18.10.18 London Heathrow
Unusually, I write on a plane – a shiny new Aeroflot A331. Not like the previous Aeroflot plane – an old banger to Samarkand. But I'm on my way to another equally suggestive city: Yerevan. I'm flying to Moscow where I change. Still no direct flights from London to Armenia. Appalling.
And so I realise a long-held desire to visit the land of (almost) Ararat. In fact, I nearly went with the old Aeroflot, when Intourist offered incredibly cheap flights to get hard currencies. As well as Uzbekistan, I went to Moscow and Leningrad as was. On offer was Armenia and Georgia, and at the time I regretted not going. But my two recent trips to Georgia were probably far better, since I wouldn't have seen much with Intourist…
My path to this plane has been long and contested. Originally, I was going back to Georgia, but for various reasons that didn't happen. Just as well: on the day I was due to be in Georgia, I developed the first and thus worst toothache of my life – quite hard to eat, and needing constant painkillers. Would have ruined Georgia. I eventually got the tooth fixed by a new dentist – who, by chance, was of Armenian origin. She's good, and solved the pain, so here I am, surrounded by authentic-looking Russians – tractor-driver ladies (large), mafia-type men (sinister) and waif-like stewardesses (pretty).
Getting to Yerevan is fairly epic: four hours to Moscow, two-hour wait, then two to three hours to Yerevan, arriving at 6am. At the airport I need to get a SIM for my phone, and then a Rideways taxi should take me to Yerevan Ibis. This is very central, and very cheap – about £40 a night. Now waiting in Sheremetyevo. Huge place, quite lively for midnight – quite a few flights going out. Mine leaves at 2am. Striking that signs are in Russian and Chinese…
19.10.18 Yerevan
So here I am at last. In the Ibis hotel, eating a slight expensive (5000 dram) breakfast. But here. Managed to sleep for almost all of the three-hour flight down here – hard, but managed. Sadly, no vision of Ararat, even though I'd chosen my seat for this – still pitch black. Lots of stars though. Very long queue at passport control, but they let me through in 20 minutes. Case arrived, and then I bought a SIM – 2800 dram for 5 Gbytes – pretty cheap…
In retrospect, using Moscow as a hub for central Asia is obvious – can't think why I didn't use it before. Perhaps thinking back to the old Aeroflot planes… For example, they have flights to Almaty, Astana, Ulaanbaatar… lots of appealing places. Must check prices…
Driving in from the airport, the Armenian script looked wonderfully exotic – must learn the capital letters, which stump me too often. Lots of oriental-looking people here. Can't tell if they are central Asian, Koreans, Chinese...haven't heard speech yet. Sounds Japanese...makes sense, Armenia relatively close to Japan. Big party of them here.
After I had shaved, I felt vaguely human, and went out wandering in the glorious autumn sunshine. It was cold – 5°C – when I got off the plane, but the sun was moving the temperature up. First problem: the SIM I bought wouldn't work with my venerable mobile phone.
Down to Republic Square. Really impressive; spacious with towering buildings forming it. The use of stone here is really good. Lots of minivans offering trips to Lake Sevan et al. - but no prices. Time to haggle… Then up Northern Avenue. Swanky and culminating in the Armenian Opera Theatre, and Freedom Square. Along the way I went in to the main mobile company – U.com. It took two of them 20 minutes, but they eventually got my SIM working.
Now in the restaurant Lavash, on Tumanian Street. Eaten fried pork and potatoes: not bad – and very cheap (about £4). Opposite me in the Tumanian Sharwa – might try it another day. Back to the hotel for a quick kip, then out again, down to the river valley. And there it is, looming majestically in the afternoon haze – Mount Ararat. Great view from the church of St. Sargis – amazing stones that look almost edible in their variations of honey hue. Very characteristic Armenian style – shallow carving on the facade, tall narrow windows, tiny bell towers on the corners. Afterwards I took one of Yerevan's long, straight boulevards – Mashtots Paghota – aligned with Ararat.
Passed colourful market, and was able to change euros at a good rate. Then on for over a kilometre, past the opera house, and Khachaturian's statue, up beyond the ring road, almost to the Matenadaran, where I'll go tomorrow. Then right, back to Abovian Paghats. The contrast of Yerevan with Tbilisi is interesting. Yerevan is more sophisticated, but Tbilisi is more atmospheric. I think it goes back to the fact that Yerevan is a planned city, but Tbilisi is just layer upon layer. (Yerevan may be older, but little remains of that except Erebuni.) People seem better-off here, strolling along Northern Avenue, just as in Italy or Spain. Lots of top-end shops. Yerevan seems to have more money than Tbilisi, but I think Georgia's economy is doing better than Armenia's, probably because it is not isolated by war as Armenia is.
I'm really lucky (of course, in many ways) because Yerevan is celebrating its 2800th anniversary on Sunday. Lots of banners around. Be interesting to see what they do. Now out at supper. The good news: it's so mild I'm eating outside. The bad news: people smoke a lot, and in the restaurants. In Terian Street, in a small restaurant that looks quite original. Very popular, a good sign. Sadly, food was slow in coming and unbalanced – ah well. Tun Lahika – will give it a miss in future. But hard to believe I only arrived early this morning. Up to the top of the Cascades...reminds me of the weird Hoxha building in Tirana. Still hazy…
20.10.18 Yerevan
I sit at the feet of Mashtots, looking out at Ararat. Nice building – the Armenians are rather good at monuments. Fine manuscripts inside, including Middle Georgian manuscripts. Sunny, but hazy – pity about Ararat, but good for walking. To give my knee a rest, in to The Green Bean for Armenian coffee. Good stuff, and cheap at 500 dram. To the Museum of Russian Art. Amazing exhibition on Vrubel's "Demon and angel battling for Tamar's soul" – Lermontov's Georgian poem, of course. Amazing because of the restoration carried out on the torn, stolen art work. "Demon" read in the background – lovely atmosphere.
Into the crazy Cafesian Gallery. Sitting in front of the huge Battle of Vardanank by Grigor Khanjian. Central battle scene rather effective. Not wild about all the lifts here… Now in front of Sasuntsi Davit, by Artashes Hovsepian. Beautiful stone relief – something Armenians excel at. Interesting exhibition of Shadi Ghadinian – Iranian female photographer. Striking images under difficult conditions.
Back to Tumanian Street – lots of restaurants here; chose Lebanese for kebab. To the History Museum. Incredible wealth for such old stuff – hearthstones, huge vessels – all four to five thousand years old. Armenia clearly a hearth of humanity. Stunning funereal cart with four huge wheels… To the Urartu section. Incredible to see the inscription of Erebun – 782 BCE. Out of the museum into nearby Jazzve cafe for surch… I was exhausted after only one floor of the place – so much quality stuff to see.
Out early for dinner, as I expected things to be busy...and they are, even at this time. To Lavash, where I barely got a table upstairs. After the museum, to Vernissage. Huge – much bigger than Temple Street in Hong Kong. Lots of interesting stuff – and lots of tat, like £10 duduks, of which there are hundreds… T-shirts, jewels, carpets, chess sets, silverware, rings, scarfs, books (in Russian and in Armenian), kitchenware etc. And not a price in sight – haggling is order of the day here. I took a break from this by going to the city's cathedral. Which looks like a prison – big and blocky, with little that is graceful or spiritual. Such a contrast to the Holy Trinity church in Tbilisi, also new, so it shows it can be done. Then back to the market. Found a stall selling music, and haggled for two books for learning the duduk from 13,000 dram to 10,000 dram, so not bad.
Then, from the market, took a taxi back to the hotel – my knee is still complaining about the Cascades… Rather angry driver listening to Russian pop music, got me back for 1000 dram – about £1.30, so pretty cheap. Will probably take them again.
Just had a good soup with yoghurt and buckwheat. Took a glass of Armenian wine - £2. Waiting for beef now. Which turned out to be beef and beans cooked inside a pumpkin – absolutely wonderful. Red wine not bad, not quite as punchy as Georgian wine.
21.10.18 Yerevan
An unusual morning. Now in Artbridge Bookstore Cafe – seems the Yerevan equivalent of Prospero's Bookshop in Tbilisi. I had originally planned to go to the National Gallery this morning. But the weather today is sunny, while tomorrow will be cloudy, so I decided to go to Khov Virap in the hope of seeing Ararat. The question then: how to get there, and how to pay. There were to taxis outside Ibis hotel. I spoke to the driver of one, a typical young Armenian. We agreed after haggling on 10,000 dram – about £7. I got in the back. Seat belts stuck behind the seats. This was a big problem, because he drove like a maniac. After we established Russian as our best mode of communication, I asked him to stop, and sat in the front seat, which had a seat belt. He didn't wear his. Then we stopped for gas – not petrol, but LPG (I assume). This is held in a large tank in the boot. The man filling it up told me to stand back – "опасно". Great. Then we hared off to the site.
