terrible roads and female road menders.  A quincunx of dagabas – the reclining statue – portly, with a wry smile on its face.  To the king's palace – impressive to see ruins this high.  Sun really quite warm now.  To the audience hall – the smell of hot grass – the smell of childhood.  Fine stone elephants and lions.  The Hindu pavilion, then to the nearby Buddha, quartz in granite.  Main site: fine dagaba, and Nissankalata Mandapa, curious pavilion of curved pillars – a la Bernini in Rome.  Inside the main dagaba: one Buddha has a slight bend of the neck.  The Big Book – they don't make 'em like that any more.  To the three Buddhas at Gal Vihara.  The seated and standing fine, but the reclining Buddha better.  To my right (we sit on the lava flow in front of the reclining Buddha), a man with a notebook is sketching.  A Frenchman (of course) says loudly and authoritatively that the statues should be cut out of the rock more by blasting away the cliff.

In the Rest House at  Polonnaruwa.  Magic site, jutting out into the lake.  Cool breeze – needed now the heat is at its height.  Earlier, we saw a five-foot water monitor (and another smaller) – very impressive lizard.  Here, the central old Brit Rest House, reminds me of the square dining room in Pokhara.  And here the same necessity of travail, suffering, to get here – true travel.  One of the (few) advantages of Sri Lanka's limited infrastructure.

A bumpy rid back to Giritale (Hotel Giritale), where we sit now, on the terrace, looking across the great tank. Islands dot the shimmering surface – now almost blinding with the reflected sun (5pm).  To the right a hill and a saddle, and in the distance two or three ranges of mountains (to the southwest).  From here there is not a single habitation visible: just thick forest and hazy hills.  Not as breathtaking as Penelokan, perhaps, but stunning in its perfection, nonetheless.  On the lake, tiny boats are fishing.  Smoke rises faintly from the other shore.

This is a good place to rest and take stock.  We have now "done" most of the antiquities: only Sigiriya eludes us, and that can wait if need be.  The Buddhas today were the highlight, possibly of the trip – especially since the reclining Buddha seems to be unique to Sri Lanka.  Now out on the balcony by the pool.  Cool evening breeze – smell of grass and greenery.  Grey ruddy skies as clouds come in from the west.  Tank dull pewter.  We are aware of the symphony of noises.

At dinner (fine fish from the tank, instead of chicken), room full of what I had been told were Thai pilgrims.  And indeed a few did look like monks – shaved heads, the typical oriental monk's glasses.  And suddenly I was sad at the thought of the genocide that was taking place in Tibet, and how in many ways Tibet is probably my ideal kingdom, and how I would now never see the reality of that amazing theocracy. Sad.

22.2.94 Sigiriya, Kandy

On the rock.  Stunning view, of course.  So green, and misty hills.  The painted ladies most impressive for the way they were created – on scaffolding.  Brilliant pale blue sky, wraith-like clouds on the horizon.  The birds below – teeming forests.  A bell sounds.

On the top.  Stairs rather rusty.  Gobsmacking view – miles and miles laid out before me.  The view to the south.  Men strimming the grass around me.  Lovely breeze, not sun.  Nice idea to enter through the lion.  Nice too the wasp's cage: if some wild wasps near here swarm, you get in the cage – fast.  Another problem for those who ascend.  

To the Hotel Suisse – for high tea – nice interior, but needs a view over the lake – which it hasn't.  The road got worse as we rose – dreadful.  Driving through Kandy, looks bustling, attractive city.  Our hotel is out of the city: cool, with great views, but an even worse road leading to it.  Cheese sandwiches for lunch – unimpressive.  We go down to Kandy, awaiting the cool of the evening before strolling.  There are more people here: reminds me of Marrakesh, on a smaller scale.  (Our hotel is actually very like Hotel San Jose that I stopped in: simple, whitewashed and airy.  But of necessity it lacks the magic of that place.)

