Monday, 1 June 2020

1988 Nepal: Kathmandu, Pokhara

23.11.88 Kathmandu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

24.11.88 Kathmandu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25.11.88 Kathmandu

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

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

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

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

26.11.88 Kathmandu

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

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

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

27.11.88 Pokhara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

28.11.88  Pokhara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

29.11.88 Pokhara

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

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

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

30.11.88 Kathmandu

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

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

1.12.88 Kathmandu

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

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

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

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

2.12.88 Delhi

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

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

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

1988 India: Delhi, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Varanasi

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Sunday, 31 May 2020

1988 India: Delhi, Jodhpur, Jaisalmer, Varanasi

11.11.88 Delhi

In India again, though exactly where, I'm not sure.  The Connaught Palace Hotel – the Imperial was, unsurprisingly, full – which is near Connaught Place.  I have yet to find out how near.  It is marginally more expensive than the Janpath Hotel – 600 Rp. vs 550 Rp. – but much superior.  It is new and cleaner.  The Rupee has fallen against the pound.  I am about to eat lunch, though my body expects breakfast.

Some thoughts on the way here.  Visiting new countries is like encountering truly interesting people, or reading exciting – intellectually exciting, that is – books: they confront us with their different world-views, they make us think again.  It is hard to say yet whether things have visibly changed in the two years since I was last here.  I certainly have, not least in financial terms.  Now, there is simply nothing here that I cannot afford to do.  Which is rather sad in a way: there are no constraints.

After lunch in the hotel, I sleep briefly.  My room gives out due west, looking over the dusty, scruffy city.  Then, by rickshaw to the Royal Nepal Airlines to confirm my flights.  I am afraid that the sight of terminals in India still gives me pause for thought.  A day of confirming: Indian Airlines at the airport, British Airways later.  In India, you can not only do something, but must keep on confirming you will do it.

I walk back from the Imperial, its renovations finished from my last stop – I hope things are not too different – across the murderous rings of Connaught Place – the drivers really go for you here.  The late afternoon is surprisingly mild.  The dust is rising into the air, masking the sun.  Back in my hotel room, I order my statutory coffee and biscuits and watch the great red sun go down – only to lose it behind the one tall building in my view.  Rich colours, then sudden darkness.

Now I am in the hotel's restaurant; it is deserted apart from me and the musicians doing a sound check in competition with a muzaked "Ständchen".  Everyone is coughing.  Earlier, I had started to plan out the next three weeks; my itinerary looks totally exhausting.  I must be getting old.  I am, however, impressed at my body.  Tuesday night I came down with a wicked 'flu, head pounding and body aching.  It has almost gone now.  I hope.

Curious stepping into Connaught Place again: the poor grass, the poor people lying on it, the litter everywhere.  The crumbling stucco of the incongruous colonnades.  It was instantly familiar, and not at all foreign.  Perhaps I am finding it too easy to adapt to new locales.  The taxi from the airport: so knackered it had the acceleration of a dead slug.  All the gauges – speedometer, fuel et al. - were kaput, the light in the ceiling had been ripped out years ago.  And yet these Ambassadors still keep going.

12.11.88 Delhi

Not so impressed with my body as it decides to regress and go through tiresome stages like coughing etc.  Up with difficulty: I hate going east.  The Times of India under my door, its comforting mix of 30s-style English, and pure Indianness.  Then off to the railway station – more preparations.  This time, tickets to Varanasi.  It takes some time getting a look at a timetable.  The Tourist Office at least is better organised than before.  No queuing up several times, and everything is online (DEC kit).  And yet they were unable to book the return leg.  Useful… I thought to get round this using a travel agency next door to the hotel.  They tried, but the old allocation was too small this end; ho-hum… Also rang hotels in Jodhpur today.  Amusing then that my voice has dropped an octave – it is the high frequencies you need for phones… Somebody up there has a sense of humour.  

To the Red Fort.  Delhi is much bigger than I remember.  It takes quite some time.  And the driving seems to get worse – and noisier and smellier.  The Red Fort is packed with people, mostly Indians.  It is warm and balmy, not hot and muggy.  The haze seems very thick.  The gardens and diwans are pleasant, but pale beside those of Agra.  Back and everything early: I need to rise at 3.45am = 10.15pm body time – for the early morning flight to Jodhpur.

13.11.88 Jodhpur

Up at 3.45am, then to the domestic airport.  Surprisingly busy for 5am.  All the security blather is quite comforting.  Lots of Euros here, far more than I saw in Delhi (almost).  

The land over which we fly is so flat and barren, it is disheartening.  Gradually the Delhi smoke haze lifts.  We land at Jaipur, then on to Jodhpur.  Amazing airport – though this is far too grand a word.  It looks like a temporary soup-kitchen-cum-school hall – a rudimentary café, plastic chairs, people milling around.  It is easy to miss it completely until you are on top of it.  A half-hour wait for the luggage – which has to come all of 200 yards.  Then an autorickshaw to my hotel, which is disconcertingly close to the airport – and so far from the city.  It is very modern, with pool, but possesses the characteristic peeling and cracking of all India, however young or old.  It takes an hour before my room is ready.  Before – and after – the sun is so strong yet benign I am forced to sit in it by the pool for a few hours.  Purely restorative, of course.

14.11.88 Jodhpur

For the first time this trip, I remember why I came to India.  Jodhpur fort is stunning.  I had been to the station to buy tickets to Jaisalmer, and stopped off at the tourist bungalow to check on my Indian Airlines tickets.  Too early.  I haggle with an autorickshaw driver: 10 Rp. to the fort.  This seems a lot to me, it is not.  The fort is a couple of miles away, up a long, steep road.