The journey interesting, if hardly attractive. Dry, dusty, sere landscape – like Tbilisi/Turkey, only poorer. Lots of old Soviet infrastructure, struggling to work. Everywhere those strange pipes – the same I saw in Stepantsminda – gas supplies. Thanks to his speeding – at about 120 km/hour – we soon reached our destination. Still rather hazy, alas, although at least I was closer to Ararat. Must be stunning on a clear day. Didn't bother going to the church, which is no match to many others. Saw a sheep with a red ribbon – not a good sign, I fear – I think it means a sacrifice. Then back to Yerevan. But given we were in the right part of the city, I decided to go to Erebun. After all, today is being celebrated as the 2800th anniversary of its founding. In fact, I saw the inscription in cuneiform yesterday. Zipped around museum (free today), then climbed hundreds of steps (aaargh) to the top.
Very impressive – huge, well-preserved walls. Lots of rooms visible. Reminded me of Knossos, but even better preserved. Roughly contemporary, too, I think. In fact the remains of the walls so high and steep I found it impossible to get down, except at the main entrance. Lovely views of the city, too, although not exactly beautiful. Amazing the history of this place – prehistoric and Urartan. I was there about 40 minutes, so taxi driver not very pleased. I'd agreed 14,000 dram, but ended up giving 15,000 dram to keep him happy. He wasn't.
To the National Gallery, which confusingly is in the same building as the National Museum. As usual, you begin at the top, which means a ride in a very ricketty Soviet lift. Not much special here, except Hakob Hovnatanian (1806-1881). Born and worked in Tbilisi. Lots of fine portraits, if a little repetitive. A room full of Hovhannes Aivazovsky (1817-1900), including "The Darial gorge"...wonder if he went there. Probably. Also "Noah descending from Ararat" by the same artist. Majestic painting of Ararat by Gevorg Bashinjaghian (1857-1925). Simple, but effective. Also of Kazbeg and Daryal gorge. Nice view of Ararat by Yegishe Tadevosian (1870-1936) viewed from Echmiadzin. "Old Tiflis" by Panos Terlemezian (1865-1941).
After the gallery I went to the Republic Square, saw the marching bands. Sat in the garden by Italy Street, had a coffee. And then I had a problem: most of the square was closed off by the police – I assume some bigwig was coming (the mayor?). Luckily, I saw an Armenian man arguing with the police, who finally let him through – so I and several others joined the group to cut across the blockade. Later, I sat nearby Vernissage, reading emails.
Heavy beats filled the air – Yerevan2018 celebrations in full swing. I decided to eat early to avoid the crowds gathering for the celebration that night. In Mamoor, which has good reviews, very near. Nice pumpkin soup..slight spoiled by people smoking here, which is common… One striking thing about the National Gallery: every room had at least one attendant, but there were only four of us looking at the pix…
22.10.18 Yerevan
Back in the Lebanese for lunch – it's slightly damp outside, and I didn't want to wander. Since most museums are closed today – à la France – out to Geghard monastery. First, find a taxi and haggle. Went with an old geezer for 10,000 dram. No seat belts in back, so I moved to the front again. Old, gas-powered car. Interesting bloke. Born in Tbilisi, Russian teacher by profession (we spoke in Russian), but now driving taxis to support his daughter and grandson, who bore his name – Yura. Life obviously hard, since was about my age.
Lovely drive to Geghard monastery – climbing, looked like Georgia (no surprise). No traffic about, although a few coaches at the site – Russians mostly, plus a group of French. Impressive church, gleaming and unusual – inside, a cave. On the outside of the main church, graffiti from the 1840s – reminds me of Egypt…
Then back via Garni. Temple fab, but rebuilt. Interesting it exists here, of course. But for main thing was the fantastic views of Garni valley. I only heard about this place a few months ago, when I watched a YouTube video of this crazy Russian bloke recording his drive to Garni through Georgia – which is how I came across it.
Drive back into Yerevan a bit hair raising – driver moved across junction as cars from right stormed away – narrowly avoided impact. But otherwise a great trip. Gave him 10,000 dram plus 2,000 for his grandson… Forgot to mention: Yura has travelled everywhere in ex-Soviet Union – Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Russia. Big advantage of a common market.
Sitting in Khachaturian's house. Not much to see – lots of concert programmes, a few scores. Best bit is the part he lived in – had that old person's smell. Beautiful portrait of him conducting in London (Abbey Road Studios?). But overall impression is one of sadness…
Back in the Green Bean – has a nice vibe, and I need coffee and pud. Everyone's smoking – no wonder: I saw packets cost just £1 for 20 cigarettes. Then to Vernissage again. On to see poor Griboyedov's statue. Never heard of him six months ago, but now I feel I've known him for ages. Poor chap. Nearby, huge concrete monstrosity – reminded me of Albania… On the metro. Had to see what it was like. Small, undistinguished, not deep like Tbilisi. Back to Republic Square, then walked down Italy Street across to supermarket. Need to buy some Ararat cognac and good wines. Got them, then grabbed a taxi for 1000 dram.
For dinner, thought to try Tumanyan Shaurma. Disappointing – food not very appetising. Hope it doesn't do anything serious to my guts.
23.10.18 Yerevan
Sitting at the Marriott in Republic Square. Lovely warm autumn morning. Alas, still hazy, so the view of Ararat still tantalisingly partial. Took a taxi to the Genocide Memorial. Very fine – that Armenian monumentality again. The huge slabs of rock serving the architects well. No one else there, as it should be for the best appreciation. The flickering flame down in the well, the flowers - carnations – laid around its border. Very simple, very effective.
It is very strange. I have been longing to come to Armenia for 40 years – I regretted not taking the Intourist Armenia and Georgia package. But in the end, better thus. Then, they were poor and oppressed. Now, both are free and happy places. I feel at home in both. Almost more here, because the language is easier. I think I know why Yerevan feels so different from Tbilisi: it is a very compact, homogeneous city. Tbilisi is spread out, with different parts that don't hang together. That said, Tbilisi's old quarter is not matched by anything here in Yerevan. And Georgia's scenery is more majestic. However, Yerevan's museums are much better…
Took taxi back to Republic Square for coffee in Marriott café – what a shrewd move to buy this building – location, location, location. Lovely sunshine. Then walked to Museum of Modern Art. Hard to find – hidden on a side street in nondescript building. Quite interesting. Overall tone: rather sad and depressing… Then to Artbridge Bookstore Café. Empty. To hotel for a quick kip – tonight is going to be long and tiring. Managed to book window seats.
Where to finish? Went to the museum dedicated to Spendiarian – not a name I'd come across before. No one else there. Now sitting in Republic Square, the only place to end the day. Dark storm clouds looming to the south, a few drops of rain.
After last night's disappointing food, only one place possible: Lavash, where I reserved a table to make sure. Will eat a fair amount to keep going during the night since Aeroflot food is not great… Eating aveluk soup and ghapama erzurum – which I had before. So good, I want it again...plus wine (I will have two glasses tonight...)
More destinations:
26.5.88 Hong Kong
I write this sitting on the Star Ferry. The humidity is 98%. Opposite, Hong Kong island lays wreathed in low cloud, obscuring the new tall skyscrapers. I cannot believe that I am really here.
The flight was marred by the fact that I was unable to secure a window seat, so I couldn't watch the world go by. I cannot understand the mental dwarfs who can pass up the chance. They seem happy enough to sit in a metal tube for 24 hours, watching movies. While outside, Asia slips by. Morons.
The landing was one of the bumpiest I have had – it took two approaches because of the heavy rain. Hong Kong was hidden in very low clouds; it looked like a miserable English winter's afternoon. But stepping outside the airport terminal showed me my error. It was a huge, hot, enveloping bath.
The taxi drive from the airport to my hotel was fascinating. The flats near the airport looked like something out of Bladerunner: old, decayed, sinister. Great ribbons of roads cut through them: the car was very much king here. Surprisingly, the Hong Kong drivers were very restrained – little honking of the horn, with only the taxi drivers really aggressive. The interior of the car struck very chill – the ubiquitous air conditioning was on full blast.
The driver spoke little English. He had his radio on, which was Hong Kong pop music, noticeable for the refrains in English. The Chinese language used for the continuity sounded musical: I wondered how they managed the pitch variation when singing. The traffic was bad, but it all seemed of a piece with the thick rain, the dense air, and the drab surroundings.
Nearer the harbour, things changed. We started winding down narrow streets festooned everywhere with huge signs and neons, mostly in Chinese ideograms. Then we arrived at the hotel, near the harbour facing Hong Kong island, quite flash – roughly three star.