Kandy is much more Indian in its bustle, noise and smells – nice, because far less threatening.  No beggars that I've seen.  Dusk – my favourite hour here.  The lights in the shops come on, the evening crowd surges, the day nearly done.  To Queen's Hotel for a sundowner – to try arrack.  Today has been a day of drinking: avocado (liquefied) for breakfast; tomberly (?) for lunch, and now this.  Cheap rum – watery, not too bad.  Birds circling overhead everywhere.    The red pillar boxes – some with George V on them.  [I have this crazy desire to go to Greece.  Now.]  To the Young Men's Buddhist Association Hall for the ABCDO Associates' Kandyan and Low Country Dancing.  

23.2.94 Kandy 

The dancing was, well, not so hot: five plumpish maidens without much grace – nothing compared to Bali, where such traditions live.  The music, though, had an energy, even if it was limited to 12/8 with variations.  Impressive was the final dance, with shimmering, tinkling headdresses.  The fire eating and walking too were not without interest.  But sitting in a YMBA hall full of fat videoing tourists does make me feel rather alienated, and the event rather artificial.  It will be interesting to see what the perahera is like. 

Slightly cloudy now, but patches of blue.  Coldish last night – we're at 1600 feet here.  To the Temple of the Tooth – searched on the way in.  Glorious Escher-like arrangement of galleries, altars, rooms, stairs.  Drummers play awhile. Great background music.  Flags = life - blue, yellow, red, white, orange.  In the library – octagonal, full of palm-leaf books and ordinary paper ones.  View of Buddhist temple and Catholic church.  Inside a temple – rich velvet hangings – flowers everywhere – billowing silk curtains – a Buddhist monk in orange and saffron tends the blooms.  Carpet on the floor – heaven for the feet.  A sign "No Entry Except on Business", in front of a gold Buddha.  Heaps of white; heady odour.  A man goes forward, touches flowers with both hands, raises hands in prayer to forehead.  A fan chugs overhead.

Upstairs to see the Tooth – on its covering – we join the queue to pass a little closer.  Huge mounds of flowers, people praying.  VJ, our driver, makes an obeisance.  People in front carrying flowers as offerings.  Colours and images everywhere.  A man at the door takes offerings.  Babies (tiny) brought here for blessing.  Through to another temple, behind the Tooth.  Buddha under fire – looks very Siamese.  Huge lotus forms, with elephant heads above them.  Paintings on the history of the Tooth.  The sound of finger cymbals outside.  Outside we are weak and stroke a young elephant.  Very curious the skin – rough and unnatural almost.  Lovely animal – makes poaching all the more barbarous.  

To the Peradeniya gardens – for a pot of tea.  Very hot now – sky completely clear. [Also strange on the young elephant – a few hairs left from babyhood.]  In the gardens – huge avenues of palm trees (hundreds), like a cathedral.  A tree full of huge black bats.  Screeching surrounds us.  Huge butterflies.  Back in the cafe.  Alongside trees, waving like something in a Van Gogh painting.  The contrast between sun and shade – heat and cool.  Earlier, a man offered a scorpion.  Er, no thanks.  Umbrellas much in evidence everywhere.  Common to see schoolchildren with them.  Best sight is Buddhist monk in flaming orange, and his open brolly.

What can one say about Hunas Falls?  Not a place you stumble on by chance.  An hour-plus journey, on a wavering road.  Strange, because we rose and rose but everything remained as verdant as ever – unlike Morocco or Kashmir, say.  The people the same, the men in dhotis, the women in fetching blouses – strange not to see more saris – the children their umbrellas.  The buses, lorries (Isuzu, Mata, Ashok Leyland), the tractors (Massey-Ferguson, Chinese monoptics).  And around us the verdant landscape, valleys and hills.  Only the presence of tea told us we were changing scene.

We sit by the restaurant, outside, waiting for tea.  We hear two cascades, roaring amid the foliage.  This place is rather, er, different.  It even has a helipad.  All the rooms face south-west, perfect for the sun and sunset (hoffentlich).  Service impeccable, rooms spacious and of a high standard (although – tut-tut – we had to ask for clean linen…).  Our room (#205) looks out onto the lake which feeds the falls as well as the deep hazy valleys in front.  This place is just so distant from things.