The rock it stands on is impressive, but the screen walls even more so.  If I were a besieger, I would have given up.  As I enter, two musicians – nakers and shawm – play totally apposite music.  Above the filigree stone walls a perfect blue sky.  Well, here I am, on the battlements of Jodhpur.  Huge birds of prey wheel slowly above me.  Below lies the jumbled, bustling city.  Many of the houses are blue rather than whitewashed.  Looks like Cezanne gone mad.  Jodhpur is big.

PM.  Incredible market here, centred on an improbable clock tower like something out of rural England.  The fort looms magnificently above.  It is hot – but pleasantly so – smelly, with a general lively hubbub.  Flies everywhere.  Few tourists – I am enormously visible, but that is life.

These great, stupid cows in the middle of the road, the camel-drawn carts, beggars, old women, bicycles, the motorbike-powered buses.  Everything is stretched beyond reasonable limits – the rickshaws, the animals, the people, the land.  No wonder everything is cracked. It is amazing how all markets look the same: Samarkand, Jodhpur, Guangzhou.  Neat piles of vegetables and fruit: an almost 20th-century obsession with presentation.

Indian cities are bad for tourists: they are too spread out, too empty of incident.  It is not really possible to walk everywhere.  It is almost the ultimate challenge of travel: to be yourself, remain yourself.  If you are away from your daily life, its routines, its contours – who are you?  On your own you lose every more of your sense of self.  It is therefore, paradoxically, the best time for introspection.

Jodhpur Palace.  Rooms full of cradles, howdahs, miniatures, weapons, palanquins.  I am forced to go with a guide, and therefore see nothing.  

A crazy phone call through to Jaisalmer, the Fort Hotel there.  Even though only 300km away, his voice could have come from the moon.  What with my fading but present laryngitis, the hotel operator had to join in on my behalf with his stentorian baritone.  They claim to be full there.  I hope they are lying.  Turning up in the middle of the desert with nowhere to stay should be interesting.  I am lapsing into my old Raj ways: coffee and biscuits brought of an evening to my room as dusk falls.  Very civilised, very me.  I am a quarter of the way round the world from home.

15.11.89 Jodhpur

The day started badly.  My best-laid plans – of taking an extra night at the hotel but leaving for the 11.45pm train – foundered.  I am therefore here on sufferance, a waif.  In the morning, to the Government Museum in the park.  Half an hour early, I stroll round the park in the already pounding heat.  The gardens are reasonably well-tended, with splashes of colour (bougainvillea?).  Old men and children sit around, people on bicycles go about their business.  There seems to be a zoo here too.

Inside the museum – entrance 1 Rp. - it is pretty much as I expected.  Everything old, decaying, tended by tiny, uncaring old men.  Rooms of preserved animals – a scorpion with two tails – sculptures, model aircraft, miniatures, rubbings of engravings.  Nothing held the attention.  Back to the hotel to pack.  Zillions of Japanese around now.  Also, French, Italians, Germans – but not many Brits.  After lunch, I haggle with the autorickshaw boys for an all-in – less successfully than usual.  First to the Umaid Bhawan Palace.  I had seen this pink monstrosity lurking on the brow of the hill facing the fort.  Built ridiculously late in the Raj – 1940s – and designed by a PRIBA, it is huge and ugly and sad.

We cross a courtyard, around whose edges men are repairing gilt upholstery.  Then past cabinets full of glass or silver services; to the ballroom, dark and echoing, with unlit chandeliers; finally to the private theatre.  Everything cold and unlovable.  From the gardens, a beautiful view of the fort. Thither.  Not to see anything in particular, just to finish in the right way.  I sat on the ramparts, looking down on this town, picking out my few landmarks.  The bubbling blue houses I now knew to be Brahmins'.  The clock tower in the market, the Bhawan Palace.  The street cries are clear though not distinct.  A religious functionary is singing.

Wonderful cabaret going on here.  A bunch of Germans arrive, their rooms are not ready.  Irate Englisch-sprechende Panzer commander-type gesticulates wildly.  I fear there may be knock-on effects for my Thursday night stay.  After, there are now three huge groups here.  Bah.

In to town, to obtain berth number at the station.  All the bikes without lights, my driver "car" drives on the right-hand-side if it suits him.  A Sikh grabs a lift.  I say "paying half?", and to my surprise he offers – and pays – 10 of the 30 Rps.  People at their stalls in the pools of light; the evening air dusky and dusty.  It reminds me of Bali, except that the temperature is dropping.  I must not get caught on the train tonight as I did on the way to Udaipur two years ago.

Outside, the groups are eating a hot buffet.  Swallows (swifts?) swoop and skim the pool: mozzies, methinks.  Glad I'm here.  On the way back from the station, I had one of my periodic yummy "isn't life interesting?" attacks: things are looking up. 

16.11.88 Jaisalmer

Jaisalmer is pretty extraordinary.  The long, slow, cold crawl to it was hours across barren desert.  The railway station was far from the town, and nugatory; was this a good idea?  But from the train I saw the city walls, rising up like some vision of Jericho.  Inevitably the hotels I wanted were full, so I have ended up in a Rs. 30 place – no facilities, mandi not WC etc., etc. - but I'll survive.  I hope to take the early morning train, getting back to Jodhpur – and relative civilisation – by early evening.

I am now sitting on the roof of the fort, itself perched high above its own walls within the city.  The unbroken horizon is almost flat in all directions.  Tiny dark scrubs dot the desert surface.  Disconcertingly, the railway line ends here, emphasising that this is nowhere.  There are high clouds providing some welcome shielding from the sun's hammer.