Then on to the Star Ferry – the wrong one, as it turns out, heading across to Wan Chai, not Central, which I see rear away from me. It all looks very spectral: the skyscrapers, far more varied than in New York, with this heavy veil of mist hanging over them, and just visible behind them a hill of surprising greenness.
I walk back along to Central – through another boring part of Hong Kong, mostly building sites, then take the metro at Admiralty back across to Kowloon. I pass beyond my stop and get out at Jordan Street. The Rapid Transit system is impressive. Fully automated with credit card type tickets, the trains are built in Britain – Metro-Cammell or some such – are spanking new, clean, etc. Also reasonable prices. Up by Jordan I get lost wandering west instead of south. Things get less and less Western and more and more intimidating. I felt very alien there, as in Harlem, though it was nowhere near so bad as there.
On the way back to the hotel I stumble across the Beijing restaurant in Granville Road. A slap-up meal, and far more than I can cope with. The waiters rather supercilious; I get this feeling from the Hong Kongers generally. There seems to be no enormous amount of love lost between them and Brits. Shadow of '97 perhaps…? I pass Mody Road on the way home. Back to the hotel for a kip. My body still thinks it's 8 in the morning. The room is freezing thanks to the air conditioning.
Out in the afternoon on the right Star Ferry. The skyscrapers really are very appealing - unusual shapes, surfaces, all crowding down to the shore. Perhaps it is the latter fact which makes them aesthetically more pleasing than in New York. (Believe it or not, Vivaldi's "Four seasons" is playing. O culture clash…) It is ironic that the best view is from Kowloon: the view from these grand buildings is rather dull.
The ferries are very cheap: about HK$1. There are actually two classes: upper and lower deck. The seats tip forwards and backwards, saving the boat from needing to turn around. What a job going back and forth tens of times a day. This ferry takes me straight to my goal: the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank headquarters, designed by Mr Foster. It is rather grand, but a rather surprising dull grey colour. Vague forms move inside. Walking under it reveals a secret: it is hollow to the roof. For all its differences, it does remind me of the Lloyds building – here other buildings cluster around it, as with Boston's financial district.
I sit in Statue Square, and watch the big double deckers – again, built in Britain – as well as the dinky trams. I take the Rapid Transit system to Wan Chai, then walk east. It feels very alien, with the buildings getting tackier, the shops poorer. I saw one block of flats about 20 stories high – but only one dwelling wide – crazy. Cars, mostly Japanese, zoom everywhere; they seem fairly tolerant of pedestrians. It is queer walking along all these pukka-named streets. A schizophrenic place.
I walk out along Hennessy Road, and back along Lockhart Road – the "girlie bar" district. But it is all very mild. I get the impression that Hong Kong is quite repressed, though I expect there are some rougher areas if you know where to look. Then back on the Wan Chai ferry, the air cooling (slightly), and the evening growing surprisingly dark for only 7pm. It is quite a contrast to Skye last week which remained equally light until 10pm. It just goes to emphasise the old latitude thing. And also the fact that I have got about in the last two weeks. All in all, the humidity – up to 99% according to the news – was quite bearable. I was conscious of a thin film of sweat on my face, but nothing pouring off. The strangest part is breathing: you cannot quite catch your breath as you can with clean, cold air; it is like inhaling foam rubber.
27.5.88 Hong Kong
I take up my pen for the first time today, which otherwise has been spent wandering with two free hands. But now I am moved to write by the sight before me. I am sitting on the brushed steel rail which runs along the promenade on Kowloon, just south of Chatham Road. Behind me is a great hulking block, but in front lies a totally magical Hong Kong. The air is now marvellously clear – a gibbous moon and a few stars visible – so the Christmas tree lights opposite shine with a hard brilliance.
To the left, the upmarket blocks of flats of Causeway Bay. Their lights orange compared to the harsh white strip lighting of the office blocks. Then the huge neon signs blaze: Toshiba, Salem, Excelsior, Sing-a-ling Club, Citizen, YKK, NEC, Ricoh, Fuji, Polaroid, Hitachi, Goldstar, C&W, Canon – a galaxy of multinationals in their reds, greens, whites and blues. Then on to Central and the financial district, quiet now except, perhaps, for the cleaners. Further west, more neons. Above is the peak, with pearls of lights marking the hill.
Ferries, pleasure boats, tugs and crazy-looking junks sail past. A huge air conditioning unit blasts behind me. As my eyes grow used to the light, the few clouds glow in the moon's rays. A tug is pulling a massive floating structure (a crane?) towards me, slowly, almost imperceptibly.
I have cheated by coming back to the Beijing restaurant in Granville Road. The food was so good, and the place so obviously patronised by the Chinese, that it seemed wilful to go elsewhere. Everyone just as surly, but an iota more helpful.
The day began with difficulty: I slept well considering I am seven hours out of kilter, but my body was reluctant to rise. After breakfast I booked a trip to Guangzhou in mainland China tomorrow: there is only a limited amount of wandering I can do in Hong Kong.
Then I walked up Nathan Road, taking the Rapid Transit to reach up to Sham Shui Po. Just outside the entrance is the Golden Arcade – where all the famed software copies come from. It was rather disappointing from the outside – and inside was pretty quiet too. As well as computer equipment, there were plenty of other trinkets. I was confused at first, since all the top software appeared to be there are manuals – but paperbacks. Eventually, I twigged: these were pirated printed copies; discs were either in the back of the book, or given out later. So far as I could tell, prices translated to around £1-2 per disc. All the latest stuff was there, all copy protection removed. I watched in amazement as an urchin sat there copying further discs.
Back to the hotel, across on the Star Ferry to Central. I went into the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank headquarters. Not as impressive inside as out – almost too successfully subtle. But neat. Then on the Peak tram to the top. Implausible ride at a very steep angle. Mostly seems to be drawn up by counterbalancing tram on the way down. At the top, plenty of tacky shops. The view from the observation platform was pretty impressive, though. I ate upstairs in the restaurant where the sight was even better. I watched plane after plane take off and land. The hills behind Kowloon were still shrouded in mist – an apt metaphor for what lay behind.
Down via the Peak tram again – it's too humid for heroics, even going downhill - and then on to a normal tram. I went along to Causeway Bay, and the park there. The latter is pretty impressive, mostly given over to football pitches and idiots with toy boats, engines squealing all the while. A wander though the Mayfair of Hong Kong, into one of the big Japanese department stores – nought special. Then back to the hotel.
27.5.88 Shekou, China
Shekou, at the museum of the terracotta warriors from Shaanxi, but only a few are there. The shop at the museum has that empty forlorn air, like those in Moscow. Lots of bikes everywhere, plus Japanese cars. It all looks like a showcase city – new and gleaming, with surprisingly modern architecture. The museum itself is rather poor – just emblematic. The vegetation is lush. On the way here, the coastline reminded me of the odd mountain in a Chinese scroll painting. To the kindergarten. Fairly obvious propaganda visit – smiling kids, gleaming buildings. Shekou is an artificial town, drawing in people from all over China. Could it be a privilege? Kindergarten hours 7.15am – 6pm. There are beds, naturally.
Outside, traffic lights are ignored. They are horizontal in design, not vertical. Then to the market. I love the smell of markets – the fish, the meat. The food looks relatively good here. The presentation is very good – especially the vegetables. Noticeable the use of Roman alphabet for cachet – even Western goods. It will be interested to see how this all compares with further in.
Canton centre. Special bicycle lanes here – there are two million bikes for four million people in Canton. Tree lined streets, building sites everywhere. Far more skirts here – even miniskirts, frilly petticoats etc. No guns. More old buildings. No private cars, but big articulated buses with women drivers. No air conditioning. More traditional architecture. All police and officials very young. Girls in shorts. Ads on hoardings. Arcades as in Turin. Also like India. TV aerials pointing towards Hong Kong.
To the top of Liurong Temple (nine stories – I sweat at last). The view shows a fairly nondescript but very large city of tower blocks – and yet more construction sites. A few patches of very green trees; this is a fertile land. The Pearl river is bright yellow, from the rains presumably. Earth around here is bright red.
China Hotel, near the station is very large and very bustling. Marble everywhere, over the top chandeliers. There is even a palm court orchestra – which immediately makes me aware of the actual distance I have travelled. And it makes me homesick. Army officers in reflective shades and trainers. Water buffaloes – but not in the street, as in India. The queerest vehicles: engine open to the winds, monoptic, like a tractor with steering pole. An old design apparently. BP, Volvo here. Coke everywhere. Smoking not as widespread as in The Gambia, say. Everyone so young.