Around the lake – declining the notice offering rowing boats.  The sun like golden fire on the surface.  Huge bamboos around it, and a fine outcrop at the top bridge – a view otherwise very like the Lake District – just a little too lush, too many trees.  The moon in front of us, gibbous.  Our shadows on the rocks.  Round to the front of the hotel.  A concrete bench by three flag poles, their nylon cords clanking against the poles.  To the left, the hills in darkness; to the right, the hills turn to velvet. In front, the landscape turns to a mystical haze of forgotten valleys.  The sun turns watery yellow.  To the left, the trees on the skyline look like silhouettes – the tree of life in the wayang kulit.

The sun gradually turns orange.  Dogs bark in the village below, crows caw, other invisible birds twitter.  And I remember another sunset, in Egypt, as the great god Ra died again (must re-read "Egyptian Romance" sometime).  A strange yolk of a colour, the air cooling as the sun's rays lose the battle with the night.  In my eyes, the after image of a hundred suns (again).  As it passes into a thin cloud the sun seems elongated, then egg shaped.  Orange now.  The valleys turning grey-blue, the hills an indescribable post-impressionist melange of orange and green.  A red-hot globe of molten metal as if touches the trees on the hill.  A Chinese lantern.  Peaceful.  And yet, as so often, the final moments turn out not to be huge and glorious, but a thin crescent sinking into grey oblivion.  And yet this too is no real disappointment, partly because I have seen so many fine sunsets ("leaves fifty more"), and partly because I was not really looking for a perfect sunset.

This trip has been unusual in that it has not only been with a driver – one almost offended if we dare to change the itinerary – but also one planned out in detail by others.  It has been interesting to experience this, its pluses – not having to worry about hotels (and most have been full, with the exception of last night in Kandy) – and its minuses, like not choosing the type or positions of hotels.  Probably not an experiment we'll repeat, but worth trying.  

Fine after-sunset, bands of finest light-blue, yellow, dull orange, grey and mauve.

24.2.94 Kandy, Pinnawala

Early.  As the sun rises behind us, the tops of the mountains opposite are touched with pink.  The valleys below are full of thick clouds.  Last night there was a strange flickering light on our window: a firefly, its light pulsing with incredible brightness.  Then there were two, then none.  Later that night, moonset, amidst the mountains and clouds.  Around the lake.  Monkeys eye us suspiciously.  Pollywoggles in the water.  Everything so watered and green here.  The smell of cut grass, and lemon grass.  We are sad to leave – a good sign.

To the elephants' orphanage at Pinnawala – down to the restaurant by the river – shallow, fast flowing.  A breeze – but it's hot.  Passed several working elephants on the way, one dragging two huge logs.  A bit strong.  Below us a woman beats clothes on a rock. To the orphanage; for the feeding time of the babies.  Incredible tactile sensation, hairs like brushes, skin like some synthetic stuff, tiny pink tongues, appealing eyes; how could anyone want to destroy them?  The huge cries – even the tiny ones – you can get the sense of how terrible an adult in the wild would be.

25.2.94 Colombo

Terrible journey back.  Hot, dusty, lots of traffic.  Then last night, woken at midnight by scuttling.  Turned out to be a huge cockroach two to three inches long, not worse, thank goodness.  So, sleep broken.  Out to Kelaniya via the new Parliament building (dull).  Today is paya – full moon (hence the perahera here in Colombo – this paya is their perahera) – so the temple is full of white-robed visitors.  Nice to see the living temple.  The picture house rather fine on the outside – rich yellow sandstone, rounded dwarves and maidens – beautiful reclining Buddha inside behind a curtain (semi-transparent). A crush of people, many bearing flowers in offering – beautiful purple ones.  Incense everywhere, people praying.  Then to the river (dull) – in bare feet across dodgy road – not a good idea.  Procession led by drums, a chanting priest oscillating around three notes – almost Arabic.  Back to our lodgings.  Curd and treacle for pudding – yummy, fish to start.