Walking through the old town in the fort reminds me of Srinagar – open sewers running in the street, snivelling kids, refuse thrown out of windows.  But even more than Srinagar, this felt about 2000 years ago.  It is all so Biblical.  Some of the buildings are decaying.  Jerusalem after the fall.

Wonderful Jain temples sprout like bushes everywhere.  And everything made from this glorious stone.  This is not the Golden City, it is the Honey City: honeycombs everywhere, dripping with it.  The havelis are extraordinary: and they are so widespread – not just the famous ones.  Everywhere the ornate stonework – like carved wooden screens.  And yet everything is in decay – it is a fossilised world, on the edge of dust.  What was this place like in its heyday?  Pretty impressive, I imagine.  Interesting how the balconies reach out over the space.  The intricate carvings lend themselves to the light which makes the surface bustle.  Reminds me of San Gimignano – the heat, the back streets, the stones.

From the top, having passed through all these empty desolate rooms that were once so rich, I look across to the fort, and over a lumpy sea of sandstone and bricks.  From up here it is easy to pick out the famous havelis; not so easy from below.  One noticeable thing, practically never found: almost no TV aerials. Much of medieval Italy is spoiled by this.

I sit now on the cool roof-top of my Hotel Renuka, an occasional evening breeze wafting my way.  To my left, the fort's walls, to my right the setting sun – not very red, disappointingly.  This place feels very Middle Eastern, not Indian at all.  Partly the camels, but more the whole Holy Land sort of feel.  I confidently expect to go down with some dreadful disease soon: it is a long time since I have been so plagued by flies at a meal.  Unfortunately earlier in the day, I had seen where they had been stamping… Yuk.

The sandstone here becomes quite oppressive, as if the city rose from the sands, and will soon  sink back.  The desert is disturbing.  As I watch the last rays of the sun catch the vertical walls, it reminds me of when I was in San Gimignano, sitting in the fort, watching the sun on the great towers.  But comparing the two, the Italian experience is just so much richer: the art, the culture, the density.  Even things like food: eating good Italian cooking, looking out into the valley, was in its own way a key part of the whole civilised experience.

Having sealed my fate by eating at the Trio Restaurant, it makes sense to limit the damage by eating here again.  Inside, rather than outside [the lights have just gone] is nicer – warm, fewer flies.  There are three musicians playing the usual tabla/harmonium/voice stuff.  Very pleasant too.

This restaurant was also recommended – for what it's worth – by a fellow guest at the hotel.  He and  his lady friend have just returned from four days in the desert – and are ill-ish.  No wonder, some of the garbage they tried.  They youth of today… [lights on].

17.11.88 Jodhpur

Most of today on the slow train from Jaisalmer to Jodhpur.  I slept surprisingly well for my £1.20 accommodation.  Breakfast was frugal but filling – the coffee especially good.  Great fun at the station, trying to find the right coaches – along with a party of assorted WASPs.  Alas, I was stuck with five of them for the trip, including a crazed, fat, Chinese Hawaiian called Edith who wore a turban and had an insane laugh.  Almost as bad was the heat, the dust, the hard seat, the boredom of the endless desert.  Apart from that, OK.  Perhaps it's just old age, but I don't seem to relish these ten-hour train journeys as much as I used to…

Safely at the Ratanada Hotel, an oasis in all this hardship.

18.11.88 Delhi

Travelling is like learning.  It is easy enough to walk through knowledge – facts, a theorem – with a guide or teacher; but is only when you work through it on your own that you understand it.  Similarly, travelling with a guide gives you that superficial acquaintance that is no substitute for journeying on your own and really knowing.

A day of travelling then, with one characteristic incident.  We stopped at Jaipur airport for an hour longer than scheduled: Delhi airport was closed, to allow Mr Gorbachev to fly in.  Strange this: he was here two years ago, again at the same time as me.  He should cast aside his furtive coyness: if he wants to arrange a meeting, he should just come right out and say so.

Delhi seems drab after Jodhpur.  For one thing, the air is so polluted, there is a constant haze.  By the end of the day, the sun has lost all its power.  To the Indian Airlines office, where I boldly pay for my Delhi to Varanasi ticket, even though I am still number 2 on the request list.  Worth a gamble.  I still have my train ticket, though I do not relish another overnighter.  One factor that helped me decide was the absence of accommodation at the Connaught Palace.  India is getting too full.  And no luck in booking in Varanasi.  Ho-hum.

19.11.88 Varanasi

A day of gambles.  I decide to buy a blanket in case I travel by night.  But I am hoping that my request position of number 2 on the flight to Varanasi will get me there.  I go to the airport – a curious feeling since I do not know whether instead I will have to hot-foot it back to Delhi Railway station.  First bad news: the flight is put back to 12.45pm, cutting the amount of time I will have to get to the station.  Second bad news: I am second on the waiting list, true; but only for those travelling Delhi to Varanasi, of which there are four in all.  Three have so far turned up.  I need (a) for the fourth person not to appear and (b) for the request number 1 not to appear. The man is not optimistic.  I cannot tell if I am or not.  But I do know that I am getting uncharacteristically restless.  Partly, I suspect, because I am forcing myself to read my first Anita Desai – totally contentless.  But mostly because I keep looking at the clock, looking to see if the person has turned up.  Every face seems to be my executioner.

Come 12.15pm, and I start to edge towards the counter.  My name is called, I am given a boarding card – I'm through.  And yet I keep expecting that fourth – or first reserve – to turn up, and for my ticket to be torn from my hands.

The flights – to Agra, then to Khajuraho – are like the other internal flights – big bus trips.  Safety precautions are pretty minimal, and the landings are the worst I've encountered: the plane comes in too fast and is effectively dropped on to the runaway.