Guangzhou station – once upon a time, I imagine this could have been sinister. Now it just feels third world à la New Delhi. Again, all the functionaries look like teenagers. At the door of each carriage, a young lady to check our tickets. Inside, quite civilised – all pale colours – and the omnipresent Marlborough ads. As ever, the magic of trains wafts over me: I feel this is the real way to enter Hong Kong.
After the meal at Dong Guang Hotel – good but not as good as my Hong Kong meals – we went to Canton zoo. I dislike zoos: the sense of animals imprisoned, their lost natural dignity. Seeing big cats pace, "als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe", mad with their incarceration. Seeing monkeys, such clear relations to us; seeing pandas, like great, heavy, sad people. What was ironic was that as Westerners, we were scrutinised even more closely by the Chinese. Curious beasts indeed. To the Liurong Temple again. The smell of incense – brings back memories of the mosques. Behind the tower, three enormous and impressive Buddhas, gilt and impassive.
China will be good when they finish it.
30.5.88 Sanur, Bali
I have stood on the seashore of many lands, but never before here in Bali. Writing the word feels strange: as even I am assailed by utter disbelief that I am really here. Somewhere, deep inside me, I feel I am still in London, that this is some amazing backdrop, complete with huge humidity, and that if I wanted to, I could turn the corner and find myself back home.
Standing by the pounding sea, I am reminded again of "Dover Beach", and those perennial questions. I think of memory, and my Walks with Lorenzetti. It seems to be one of my central problems: how can we hold experiences – that is, hold on to life itself? Same thoughts on the plane from Hong Kong: perhaps one reason why divorce is so disturbing is that it represents a fragmentation of shared memories, a deracination. Lose your other half – significant words – and lose your life. But what about death? How can we face death, holding all these memories – or not? Particularly since death so often seems to be a process of degradation of selfhood. I would maintain (currently) that the only hope is to preserve memories in some (semi-)permanent form. And I think Proust is wrong: involuntary memories are not enough, simply because they are involuntary, and so cannot be called up at will – when you need them.
Bali smells different.
31.5.88 Sanur
I rise at 6.15am – the day starts early. A wander along the beach, the sun already warm. Alit's Beach Bungalows are surprisingly attractive: lots of native touches, the bungalows arranged randomly here and there, greenery everywhere, lovingly tended by armies of men in neat sarongs. After breakfast, to the beach in front of the Hotel Bali Beach – a monstrosity, but by the best sand. The rest of the beach is tastefully developed: the other hotels mostly bungalow types, all surrounded by neat lawns and trees. The weather is quite strange. The sky is full of large clouds which tend to vaporise as they go along. There is a very pleasant breeze which mitigates but does not entirely hide the fierce heat of the sun. The sea is warm, with some quite big breakers.
I sit now in the Mango bar and restaurant. For some reason, early Beatles blares over some hefty speakers; it seems oddly appropriate. There are very few people around, despite what my taxi driver said – he clearly thought that any tourists were too many. Ditto the restaurant, which is quite forlorn with the music.
I have begun to appreciate the terrible power – and prison – that is money. Everything here is so cheap for me, it is almost not worth haggling. But to pay so easily is almost an insult to the people. Little girls come along offering postcards and model prahus, with their characteristic outriggers – the latter for a dollar. It seems churlish to refuse them what is for me so little, for them so much. Money isolates you; it is a prison for the vast mass of humanity.
5pm. Because the sun sets so early, the late afternoon in Bali is tinged with a gentle, rather English melancholy. To match this melancholy, I am drinking tea – without milk or sugar – at La Taverna bar. Above me, nine long curved banners crack in the wind on their bamboo poles; reminds me of the battle scenes in "Potop", my favourite epic Polish film. Kites are flying too: the strong sea breeze is perfect for them.
Looking out east, I see the islands to the south, and north I am shocked to see a huge peak rising up out of the clouds. At first I think it is Lombok, but then I realise it is Agung, the great volcano which erupted violently 25 years ago. It looks pretty damn impressive in the clear blue – but hazy – sky. The sea, now far out, roars distantly.
Leaving my chill air-con room to walk into the great warm wet blanket of the night is a crazy experience. It is now just gone 10pm. The cicadas, inevitably, whirr. I am sitting outside on the veranda of my bungalow – mercifully, there seem to be few mosquitoes (famous last words). I have spent the last two hours down on the beach, which is a total, and unutterably wonderful cliché. After eating in a restaurant on the beach with a baby gamelan (too few gongs), I wandered out on to the beach. The moon was full (it was a festival last night), and scattered its light like aluminium foil on the sea. It was so bright you could have read by it. The wind shook the palm trees, the pennants I had sat under earlier shivered in the breeze. Magic.
Even though Sanur is Bali's second tourist centre, it is relatively unspoilt. Sure, people try to sell you stuff, but are quite good humoured when you say "no". The gaily coloured prahus are functional, not just decorative. If this is developed Bali, it augurs well for the undeveloped parts.
2.6.88 Tintagangga
It is probably entirely appropriate that I should visit Tenganan first on my trip round Bali, driving in an air-con jeep. This is supposedly the real, old Bali. It is a village built on the side of one of the lush forested hills – the road up was pretty murderous. Inside the walled town there are four or so rows of houses, interspersed with long open halls, familiar from other cultures. Bamboo gamelans play, hundreds of cocks shriek, swarms of dragonflies flash by. There are curious wooden Ferris wheels, the like of which I have never seen. Four single or double hanging seats, whirled around by hand. Kites are flown by kids, mangy dogs snooze in the shade. It feels pretty real, despite the signs of English, the café and the TV aerial. Two girls carry huge piles of coconuts on their heads – many, many pounds. The village street moves up in broad steps, in terraces. Most houses are thatched, with wood, stone and brickwork.
The palace at Amlapura. Ruins mostly, but noble ruins. Great cracks in the brickwork, plants growing up everywhere. But it looks like the backdrop to some enchanted tale. Opposite, a huge tree – bigger than an oak, with dead creepers falling from its branches.
More ruins at Ujung – the water gardens. These too have an unearthly air about them, like Mayan temples. The forest seems to be gradually claiming the land back. Agung lies shrouded in a heavy cloud; out to sea I can just make out Lombok. There are tiny clumps of people toiling here; why? Growing rice? Hopelessly trying to stem the rot?
I sit now in the balcony bar of my hotel in Tirtagangga (sounds strangely aboriginal). A refreshing breeze blows. Before me, the water palace, around lush rice fields and coconut trees; further, the sea. Everywhere the tinkling of water – a Balinese Villa d'Este. The hotel is the Kusuma Jaya Inn, brilliantly situated right on top of the water gardens. 7000 Rp., including breakfast – about £2.40.
"Driving in Bali" – hardly a best-seller title. The traffic near Denpasar was pretty bad, many lorries, narrow roads. Further out, things are quieter, but the road gets dodgier. The air-con is a boon. I switch it off occasionally when it gets too cold, but soon break into a sweat. The jeep handles rather oddly, and has practically bald back tyres. I passed several temples on the way but restrained myself in the knowledge that there were many more. I did miss the bat cave, but can probably survive it.
Klungkung was interesting. Its main street had a kind of two-tier arcading, wood-faced. Then into Candi Dasa for lunch. Quiet but cheerful, with relatively tasteful losmen (hostels) along the road. At the splendidly-named Bugbug, a tiny village past Candi Dasa, a spectacular view down a river valley to the sea hemmed in by abrupt hills. (Also a good view east of Klungkung: a big girder bridge over the river Yeh Unda). A huge fish blinks darkly in the pool to my left; beyond, there are lily pads. After Tenganan and Amlapura, down to Ujung, then to here.
3.6.88 Tirtagangga
Definitely different here. First, the room. Obviously once had a mandi (a large tank of water used for washing yourself), now there is a WC, but the tank is still there. Cold water only – great for the shower. Electricity only came on at 6pm, a thin wavering light. Mosquito wire netting, then shutters. The room is very bare: A low wooden bed, no real mattress – rather like the takhta of Uzbekistan. Tiled floor. During the night, a mad chorus of frogs. Their regular beat overlapped, producing a surreal kind of Steve Reich-like phasing music. The sound itself was like a wood block. Also the inevitable cicadas – and the bleedin' howling dogs.
Before supper, a long walk down to the next village. The rush of water from rice field to rice field, luxuriant. The next village regarding me suspiciously, people sitting around in the evening; I wonder what they do day in, day out? Everywhere, stalls selling Coca Cola: if anything remains of Western civilisation after Armageddon, it will be a Coke bottle.
On the road, first to Candi Dasa, in the hope of a sunbathe, but the tide was in. So to Bebandem, Silietan, then Sibetan, Selat, Bangbang, Rendang to Besakih. These felt very off the beaten track. And yet the houses were all very solid – there seems no grinding poverty here. And even the smallest children in the smallest village know "hello". On the lonely steep road to Besakih, the jeep's engine starts cutting out. My heart thumps. I get there, but my confidence has been shaken. I sit in the restaurant very near to the Besakih temple, with a stunning view over a simple bridge in a deep valley, trees rising up the steps.