Waiting for the perahera – without seats…  By the lake and the temple.  Gorgeous sunset behind.  All seating full since 4pm (it's now 6.20pm).  Saw odd elephant and troupes of dancers etc.  Thousands of people – and lots of troops (the other kind: they say the President will be here).  Whistles blowing everywhere.  An army of monks passes by – the prelude – and the relic.  We move twice, trying to see.  I am now sitting on top of a drain…  The whip crackers spin, scaring off the evil spirits.  Nasty whips.  Round where we were before by the TV cameras a (presumably sick) tusker stayed in a compound.  Standard bearers with the Buddhist flag.  Banners by the hundred.  Curious incense burners.  Shawms and drums – some musicians surprisingly old.  Conch blowers.  Serpentine horns.  

And here comes the elephant – the Thai tusker carrying the relic.  Legs chained, poor thing – blue covering.  A man follows with a shovel.  Fine ear coverings.  Another caparisoned in red.  A man with a shovel…  Dancers, princes, elephants with bells around their neck.  The heat from the braziers – even 15 feet away.  Lots of elephants, men in masks, men on stilts, in drag, with swords, spinning plates.  And what do the elephants think of it all…?  The more I see of elephants, the more miraculous they seem, with their oh-so-gentle proboscis.  And why do they have nails?  We have not seen the tusker, it seems.  The tusker lit up like a christmas tree (generator following), treading on white (silk?).  We go.

27.2.94 Kalutara

Yesterday, nothing – a true enough reflection in that we drove down here at 8am along the Galle Road – full of madcap buses – to the Sindbad Hotel.  And very nice it is too: open plan, on a spit of land between the sea and a river.  Not much beach – and that sharply shelving – but our room (#300) looks straight out at the sea – and is 30 yards from it.  Food good, if expensive.

So to the beach.  I finished "Running in the Family" – interesting and evocative, but so over-written.  Perhaps I'm just too caught up in my own style.  Now reading a book with Byron – "The Difference Engine".  Well written, well researched, nice premise, but rather bogged down in details – I feel quite please that the plot of "Doing the Business" moves so fast.  Gorgeous sunset last night: classical globe dipping into the sea, the breakers (which continued through the night) pounding the sands below us.

The end of a long, hot day.  We watch the sunset, the sun a perfect globe sinking into the mists that run along the endless horizon – one of the benefits of this place – the hugeness of the view – rare to see.  Excellent lunch – roaring hot curries that blew the top of my head off.  Drank coconut milk – the best we've had.  To my left, a lighthouse on an island.  Sunset not as fine as last night.  Many people gazing at it – touching this instinctive response to beauty, to declivity, we have.

2.3.94 Colombo

Our last full day here.  In our palatial lodgings.  High rooms, objets d'art, CDs of Vaughan Williams, Villa-Lobos – our terrifyingly cosmopolitan hosts.  The great fans swooping overhead, the hum of the air conditioning (great at night).  Went to a seafood restaurant last night – very good, surprisingly light.  Had Chinese dates and lotus buds.  Sindbad Hotel was a perfect relaxing end to a perfect holiday – archetypal sea, sand and sun.  Food good too (excellent sweets on Monday – fudges, watalappam and strange star-shaped mould dipped in batter then boiling oil – crunchy and salty.  And yet Sindbad was a little too perfect, too touristy, full of fat Germans and chain-smoking French.  Not like Singaraja etc.  

3.3.94 Colombo

Ha-ha – the usual fun and games.  Taxi doesn't arrive, so our host has to drive us to the airport.  Get here to find plane is delayed by three hours – so we miss our connection.  We have seats 2A and 2B – right next to Business Class smoking… 

4.3.94 Amsterdam

Er, still travelling… No flight possible last night, so taken to rather fine(ish) Holiday Inn Crowne Plaza near Schiphol.  Now waiting for 7.25am to London Heathrow.  The joys of travelling. [Note, though, that 2A and 2B turned out to be right at the front, under the pilots, and above the wheel...]

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