I am amazed to see the plane half empty: after all the fun.  But things are clarified when we arrive at Agra.  Almost 100 passengers, mostly Italians, pile on.  I fear they may be going to Varanasi, taking valuable hotel rooms.  But they all pile off at Khajuraho.  Unfortunately another party almost as big piles on, definitely going to Varanasi.  These groups do spoil it for everyone else.

The terrain from Delhi to Varanasi is rather more interesting than down to Jodhpur.  A great river – the Ganges – heaves into view, and there are outcrops of hills and lusher vegetation.  Near Varanasi, the Gangetic plain shows itself: well-irrigated arable land.  [It is funny: I am drinking coffee in my room again – but probably the best coffee I've had in India was in Jaisalmer, seemed ready mixed with milk and was deeply satisfying.]

Into Varanasi.  Great fun at the airport, which is some 14 or 15 miles from the city centre.  I had been told by a tourist board chappy that the fee would be 100 Rp.; he suggested sharing.  As it happened, this pair whom I thought were part of a group also asked about taxis, and we agreed to share.  Then the saga began.  One tout offered us 20 Rp. each as a price, but said we had to pretend to be going to his hotel.  At the door of the airport building, it was utter pandemonium.  So many crazed-looking men offering their services, shaking keys and god knows what.  I really experienced information overload: too many competing structures of equal intensity meant that for a minute I was unable to make a decision.  Finally, I decided the only non-contingent solution was to stick with the first bloke, but then he palmed us off onto someone else.  We followed him, with me shouting at him to wait, and to agree the details, knowing that there would be plenty of latitude.

First, he said that the price originally quoted – to go to the Ashok and another hotel on the river – was in fact only for the former.  We re-negotiated, agreed, and moved off.  Then he said that because of the narrowness of the lanes, his car could not actually get to the second hotel.  My companions were outraged, but eventually decided to follow me to the India Tourism Development Corporation (ITDC) office.  We then began the long and incredibly slow journey to Varanasi city centre.  The landscape was lusher than usual, but the hamlets along the way looked depressingly indistinguishable.  Nearer Varanasi itself, the hamlets began to merge into one urbanisation.  

The driving in India never ceases to amaze – and appal – me.  Their concept of left and right hand side of the road is shaky: often they will blithely cut across the incoming stream of traffic, or even drive the wrong way up the inside lane for a way.  They turn whenever, stop whenever, and pull out without signalling.  I'm no chicken when it comes to motoring, but this is pretty hairy stuff.  

Finally we reach the ITCD – after a fairly significant detour to look at two favourite hotels of the driver.  The office closed, but just as we are about to leave, a man appears, and starts offering to phone hotels for us.  We go into his office, dark and full of strange objects, together with the paraphernalia of his job.  He starts phoning: all full.  It is at moments like this that I wonder why I do this; why don't I go on a tour like everyone else, no worries, no hassles?  But I know it is for  precisely these challenges that I do it: my "holidays" are more travelling/travailing: extra juicy problems, more so than in daily life.  I must be nuts.

Finally, the Taj Ganges, the best hotel, ironically, has a room – but only for two nights, not three as I wanted.  So, still a little challenge there, not to mention the problem of getting back to Delhi in time for my flight to Kathmandu…

20.11.88 Varanasi

Problems, problems – just as I want.  No train available Monday, ergo Tuesday.  Which means I'm cutting it fine for the flight to Kathmandu.  However, a plus is an extra day in Varanasi – which I rather like.  

I am sitting now on the banks of the Ganges, a huge rolling river stretching away as far as the eye can see, left and right, and wide.  The steps down are surprisingly steep – perhaps a 50 to 70 feet fall.  The view along the banks is one of the most interesting I have seen, with temples and bathing ghats interspersed with high, veranda'd buildings.  Everything is a-bustle, with boats plying the river, people bathing, stallholders everywhere – apparently today is a festival.  Flowers on sale everywhere, everyone carrying bamboo (?) stalks.  On the opposite bank, crowds of boats and people.

This is the real India.  Moving further south along the ghats, I am now surrounded by the sound of bells: a deep bell above me, presumably religious, and the high tinkling tintinnabulations of the hawkers.  Flowers – bright yellow, orange, red, purple, white – everywhere [a goat has just eaten part of a stallholder's wares; goats, cows, but not camels, here.]

To my left, a high orange-stoned temple, in the characteristic style, topped with small pinnacles – and a tree.  Small temples with statues and garlands along the way.  Everyone wearing the red head spot on their brows today.  Big parasols – like something out of Canaletto.  A mass of roiling people, bright saris everywhere.

These is a lot of mud, high up on the steps – presumably from when the Ganges floods.  Where I came down to the river, they were hosing some of it away.  Nearby, a doorway has HFL and various dates – the flood levels, I assume; they are about 40 feet above the river level… The women washing fully-clothed, the men in their minimal dhotis or undergarments, the kids naked.  Holy men sitting reading, or just wander, chanting.

Now in a small rowing boat, going upstream.  We pass a burning ghat.  There is a small fire, some logs, a man standing by unconcerned.  Then I notice the two human feet stick out at one end.  It is a very strange sight.  No other burnings.

I am sitting now by the pool at the Taj Ganges.  The sun is very pleasant, filtered as it is by the omnipresent haze.  The journey back here was interesting.  The boatman dropped me off by the Golden Temple.  The voyage had been beatifically peaceful.  After passing upstream to nearly the last ghat, we moved across the river to the great sandbank.  Opposite Dashashwamedh Ghat, pilgrims were bathing in the river's waters. The view reminded me of Venice, of Hong Kong.