The temple at Besakih itself was inscrutable. Only followers of the faith were allowed into the innermost courts; from the outside everything seemed thatched pagodas and covered areas. Hardly Westminster Abbey stuff. Ridiculous though it may sound, my main discovery there was the salak fruit. This has a mottled external appearance, cracked open to reveal white segments like a garlic clove. The texture is hard and crunchy – and the taste something like a pineapple, but milder. Totally addictive. Also tried mangosteen, not so impressed. Fruit is very cheap and plentiful here – no surprise.
Turning up from Peleluan after Klungkung – I went the long way since I no longer trusted the car – I hit a traffic jam of a kind. It was a cremation procession. Earlier in the day I had passed several other funerals, but this one looked bigger. At first I tried to get past, but hearing the siren call of the gamelan, I got out and started recording.
After the traditional fooling of the spirits by charging hither and thither, the long procession was led off by a huge palanquin with the body. It was around 20 feet high, and decked out in the brightest, gaudiest colours. It was carried shoulder-high on stout bamboo poles. Behind came other objects on poles. At the back were the gamelan players, striking as they moved their cymbals, gongs and metallophones. They played more or less the same piece all the time, pausing slightly only to allow traffic past.
The procession moved up around 1.5 miles, until it finally cleared the village boundary. These are marked, as is the entrance, by a pair of stately pillars, ornamented in the characteristic Balinese fashion. Then the cortège turned into a field. There two bamboo structures stood. The gamelan stopped playing, and like bands the the world over, the players had a drink and a fag. Meanwhile preparations were being made to transfer the body from the palanquin to a Pegasus-like dragon, which had been carried up and now stood under one of the bamboo structures. A bamboo ladder was placed against the palanquin, and the body carried across to the compartment in the Pegasus. The gamelan had by now decamped. Preparations continued in wrapping up the body, making offerings, breaking pots and much more.
Then another group arrives, bearing a black bull, plus another huge palanquin. Rather dramatically this nearly topples and falls several times – it requires a good 30 men to carry it and right it when it starts to wobble. The same process is then gone through with the body conveyed on this palanquin. There seems to be a new gamelan, which has arrived with this – or it is maybe the old one, I wasn't sure: they all look the same to me... Anyhow they did not stop once they got here, but played on and on, the piece repeated hypnotically over and over again. Finally, the great moment arrived. First one pyre, and then the other, was set ablaze. The air danced around them, and soon all the finery was charred tatters.
During all this, the increasing number of tourists, drawn like vultures to carrion, behaved abominably. Apart from treating the whole thing as if were a display for them, sitting on the pyres and generally photographing everything, their persons were offensive enough. Men with huge paunches perched precariously atop ugly, ill-fitting shorts; fat women with white varicose-veined legs. The Balinese must despise us – and rightly so.
Then on to Penelokan.
4.6.88 Penelokan
Penelokan is reached by a long, long road which is up all the way. On either side it is green and fertile. Nothing prepares you for the top: happily there are no glimpses to spoil the effect. You drive into Penelokan, swing round on to the main drive, and there before you is the most spectacular view in the world.
Penelokan sits on the rim of a volcano which exploded and collapsed in ancient times, leaving a huge caldera several miles across. A new core has formed – still active – and there is a huge shimmering lake to one side, which forms a blue crescent. On the face of the volcano stump, solidified lava flows can be seen – one has cut into a hill of vegetation. The ridge of peaks stands out like a sawtooth – it reminds me of Sligachan on Skye. The whole effect also recalls Dal lake and the surrounding mountains. It is totally breathtaking.
I write this on the very top of Mount Batur, in the middle of the caldera. The view is stupendous: the lake curves away in front of me, Lombok is visible mightily in the distance, the lava flows glower around me – and disconcertingly steam issues from the rocks of the inner core. From my central position, I get a feeling for the massive nature of the eruption. Terrifying…
Ascent was bad enough: much of the ground was what looked like cinders – which is what it was – but razor sharp. Nearer the top, the path grew vertiginously steeper and dustier. But the descent was worse, with the land shifting under the feet.
After the descent, I drove on to Air Panas, the hot springs. These were rather disappointing, so after some prevarication, I decided to drive further along this road to the caldera's opposite rim. Apparently from here there was a fine view down to the east coast. Alas, despite trying two roads, I could not find it. Perhaps this is as it should be: every such visit should leave loose ends for next time. Then back along the road past Kedisan, and up the steep road to Penelokan. Here my poor jeep really laboured; I had visions of being trapped in the caldera – perhaps not such a terrible fate. But finally up to Penelokan, where I ate in the same losmen where I had stayed. Then on the road.
As I ascended even higher along the rim, the weather drew in. Descending the long winding road the other side, I found the weather unimproved. It was quite cold – as it had been during the night, and on the exposed summit of Mount Batur. Everywhere naturally very green; but more than that, everywhere looked very, well, suburban. Partly this is because Bali is quite densely populated in certain areas: village gives on to village. The houses are well-built for the most part, of bricks and stone, with panes in the windows. But more than that, their gardens are alive with colour. If I knew more about gardening, I might recognise them as varieties from Surrey gardens. In any case, they are all well-tended - or seem to be: perhaps the climate does it all. But it is the flowers that make Bali look so comfortable compared, say, to rural India.
5.6.88 Singaraja
Up at dawn and down to the beach at Singaraja, near where I am staying. An overcast sky covering the sea with a silver sheen. Because of the reef there are no waves; on this calm, mill-pond surface the prahus hovered like pond-skaters.
After dinner, back to the beach. Again the prahus are out on the water, visible by their lamps. They look like Chinese lamps strung out on a line. Lightning flashes far out to sea, huge silent illuminations of clouds. Overhead the night so clear you can see deep into our galaxy, which always terrifies me. Two shooting stars.
6.6.88 Singaraja
In to Singaraja early. A local policeman very understanding when I drove down a one-way street the wrong way. On the beach all day, with hazy sky and clouds but the same deadly rays.
At the end of the day, tea on my balcony. It is amusing how soon we impose little structures on the day in faraway places. Afterwards I watch the sunset from the beach. Spectacular: although the sun is obscured, its glorious reds and pinks are picked up by high clouds all around me. As the sun sets, the boats with their lamps set out. One interesting thing about this coast: fisher people live on the beach in huts, and ply their trade directly with nets and prahus.
North lies Borneo, and I think I see Java to the East: this is the end of the world.
7.6.88 Singaraja
The morning overcast, with high cloud. I decide to drive back a day early. The stay here has been a perfect antidote to easy Sanur, and the rigours of Penelokan. The drive up into the hills is interminable; second gear most of the way. Lush landscape around me. I drove through the quaintly-named Gitgit, then on, past a sight of Lake Buyan. Finally down to Lake Bratan. The temple Ulun Danu at Candikuning was serenely beautiful. Constructed down to the lake in the characteristic pagoda style, two of the temple's courtyards were actually islands. Very peaceful here – until a school-party of kids turn up. These seem much more Westernised and street-wise – from Denpasar?
I decided to go out on the lake. I hired a canoe with a paddler, and we pushed off. Lake Bratan turns out to be much bigger than it looks. The sun went in and the boat's seat grew harder. Over the other side, the vegetation is extraordinary: the sheer walls are thickly covered with greenery, even though they seem almost vertical. Very rich land around.
Then on the road, all the way down to Denpasar. Again struck by the lack of outright poverty everywhere. On the outskirts of Denpasar, I hit traffic in the built-up areas. But even this looks nothing like Jaipur, say. So to Alit's again. Homecoming.
In the evening I decide to see the Wayang Kulit puppet show at the Mars hotel just down the road. Alas, there were only two of us, so the dalang – puppeteer – is reluctant to perform for such poor takings. But talking to him, he invites me to a birthday ceremony he is conducting tomorrow in a nearby village for a baby girl. Normally I am chary, but this seemed genuine. I will give it a go.
8.6.88 Denpasar
A trip into the depths of the country. First down main roads, then side roads, then stone tracks, finally mud tracks – paths I wouldn't have taken a Chieftan tank down, let alone an aging Suzuki minibus. The village of 10 huts is small, but very neat and tidy. I meet the puppeteer's grandmother, and his great-grandfather – in his 90s, and pretty hale. The child, a girl, is six months (210 days) old, and going through the second of her birthday ceremonies. A gamelan is playing – on a tape – and a cock crows interminably. Theoretically, there should be a daytime puppet show, but apparently the villagers can't afford it.