On land, I go downstream, past another burning ghat – great piles of logs everywhere, a few roaring blazes, but no bodies visible.  As I continue, a man stops me, saying there is a "family burning" up ahead, and that it was forbidden.  Could be.  So I strike off into the maze of alleyways, hoping to make it back to the main street.  But maze it was, and I soon had no idea where I was going. After about ten minutes of non-panicking I finally made it.  But an interesting experience.

Safely ensconced now in my hotel, I am struck again by the chasm which separates having a hotel and not having one: tiny in time, in gesture – yes/no – but a gulf in effect.  Before, you are homeless, doomed to wander an unknown city.  After, you are king of the castle, master of all you survey, a quite at home amidst all the foreigners.  

Another thought: whatever happened to the fourth person on the Delhi-Varanasi flight?  I feel strangely linked to this total stranger.  It makes me think of all the lines and stories which lead to me: the cotton balls which were plucked for my shirt – there were a finite number of them – the rain clouds which produced the Himalayan water which I drink, and so on.  Too many even to think about, let alone know.  Life is about simplifying all these threads.

Back down to the river for a walk downstream.  Past the main burning ghat – lots of bodies.  Then on to quieter ghats.  Late now – 4-5pm.  I take a boat again for half and hour in the dusk. Nearly full moon rising bright opposite the last nacreous touches of the sun.  The Ganges again very peaceful.  People are floating lit offerings on the water.

I take a rickshaw back.  It is now dark.  Without lights, amid the hurly-burly, this could be quite frightening.  The smell of wood smoke all but obliterated by all the noxious fumes – worse than any other big city.  But with all the shops lit by their single bulbs, their neat wares, it looks strangely like Christmas.  The road goes on and on, endless shops, endless stalls selling similar goods.  600 million people – ten times that of the UK.  Will this country ever lift itself out of poverty?  Such a task.  

Civilised: this restaurant has a sitar and tabla playing live.  And Beethoven, Tchaikovsky in the lifts… makes me a teeny bit homesick, culture-sick.

21.11.88 Varanasi

Down on the Ganges.  A great red sun rising over the sandy shore.  Cold.  Many people braving the waters.  Varanasi surprisingly quiet at 6.30 am.  A big red sun turning yellow, but it gives out little heat.  After about 45 minutes on the river, I take a rickshaw back to the hotel – and warmth.

Where I am then thrown out, and take refuge in the Varanasi Ashok, which is nominally 4 star, but a tip after the Taj.  No flights available, so it is 17 hours on the train…

It is interesting speaking English where the language is used as a lingua franca.  It is like being a wizard, eavesdropping on everyone…

22.11.88 Delhi

A long, long day.  In my reasonably crummy hotel until 12 noon, then to the station for 17 hour (nominal) trip.  Shared compartment with jolly young Sharon, a doctor near Varanasi.  Then read for hours, ate, slept reasonably well – after hiring blankets et al.  Aircon is definitely better.

Train 2.5 hours late – so I get to my hotel at 10 am, to leave at 12 noon – for which I pay £25.  But it's worth it for the shave, shower etc.  Now I sit waiting to take off for Kathmandu; is this possible…?

1988 Nepal: Kathmandu, Pokhara

More destinations:

Friday, 29 May 2020

1993 Istanbul

25.3.93 Istanbul

A strange situation in that I know next to nothing of Istanbul, and nothing of the language.  But what a name: Istanbul.  And yet one that figures so little in our consciousness.  It belongs to no one, culturally, as far as the West is concerned, and so hovers on the horizon like some strange mirage.

Jackpot.  As soon as I came out of the visa section, I knew things were going awry.  Thanks to a bunch of Italians pushing in front, this took ages.  When I arrived at the luggage carousel, the cases were off, lined up on the ground.  Mine was not there.  I knew it was not in Turkey, but dealing with the bureaucracy – as well as translating for some Italian ladies with a similar problem – took half an hour.  Then changing money – somehow I knew I'd need it – took another 15 minutes.  By the time I got out, there was nobody there to pick me up.  I waited.  Still nobody.  I spoke (in French this time) to others waiting, who said the bloke I wanted wasn't there.

So, a taxi.  Arguments outside should have told me that I had a madman, and his driving soon confirmed it: at least 100 mph, often yards away from the car in front.  We took a huge arc around the city – the signs worryingly saying to Ankara (it seemed quite possible that we'd go all the way there at 100 mph) – and finally arrived, 141K lira (about £10) later.  As I checked in, who do I find but the Herbert who was supposed to meet me.  Yeah, well, if he was there before me (and assuming he drove at less than 100 mph), he certainly left before me.  So I refused to pay all the outstanding 93K lira, and we argued long about this and that.

And then, of course, the real fun begins: being Ramadan, all the shops are shut – now, and tomorrow.  No new clothes.  So if the bag doesn't turn up tomorrow, it gets interesting.

Strange wandering the streets to here, a Pizza Hut (well, I'm not in a fit state to be more adventurous tonight).  George Michael playing in the background, even more than in Cairo, things felt alien, or rather very distant: I felt I was in Mongolia (appropriately) not Turkey.  The drive was delightfully frightening: mile after mile of concrete blocks, dusty roads, thick smog, descending darkness, ruddy sunset.

26.3.93 Istanbul

Well, here I sit in the Sultan Safrasi café, Aya Sofya to my left, the Blue Mosque just in front of me, and vaguely soporific Turkish music coming from within.  The sun is starting to break through, and things are looking up a little.  After a hearty breakfast (another benefit to the kind of package hotel I'm in), out to see what shops, if any, were open.  Luckily, I find a clothes shop soon, and bought a shirt for 99K lira.  Later, I found the address of one of the few chemists open, and bought a few necessaries.  Back to the hotel to shave and shower (for the third time – a good way to keep clothes non-pooh-y), then out by taxi (£3) to here.  According to the information man at the hotel, everything open as usual.  I hope so.

First impressions: Istanbul is pretty dirty in a "typical" middle east/far east way: dust, litter, concrete, rubble, everywhere.  Colours uniformly grey and brown, a few dull reds and greens.  Turks look, well, Turkish, deep eyes, thick hair, very different.  And how right that of all the Europeans it is the Germans who are linked to this race: the same ü and ö, the same ultra-logical grammar and syntax.

Now drinking my first çay, which puts me in mind of the Parisian tea-room I sampled less than a year ago.  Reading Libération last night; really one of my favourite papers.  Everyone smokes like a chimney here.  These mosques really soar.  Well, back in Sultan Safrasi café – I'm not that hungry, so I'm reluctant to go to a restaurant.  Çay and "tost".  Behind me, a Turk speaks fluent German to the same.

Walked to Topkapi Palace – the grounds full of picnickers – quite the most litter-strewn place I have seen on this earth.  In fact, Istanbul is fast becoming litter capital of the world, in my eyes.  The Archaeological Museum and palace open from 9.30am, closed Monday/Tuesday respectively, so I'll go later – now it's full of tourists and locals.  On the way back, I bought five pairs of sox for 25K lira – about £2.  I was done, but my need was great.  Lacoste-branded, but the alligator was stuck on – as were the labels.  But they're clean (ish).

One thing: the Turks are certainly keen to talk; but being British, I am less keen to listen.  Unfairly, probably, but there we are.  I've never been one for "mixing", for getting into these fake relationships.  Either I'm too suspicious, too shy, or, more likely, too arrogant.  Most people bore me, and if I can't talk with people I respect, and whose conversation I value, I'd rather talk with myself – which I have little enough time to do, heaven knows.  Noticeable the number of women wearing the chador – full body stuff.  And men with caps.  But against that, you can see pornography displayed pretty freely.  A country of meetings and contradictions, then.

My first monument, the incredible Basilica Cistern – looks like something out of a Peter Greenaway film.  Dripping water (Tarkovsky) and Corinthian columns.  The floor soaking, the air dank, dank, dank.  The constant sound of drip, sharp, and the distant echoing sounds of classical music.  And at the end of it all, the crazy Medusa heads: one upside down, the other on its side, squashed beneath simple columns, meeting its mirror image in the pool of water around it, green with age.  And the drops fall even heavier.  Above, the ceiling pattern recedes to infinity, like something out of Escher.  This is what I came to Istanbul for…  What a wonder of the world.  Reminds me of La Mezquita in Cordoba, but that had no mad opera singing in the background, nor the Chinese torture of drips…

At last down by the Golden Horn, waiting for the ferry boat to leave behind me.  In front, the iced water seller – fine, except I have seen the ice in a bag broken on the ground next to one of the few rubbish bins not full and used.  Overcast now, but the sun weakly peeking through.  Cool breeze. Nice.  

In the middle of the bridge, richer by two pairs of underpants (5K lira each – about 30p), I remember Harvard...except that this bridge is wobbling up and down like hell…  Fine view of Topkapi palace, Aya Sofya and several other mosques (strange to see the occasional efflorescence of Arabic here…).

Across the bridge to the Tünel – brilliant value: 2K lira for the most grinding part of the journey back.  Supposedly the oldest metro in continental Europe – nice to see the French metro trains here.  Longish, steep tunnel, then out to what turns out to be the continuation of a street I took this morning for clothes.  Everyone out promenading – thousands of them – with trams in the middle.  Back to the hotel, buying water and oranges en route.  Still no news on my bloody case.  How can they not know where it is?  Shower, then read some more Libération.

Now in Han Fast Food, near Taksim Square.  Eating baked potato – cheap, and may even be vaguely healthy.  Quite a happening sort of place.  Buses thunder outside.  Before, returning to the hotel, I went along to the main cultural centre, trying to find something.  There's Der fliegende Holländer for 40K lira, which seemed a bit ridiculous for me to see here.  There's also some kind of ballet programmed – with some Nyman...but this is elsewhere.

Very noticeable here the preponderance of same sex – and mainly male – groups.  Few mixed, and those have a distinctly racy air to them.  Also noticeable is the youth of some of the lads smoking here – 13, 14 at most, trying to act big…  It would be interesting to write – well, read at least - a history of the blue jeans, and their sociological rise: here, as everywhere, they seem ubiquitous and indispensable.  What did people wear before?  Like India, the things people sell: men with scales, selling your weight.

I have this heart-rending image of my poor case endlessly circulating on a carousel in the middle of nowhere (just where is the middle of nowhere?  Perhaps nowhere is nowhere these days).  Down by the Golden Horn – how I like writing this – a boat moored, cooking meat amidst swathes of smoke.  Reminds me of Varanasi in its waterside bustle.

27.3.93 Istanbul

In the gallery of Aya Sofya.  Here as the gates open, so I enter this huge space almost alone.  In a strange way, not at all as I expected it – lighter, perhaps less oriental than I thought. The overriding impression inside is of golden yellow and rich marbles.  Some fine shafts of light cutting through the space.  And the great shouts of Arabic – too florid for me to read, alas.  In their use of two dimensions they remind me of Tom Phillips' stuff – vaguely…  To here by train (3K lira), Tünel (2K lira), and taxi (10K lira – bastard took me the long way).  Warming up outside.  But inside, a lovely coolth.