The shrine area is raised up six steps. Within, there are about seven shrines, five thatched, one of which is shrouded with a white cloth. There are typical palm-leaf boats. The purification ceremony begins with the poor child doused in holy water by the dalang; she only cried a little. Then up to the shrine. The sky is now rather ominously covered in grey clouds: this morning there was a tremendous downpour at dawn. Mangy dogs, a dead duck strung up, incense. I am offered a kind of ginger beer, plus "Marie Special Biscuits". To the constant ringing of a tiny bell, the priest intones: dominant, sub-dominant, with a few leading notes and tonics at moments of heightened excitement.
Eventually, the ceremony was finished with caterwauling from the much put-upon child. Then there was the obligatory food for the dalang (and me as guest). This is after we have given the child her prezzies – six glasses from me, so she'll probably turn out an alcoholic. I wonder what she'll think in years to come when she looks at the glasses. I ate gingerly. As on Dal Lake in Kashmir, I was conscious that not to eat would be a terrible slight; but I did wonder about the effects on my digestive health. Luckily we were in a hurry: it had started to rain in spots, and the plucky little Suzuki would not get up the seemingly vertical hills with wet mud under its wheels.
We made it – just, as the rain came bucketing down. But then the puppeteer wanted to show me his village – only a few minutes away if walking, but miles of non-roads. Again, I would have liked to say no, but… There was the inevitable coffee and weird rice cakes. His home consisted of around seven small buildings around a courtyard, each building with three or so rooms. There was also a central meeting room where most people gathered.
On the hectic drive back to Denpasar in the glooming, we stopped off to buy some gamelan cassettes, first in Tabanan, then in Denpasar itself. Certainly a fine selection, but will they last? Tape quality is not a priority here, I fear. An exhausting but fascinating day.
9.6.88 Sanur
After all the culture yesterday, I allowed myself a sunsoak today. Water very low all day – neap tide or some such. To cap my visit here, I went out on a water scooter. It was about 4.30pm, and the tide was coming in with the wind from the south. It seemed very choppy – although it probably wasn't – and it beat the hell out of me on the machine. Quite a frightening sensation – because its dynamics were so new. Turning the handle at first did nothing, and then as the craft responded, it felt as if it would overturn. Cutting across the waves over the reef, the machine proved hard to turn: with the result that I thought several times I'd hit the reef. It became better towards the end, as I gained practice. And then, down to the Hyatt for a spot of paragliding – i.e. dragged after a speedboat under a parachute at about 50 feet. Rather dull really, but a nice view of the coastline and further south. Still, one more experience ticked off the list. Pity about the water skiing, which I didn't get around to…
In the evening to the Mars hotel where the dalang had his Wayang Kulit show. I arrived there about 6.45pm, and was greeted by the puppeteer. The gamelan (two players) tinkled away inside; through the little theatre's gauze screen, an electric light bulb could be seen. But when the performance began, this was replaced by a much more attractive spirit lamp which lurched about atmospherically, if alarmingly close to the gauze. The dalang sat under the lamp, and manipulated the puppets, struck the gedag puppet box as he punctuated and emphasised the action, and spoke the words – impressive stuff.
First the Kayon tree of life puppet floated around. By moving parts of it away from the screen strange blurred effects were created. Later, the heroes Indra and Arjuna were introduced. They shimmered wonderfully as the lamp shook. These characters spoke in Kawi, a standardised form of old Javanese, and the whole effect was rather like Japanese Noh drama: very hieratic, with extreme vocalisations, sobbing notes etc. Watching the performance, I found that I forgot the dalang was there, and really believed in all his characters. Some moments – like the battles with arrows flying everywhere, or the refined discourse of Arjuna, were really gripping. I could see how this art-form could exert such a hold on an audience which better understood the stories and gestures. This was part 100 or something: evidently the story advances at each performance. It will be interesting to compare the human shadow show – wayang wong – tomorrow night.
10.6.88 Sanur
A totally perfect day as far as the weather was concerned: Mount Agung clear as never before – even Mount Rinjani on Lombok visible in the morning.
In the evening, to the Hotel Pura Bali, to see the wayang wong performance. A big gamelan – gamelan gong, what I normally associate with gamelans – the other, smaller kind is called angklung. About 24 players in the gamelan gong, all from the dalang's village – including his dad, the blacksmith. The puppeteer narrated as usual, but this time humans mimed his words. Beautiful movements and costumes – the leading lady around 15, tall, with her black hair to her knees, possessed a real grace.
11.6.88 Denpasar
To the airport, stopping off for some salaks. A cloudy day. Taking off and wheeling north, the clouds looked like pairs of dancing snowmen. Agung stands out proud above the clouds; Batur in all its magic is clearly visible; Rinjani in the hazy distance.
Now I am in Hong Kong, stretching my legs during a ten-hour wait for my flight back to the UK. I am eating at – where else? – the Beijing…
More destinations:
30.4.96 Cremona
In the waiting-room of the station, fading posters of the Piazza del Duomo and the Duomo itself in front of me. And seeing these old images of old Italy – Good Old Italy – the question naturally poses itself: what the hell am I doing here?
Here, that is, about to undertake a 36-hour train journey to Vilnius. A journey that will take far longer than the time I have there, and far longer than it needs to be (flying to London and then to Vilnius would be quicker). But of course, the journey is part (most?) of the point. This is almost a pure voyage – pure travel in the sense of travail.
Standing on the platform, I stare at the main station sign: Cremona. One of those signs, with its characteristic typography, that I have seen from Italian trains so many times in the last 18 years. Either side of me now, the flat fertile plains of the Po. Spring well and truly sprung despite the atrocious recent weather (but warm and rather airless tonight – storms to come?). From the train, the typical form of the cascina is evident everywhere – just as in L'Albero degli zoccoli. Like a relaxed fortress, turned in on itself.
Many of tonight's commuters are black: presumably living in Brescia and commuting out to the small towns by day to trade their poor wares. What a hard life – and yet how laudable, daring to come to a foreign land, risking exploitation, arrest, for their families. And yet, consciously or not, we look down on them. I know that I am very unsympathetic to their sales pitches.
Ahead of us the mountains loom through the evening mist. The sun out to my left, watery yellow. Now a huge scrapyard, one I remember from before – along with reports of radioactive metal from Russia ending up there….
1.5.96 Wien
May Day in Vienna. Not that I see much of it. The train from Brescia arrives late, so I struggle through the train to get near the front, then dash over to platform 5, and find myself now in the Austrian coach of the train to Warsaw with two Poles (interesting how some words I can pick out from the general romp).
I spent hours chatting with this Italian teacher (retired) from Treviglio. Austria picturesque as ever, rolling hills, forests, green fields, satellite dishes (everywhere), all wreathed in romantic mists. A few Austrian flags hung from balconies… Good sleep last night – my old skills have not deserted me completely.
It was curious leaving last night. Journeys should begin at the beginning of the day: leaving at night felt like returning. But nothing could be further from the truth. I've never been to Poland, so this is pushing my boundaries.
I've been reading Cavalli-Sforza on genes and language – interesting, but badly written (no clear line). Now I move to Schwab: Die schönsten Sagen des klassischen Altertums. Seems appropriate for a journey through Austria (and with Ithaca coming up in a month….)
Across the border at Břeclav. At a stroke, everything that was shiny, orderly and Germanic is now rusty, chaotic and slav. Hearing the Czech announcements makes me realise that I am entering foreign lands, and reminds me of my journeys in Russia (and what a pity I never went to Armenia and Georgia then, as I nearly did…) Back hundreds of years: A woman with a wheel in a ploughed field: sowing? Villages out of Breughel (with a few satellite dishes…)
The Polish passport officer inspects my passport long and hard – and adds its number to his little book...I fear that Brits coming from Italy are fairly rare – god knows what will happen at Grodno.
Through Poland, near Katowice. Everything very poor and run-down. Crumbling houses, kids playing amid junk and rubble. Dusty grey factories. Rubbish tips everywhere. Satellite dishes like mushrooms. And these huge, snaking tubes: gas? With odd bends in them around non-existent obstacles. Becoming abstract works of art. Strange ghostly mansion, stately, decaying. Everything dark with grime. On the land, horses, not tractors. An elephants' graveyard of trains, every hue of green imaginable.
Of course, one of the things travelling does is to make me appreciate home: the instant everything is fixed, I long not to go. Another thing: I immediately discover many reasons to be fearful. For example, last week I read that there is a nuclear reactor in Lithuania that is like the one in Chernobyl, and pretty unsafe. But if I thought of all the reasons not to do anything…
Nobody at Warsaw Central speaks English or German – not the information desk or the international reservations. Using Czech (sic) I got the general idea across, but the return date was used as the departure date. And the desk was closing. But I think I have a ticket to Vilnius (but no reservation back, which needs to be fixed). I really feel that I am teetering on the edge of my Western world. Poland really feels eastern bloc in a way that Prague doesn't. The language barrier is interesting, and almost novel for me.