The stunning mosaic of Christ, Mary and the John.  Amazing detail and the expressions…  Extraordinary that the heads have survived so well (maybe because higher up?).  Also noticeable the filigree capitals.  Weird.  Down again.  After the exonarthex, sitting in the narthex, noticing the doors.  The relief and the mosaic above the door through to the nave.  But mostly from the back of the narthex you are enthralled by the sense of space through the doors: this is the essence of architecture – the articulation and definition of space.

Just reading the excellent guide to Aya Sofya gives you a sense of the architectural achievement – all those apses, conches, tympanums et al.  Walking round it is a wonderful experience in space.  Interesting contrast with San Marco – visibly part of the same world, but so dark and medieval.  Aya Sofya is part of a literally enlightened tradition – albeit the fag-end.  The builders of this church knew they were part of a glorious civilisation; San Marco's were struggling against the pull of mud and the lagoon.

After eating my illicitly-got bun and cheese in Sultan Safrasi, to the Turkish museum.  Sitting now in the courtyard, great view of the Blue Mosque, the amplified muezzin doing his stuff.  Reasonable museum, mostly Arabic script, carpets, patterns.  Reminds me of another museums: Cairo (the Gayer-Anderson House), East Berlin (Pergamon Museum), but feels insufficiently forgotten and strange.  The obelisk, but so different here from those in Karnak (ah, Karnak…)  In many ways the ethnographic section is more immediately suggestive, particularly with its real yurts and interiors.  The thought of these Turcoman nomads wandering across Asia, taking their tents with them, and ending up at the gates of Vienna (imagine: no Mozart, no Schubert…)

Inside the Blue Mosque – incredibly delicate interior with wonderful ceiling of lamps – about 10 feet off the ground – giving a vertical forest of supporting wires.  To the "little" Aya Sofya – glorious, partly because I am alone here.  This feels real.  Crumbling, cracked but very beautiful.  An old ticking clock – miles out (Mecca time?).

Along the main street Divan Yolu to the Column of Constantine, still charred black, nice group of mosques.  Then to the covered market, which, though very touristy, is nonetheless impressive.  Very gaudy, very big.  Wander through it (nice kiosk at one point), then out to the book market – a little disappointing (I can't help recalling that second-hand bookshop – warehouse? - in Guildford: I wonder if it is still there?).  Now in small, slightly grubby café in the market, trying elma çay – apple tea – though it contains neither.  Taste like a pleasanter version of Lemsip.  

Back in Pizza Hut – well, it's about the cheapest place round here.  I've just found the concert hall – spent 80K lira on a ticket for what looks appropriate: Brit-Turkish ballet programme with Nyman's music.  Surprising number of blue-eyed people here – and almost blond, too.  Perhaps that old Circassian influence… and anyway, who were these Circassians?  Strange how you remember people.  Two blokes, Turks by the look of it, in Aya Sofya, wearing "Buffalo University" t-shirts.  I saw them later in the Turkish Museum.  (Also met the Italian ladies from the airport again – but they had their cases…)

In Praise of Difference: art is difference, evolution is difference.  Imagine being trapped with someone whose every thought echoed yours, and was known to you.  Huis Clos.  We/I depend on difference to make life interesting.  And how fast humankind changes – the languages of Irian Jaya (I must go there…).  "The global is the local without walls."

Interesting this case business (I speak linguistically).

28.3.93 Istanbul

Yes, interesting this case business, but not interesting enough to stop me eating.  I was going to say that not having my case with me has taught me at least how little you need: two pairs of clothes, toothbrush, razor, etc.  In fact, I shall make this the core of my "survival kit" that I carry separately.  Interesting last night watching satellite TV: TV5 and TVE – French and Spanish respectively.  Up late-ish this morning, later than I thought, since clocks go back here too.  Walked to the Tünel, then taxi-ed the other side.

Here in the Archaeological Museum – looks wonderful. I am sitting with the Alexander Sarcophagus in front of me – what a work.  The detail of the carving is stunning – especially the naked men's bodies (Greek sculpture really does make the human – male – body beautiful).  The folds of the skin on the horses and deer.  The horses remind me of the Elgin Marbles.  In one of the pediments, crouching in the left-hand corner, a figure straight out of Michelangelo.  Traces of paint still.  The sarcophagus of the Mourning Women – less varied, but beautiful.  I have these masterpieces to myself.  Back towards the entrance, the biggest sarcophagus, with the barrel-vaulted top: interesting 3D effects of overlapping horses and riders.  Nice diagonals.

Fascinating "usurped" sarcophagus – Egyptian, re-used for king Tabnit Sidon. On it, what looks like Phoenician script.  In the entrance, fine old Hercules, very crude, very vigorous.  [One thing: the first sight to greet me outside my hotel this morning were two bears, great big light-brown things, led by two men.  Are we talking medieval or what?] Face to face with Alexander.  Fine Ephebe – reminds me of Rodin's Balzac.  Bust of Sappho.  Later, upstairs to the sections on Anatolia in general.  Great stuff on Hittites et al. (another language I must learn).  And places like Palmyra, Ephesus, Pergamon

Then out, leaving the Turkish Pavilion – I am cold, and it is starting to rain.  After a cheap but filling lunch – shish kebab and baklava – back to the Tiled Pavilion.  Nice, but I find it hard to get worked up over pottery.  Attracted by the medieval sounds I have returned to the park below.  Brilliant sunshine now.  An ad hoc band is vaguely practising – I love the shawm-like lead and percussion.  Below, a puppet show.

Back across the Galata Bridge, a fine view after the rain, Tünel, and then to here, a very untouristy, untacky tea-room for çay, and rich honey-soaked shredded wheat – well, ish.  This is merenda – no dinner tonight.