In the station, and here in the waiting room, a real smell of elsewhere (felt almost like India when I got out of the train.) Drinking a cold Coca Cola on the main concourse of the station – what sybaritic luxury. Amazing how much here is aimed at Russians – Cyrillic text, people speaking russky. Amazing, too, how many blacks and Asians here – cheap labour? – in Poland.
Still, people-watching is always fun, even in these dubious surroundings (though perhaps coming into their own as dusk falls – the two flanking bars taking a particularly Hopperesque tinge (ah, and how I wish to hear Ives's Concord Sonata, in my normal, irrational way). So many Poles have what I can only call sad sack faces: lugubrious, crazy eyes, a moustache (if male).
On the train – one carriage for sleeping (and through to Vilnius). Which makes everything feel even more end of the world. Three beds in each compartment – made up – and a washbasin (à la Cairo-Luxor train). Nice.
2.5.96 Grodno
Well, what a night. After more passport inspections than most holidays, a customs form completely in Belarusian, and a dash out to the immigration office to get a visa (DM50 – for one transit), this is what travel is about. Belarus (and Grodno) much as you might expect: grey and depressing in the extreme. A romantic mist does its best. Also noticeable during the night were the weird couplings and uncouplings. Having lost the Polish wagons, we've picked up some others. Raining slightly, too, and cold. But we're much further north. On the way I see a few lights in the flats: what are their lives, I wonder? I seem to be the only one requiring a visa – just as well given the sleepy woman doing it – everything in triplicate.
Valkinkai – houses out of Chekhov – and the smell of damp woods. The sun is shining weakly. And then here I am in Vilnius (pauses for appreciative murmurs). Before me, the gleaming-ish cathedral and clock tower. Brilliant sun and clear blue sky (it can't last).
I even managed to take the right trolley bus (number 2) from the station, paying 60 Centų (about 10p) and avoiding the taxi wolves. Hotel room not ready yet, so I wander for a while. Lots of building and reconstruction going on (as you might expect). It's so nice to see all these Indo-european endings on shops etc. People have a distinctive look, blonde, blue eyes, squarish Russian faces, but also strange tints in the eyes and hair.
To the Žurnalistika Cafe – the journos' canteen according to "Vilnius in your pocket" (unobtainable in the kiosks – good job I downloaded most of it from the online version – very good). Surprisingly civilised – no smoking (yet?), music reasonable (ah, someone heard me writing this, and just lit up…). Prices low, as most things are here (books cost £1-£2 each…)
Hotel room, well, ex-Soviet (hot tap makes an impressive judder when you turn it on). Everything rather faded, and never very elegant. I have upgraded – from 240 Litas to 260 Litas, obtaining a front room. Noisier, but the view of the rubbish tip at the back of the hotel was more than I could stomach.
More English spoken here than in Warsaw (and people generally helpful and even friendly). Glorious summer's day. I have showered (bliss to be clean) and am wearing only my shirt (well, trousers too…)
My initial impression (favourable) is that Vilnius has much in common with Ljubljana. Not surprisingly, perhaps, since both would have grown up for the same reason: a defensible mound by a river. Plenty of baroque here, as in Ljubljana, the latter probably wealthier and more relaxed then here (and further south…)
Eating beetroot soup with meat dumplings (do they have BSE here?) and exquisite black bread. The Lithuanian pork (schnitzel-like but fried in egg) good, but the highlight definitely the black bread – the best I've ever had. Almost creamy, with a rich but not overpowering flavour.
After lunch, back to the room, then a long, long walk to here, the cafe at Šv. Jono gatve and Pilies gatve. Drinking canonical coke absent any čaj. Glorious breeze here – clouds in the sky, but only enough to be interesting.
Went past the cathedral into the old part of the city – very Prague, very Buda. Baroque, with lots of derelict properties. One day this will all be fancified like Prague, but now it is genuine and poor. Not that I'm suggesting that it ought to be preserved thus, but at least not it is genuinely itself rather than another vague copy of other Western capitals (there's already a McDonald's opposite the station.) Talking of which, I went there in search of "Vilnius in your pocket" (VIYP): which doesn't exist, at all. On the way I passed through the market, which was pure Asia, which begins here, even though we're next to Finland. So many swirling Catholic churches here (and a few onion-topped Orthodox ones).
On thing I forgot to note: how tall many of the people here are – especially the women, several of whom have towered over me. I predict some mega models from up here soon…
After buying a few incredibly cheap books, back to the hotel, where I find I have no shampoo, so rush out, chase around for 30 minutes, and finally locate some.
Now, following "Vilnius in your pocket", I find myself in a near-deserted restaurant Rugelis – perhaps I should have guessed from one of the quoted blurbs ("it was deserted at lunchtime"). I tried for pressed carp – off the menu – so settled for Lithuanian blini and cepelinai – potato dumplings (named after the Zeppelins they resemble) filled with "x" – in this case, mushrooms. Hm, the apple blini seems to be bananas (Lithuania's national fruit, VIYP says…???). Cepelinai turn out to be very large grey maggots of indistinguishable taste.
I go off for a walk along the river, foolishly turned West, hoping to follow the river back – but found the dreariest landscape – and gave up. One thing: there is no dog-poo in this place. Nada. (Not many dogs, either.)
3.5.96 Vilnius
Despite BBC TV's predictions of rain, there is sun this morning (plus clouds). Slept well in the small-ish bed. Breakfast Nordic: cheese, ham, black bread. Water very tepid this morning ("the smorning" as I still think 30+ years later…)
To St Peter and Paul's church. Outside, nothing special, inside a riot of stucco. Along the river to here – nothing noteworthy – Ljubljana and Prague use their water better. Here it is all concrete banks and modern bridges. Beautiful sun outside, getting hotter. On the way, I smell raw diesel fumes and think of India: along with the wood smoke at dusk, this is its characteristic odour.
To the hill and the tower (though not to the top since it's closed still). My/our urge is to rise, to get the bigger picture. Reminds me of so many other risings: Baux, Sigiri, Tour Eiffel, Ljubljana. The sun really too nice, too nice to move.
To the Armenian Restaurant "13 chairs". Empty. Choosing "Cololac": meat stuffed with egg...is this wise? Still, one must try these things.
Before, in the continuing heat, to the Belarusian Embassy for a visa. In fact, to the consulate, down a very dubious alley. In the helpful transit department, who like the look of my train reservation. Trouble is, I need a photo. Luckily, in room number 6 there is a little old lady with a Polaroid camera: 4 images for L.14 (about £2.50). Robbed over the transit cost – $31 – more than the sleeping car by far. Still, at least going back I won't have to rush out for a visa at Grodno, worrying whether the triplicate form-filling will take too long… Inside the consulate, real Soviet-style: wires coming off the wall, everything not-so-old but fast decaying.
Cololac turns out to be an egg rolled in mincemeat (yikes), but it tasted reasonably fresh and not entirely made of bulls' willies. I hope…. Interesting bread too, like thin pitta – papery but OK. L20.50 - £3.50, so I can't complain about the price. Here in the "13 chairs", the Western rock reveals its chord structure too transparently to my ears. I find the three or four chords so boring now that I can analyse them without thinking. Interestingly, house music doesn't really have this effect, in part because rhythm – or the beat, rather – is so important, and also because basically it is often more adventurous.
A Polyphon (music box) sounds in the Lietuvos Dailes Muziejus – National Art Museum. Looks newly restored in this first room – beautiful – Wedgewood blues, cool whites. The Polyphon creaks and scratches – it uses a metal disc with holes – painfully. The same smell of paint thinners here as in my hotel – Lithuania's odour? Passing (uncertainly) through a door to ascend, I am hit by an ur-smell of clean corridors – from school? A room full of Boullée-like architectural plans. One thing: the use of deep shadow in the sectional drawings: think about it. Weirdly abstract. Surprising number of Lithuanian artists here.
After wandering around here for rather longer than I expected, I decide to go to what seems to be the main national art gallery, just further down in the big classical building. As I move there, distant lightning among louring clouds warns of an imminent storm. When I get to the museum, I can guess what the sign on the darkened entrance says: "we've moved", to where I was. A little man inside confirms this when I enter, just to check.
I wanted to buy an ABC (in English and Lithuanian), and passing along, I see another bookshop. I enter, of course, and find about six books that have to buy: 4 Lithuanian poets (in English); a book on the Lithuanian language (in Lithuanian); a 700-page tome on Lithuanian folk songs; an old Soviet book on Lithuania – 400 pages for £1.30 – and a tremendous volume with the first (and more or less only) book in the Prussian language (a snip at £4.) I also buy four tapes – mostly by Čiurlionis, of course. Total for a good few kilos: L.142 – about £24.
The Prussian book is pretty stunning in its comprehensiveness – a real hypertextual trip through the words. Also it's numbered: (I am the proud owner of book number 162 out of 1000). Provided I can carry this lot, the Lithuanian bible (which I also bought today), and the other five or so books, I will probably have one of the finer small collections of Baltic language books outside the country.
Now in the Geležinis Vilkas restaurant – very modern, but small, expensive relatively – still cheap in Western European terms. Set in a rather god-forsaken part of the city, towards the Parliament. Well, the Lithuanian borscht tasted like, er, borscht, and the chicken with fruits like chicken Kiev (but without the garlic) with fruits. But all piping hot and good.
4.5.96 Vilnius
Weather even finer: sunny but a cool breeze. Inside the Cathedral. I have never seen so many pix on the walls and columns – despite coming from Italy. Otherwise very cool and classical – pure light above the altar. Gounod's "Ave Maria" plays quietly in the distance. More or less empty, 9am.
Typically, the food store I was hoping to buy some food from is closed for cleaning until 11am…. It is hard to imagine this place under the Soviet regime. It seems so obviously centred in Western Christian civilisation – a tribute to how quickly Lithuania has got back to "normal". The bells ring for 9.
Down to the trio of churches. The weird St Anne's – all sprung arches – in brick. Probably the most beautiful corner of Vilnius here. Down Didžioji gatve. Past the concert hall, to the Monastery of the Holy Trinity – in wonderful disrepair. The main church full of rough scaffolding – and pigeons. Very tranquil. In a selfish way, I feel it will be sad when all this is gone in Vilnius. I am lucky to have seen it.
To the Gate of Dawn. Unusual entrance – up stairs, worn to the right and to the left, by time and feet. A woman kneels on the stairs, praying (each step?) Inside the chapel, full of devotees. Very intense. I am reluctant to enter as a tourist.
On the way back, I stop off in a "supermarket" – not particularly super, and buy a few provisions for the journey back this evening (even longer than going – around 39 hours all-told.) In fact the timing works out well: 17.15 departure from Vilnius, arrives Warsaw 6.00am in time for breakfast. Depart for Vienna at 9am, lunch on train (either the rolls I have, or from the friendly trolley lady), arrive Vienna around 17.00. Eat perhaps in the restaurant I know increasingly well. Back in Brescia for breakfast, Cremona for mid-morning coffee (if all goes to timetable).
Back now to Žurnalistika Cafe, since the food was good, it's near etc. Rather surprised to find it open: many things here in Vilnius opened late or not at all. Still, against all the odds, stunning weather. It really is bliss walking round this place, especially the area of the three churches I found this morning. On the way from there I passed Adam Mickiewicz's home – totally run-down. My cold borscht has arrived. Very nice too: cream, egg, cabbage – and all an unreal pinky-mauve (I think for no reason at all of the restaurant that I went to in East Berlin: the weather/ambience?)
To the university, a wonderful collection of asymmetric courtyards. In one, the sound of a woman's voice rehearsing with a piano. The sun's heat almost Mediterranean. Selig! On the way, passed whole rows of wrecked houses. So much to do here.
In to St John's church – one of the most successful baroque facades I've seen, towering up and rippling. Inside, very high, white, with fine hyper-baroque altar. Close-up, the latter is absolutely stunning – I've never seen one with such a good use of 3D: a pair of two pillars ornamented out of functionality, and wrapped around the altar space. Another pair of pillars around the altar itself. Above it, an opening, through which more distant echoes of pillars can be seen. Over all of it a huge stucco starburst of the Trinity. An organ plays wheezily in the distance; men's voices intone.
Weakly, I crawl back to another bookshop – and buy an English-Lithuanian dictionary (for about £7), plus a history of the Lithuanian language (£1.25) – and then blow an outrageous £12 on a CD of Lithuanian folk music. I know this is disproportionate, but the disc looks good, and I'd pay the same in the UK – if it even existed…
Now the skies are leaden, covered by great rolling clouds. With typically bad timing the hotel café closes now (3pm), so I take refuge next door in a strange open café (but under a concrete roof). The rain is falling now, and will doubtless get heavier. Will I manage to hold the umbrella, my two bags and food to stagger to the (nearby) bus stop (ticket already bought) later? Two rotters join my table, light up fags. I have no intention of stinking of smoke sooner than I have to. I flee to the hotel reception, even though here it is dark and dull. The Lithuanian god Perkūnas - still angry, perhaps that they built a cathedral on his holy site – growls away in the background.
I've never come across a country that produces so many books so cheaply. Obviously, the Lithuanians are determined to bolster their linguistic position now that they have the freedom to do so. Coming here has helped me with my Indo-European linguistics. Suddenly, all the connections between the languages seem obvious: in this respect, Lithuanian really is the missing link between the Slavic languages, Latin, Greek et al. Lithuanian is so clearly close to Czech, Russian, but also with links across. And its "ancient" features root it back in time, too.
Interesting that the receptionist and some other flunkies here are watching Russian TV: obviously there is much knowledge of it here, even if most keep it under their hats. A sign: down by the university, underneath the street names there was a rectangular mark where perhaps another street name had been – in Cyrillic…
With the sun out once more, I take the bus to the station. In the huge waiting hall, seats (orange and plastic) around the outside, corrugated steel roof, a plywood rectangular kiosk in the centre of one side. From here I can see behind me the train going to Klaipėda – next to a sign saying 17.15 to Warsaw. This is not a train station like Budapest Keleti with trains scurrying off in all directions across Europe. More like Ljubljana, the end of the line (though things do go further).
Interesting – and sensible – idea here: to check tickets at the train door.
5.5.96 Warsaw
Good journey – compartment to myself, though no coffee in the morning (breakfast, yes). Usual discussions with Belarusian customs officials – who wanted me to fill in two declarations. A real feel of the old Soviet empire there – all those spotty crew-cut boys thrown by anything odd. Grodno as unprepossessing as ever (but more lights on in the blocks of flats nearby the station).
The trains rumble beneath me. Warsaw station surprisingly small – only four tracks (maybe eight) – certainly nothing like a real junction. Very modern locker system, with number punched in (I hope I've done it correctly). But generally very insalubrious here. Quite chill. Last night it was pretty hot when we left Vilnius, and gradually became cooler as we went south (sic). The announcement music here is the opening theme of Clementi's sonata in G major.
The history of Lithuanian language book that I bought yesterday, and of which I read one third, is one of the most frighteningly detailed efforts I've ever seen: every vowel shift across the dialects minutely examined. And rather like Cavalli-Sforza's book, it just goes to show how much can be extracted from what we have – words, place names, blood groups – to give amazingly detailed and consistent information about things that happened two, three, four, even five thousand years ago. Reading both books I feel at a stroke closer to understanding the evolution of language. And of Europe.
Lots of backpackers around, bound whither, I wonder. One of the many nice things about this trip is that it shows that old age hasn't completely deprived me of the ability to voyage: 36 hours on the trot is not bad and puts most such journeys in my reach. Characteristic sensations: cold air, smoke, hard seats, station announcements.
Wien Südbahnhof, full of memories for me. Good design – all these escalators and ramps make it oddly Escher-ish. A huge box like Warsaw, but much friendlier (perhaps just cleaner, and the sun is out here). The Austrians, though – at least the inhabitants of this place – look dodgy. Lots of bikes, soldiers, people smoking. The clacking of the old departure and arrivals boards – what old technology, and yet you find it everywhere. Der Rosenkavalier (the restaurant), even better than usual: Gulaschsuppe and Wiener Schnitzel, both huge and excellent. Even the Wasser had a label designed by Hundertwasser. To the train: all two carriages of it (most to Rome). Full compartment – a long, hot night, I fear.
Die Reise nach Tilsit – good and very depressing.
6.5.96 Brescia
Brilliant sunny morning here. The night rather long – hot and stuffy in the compartment. Even though I had to pay L.10,000 to leave the luggage at the station, it was worth it to be able to stroll.
Fortified by a cappuccino and warm brioche (one of the great essential experiences of Italy), I started off towards the centre. It must be three years or so since I was last here, but I have vivid memories of parts of it – the two piazzas, the cathedral, the Roman ruins (and a gallery nearby?). Walking around in the early morning sun and cool air, I am reminded of the tens of times I have done this in my life. And in a way, Lithuania has deepened my understanding of here. For Latin and the Romans are placed in context by Lithuania, the spread of the Indo-Europeans, and indeed of Lithuania's struggle to nationhood. All-in-all, this was a stunningly successful trip – and only five days long. I would do it again...
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