Out now in the concert hall found so laboriously.  Functional, vaguely Turkish inside, good sightlines, seats a little deep. Turns out the Nyman is Zed and Two Noughts – I haven't heard it for a while.  There's also some Turkish music which is nice – one İlhan Usmanbaş – other than this, I can read barely a word of the 15K lira programme.  The most god-awful cod-pop/classical stuff in the interval.  WHY? And a lousy amplifier system – Nyman was painful.  Dancing quite good though – emphasises Turkey's bridge between West and East – these female bodies wobbling away.

29.3.93 Istanbul

I was forced to leave the concert early: the second part had music so loud I had my fingers in the ears for most of it.  So unnecessary.  The Brits flew the flag, and I'd seen and heard the concert hall.  Back and watched the French elections in French and Spanish (the latter rather embarrassing). Amazing result.  In an odd way, I'm glad old Lang got back in – a fine paragon of French culture…

To Topkapi – 'orrible weather.  After tram and Tünel, I decide to avoid the rain and take a taxi on Galata bridge.  Which then proceeded to go the wrong way, then dump me by the side of the road.  I didn't pay, and at least I'm over the bridge.  Another taxi to here – one I am able to catch out as he nearly doesn't take the right turn to the palace after the lighthouse.

Here too early, but first to get a ticket.  Up to the harem, and buy another for 10 o'clock start.  A quick wander – glorious views over the sea and the great ships out there.  Into the harem – with a big group alas, and snapping away like mad to show people back home.  A fine warren inside – for a minute, I catch a glimpse of a vanished world of caravans, 1001 nights.  Strange melange of cultures in parts, barely digested ideas – like the diminutive capitals on columns.  The Koran everywhere.

Now wandering through the capacious collections – porcelain et al.  Many people here – perhaps not surprising given that practically everything else is closed today.  Seeing the Japanese and Chinese stuff here reminds me that they represent now the last great unknown for me.  The palace overall reminds me greatly of the kraton in Java – perhaps there is some distant relationship, mediated by the Arab traders.  

To the café – thank god they built galleries around the courts – it is bucketing down now.  Strange how all sodden cities take on a similar aspect.  I remember Vienna, Paris (Palais de Tokyo), etc.  Perhaps it is just that you become very introspective, conscious only of being cold and wet.  Nice in a masochistic sort of way.  Ridiculous prices here – 10K lira for tea, but obviously, I ain't going walkies in this weather.

Up to the Galata Tower – blowy but brilliant sunshine.  Stunning view south across the Golden Horn and Bosphorus.  From here you see clearly how massive Aya Sofya is, particularly compared with the Blue Mosque, for example.  Beyond the city, hazy mountains – very Greek-like, unsurprisingly.  Which reminds me: I was conscious last night of how this trip is filling in a whole region hitherto rather mysterious.  Travel is like that: a gradual infilling of space and time.

From Galata back to the hotel – where I carry out my daily ritual of a call to the lost luggage office – and miraculously they have found my case.  But I have to go myself – customs, not unreasonably.  Still, a chance to find the Havaş Airport Bus. I try it on, asking for a free trip – refused, quite rightly.  I miss my stop, going on to the domestic terminal – and am kindly taken back by the driver (who was also dropping people off hither and thither).  To the Arrivals, back to the desk I was at before.  I then follow the man deep into the bowels of the airport – finally, at the end of a corridor behind double padlocked doors, there is my beloved case.

The man gives me a form to sign: which I nearly do.  But I read it, and notice that I am signing away all claims.  Er, no, thank you; I'd like some dosh.  So back upstairs, where I try it on further, bringing out the receipts for shirts, medicaments, travel etc. - which, mirabile dictu, they agree to, finally.  We settle on 300K lira – about £20.  Hardly a king's ransom, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.  Just goes to show.  Back the way I came.  I note, as before, how orderly Turks are, forming queues for things (rather like Mexicans) – and spontaneously giving up seats in buses for women and elderly men.  Puts us to shame.  Coming back from the airport, we passed the old city walls, now rather brazenly but impressively restored.  Past amazing spaghetti junction – but it works – then to the Tünel. 

Am now drinking sahlep for the first time – totally inappropriate, being hot and sweet, but very nice – great for this chillish weather. Back in Han's, cheap and near – one disadvantage of Taksim is that it is a real haul to the Golden Horn (interesting that the Greeks called it that, for unknown reasons).  I did, however, see it this evening on the way back, a sheet of golden foil (etc.) - very nice.  Well, sahlep is powdered orchid root, and I note that Bill Gates is getting married.

30.3.93  Istanbul

Suleiman mosque very impressive – so light and airy inside – almost recreating the open-air mosques I've seen in India.  Filthy weather – wet, cold – but with my suitcase it seems less of a problem.  Very noticeable sharpness in the air – lots of poor coal and wood being burnt today.  I had this place nearly to myself – now a couple of coachloads of tourists have arrived...pity, it was very peaceful here.

I have just read the Blue Guide's description of this place: a masterpiece of factual analysis, informed comments and judicious enthusiasm.  I see the building with new eyes, and understand its dynamics far better.  The comparisons with Aya Sofya are illuminating.  Once again, you can see how far ahead the imperial architect Mimar Sinan was compared to West Europeans.

Across to the Museum of the Ancient Orient – small but lots to see, especially of Hittite stuff.  The Kadesh treaty – hi, Ramses – but also the early Arabic inscriptions – before Islam.  This tremendous sense of ferment – peoples, kings, empires coming and going in this relatively small area.  Writing, laws, poems, epics – I feel a book coming on – "The Book", in fact.  All I've got to do is learn Arabic, Hebrew, Assyrian, Babylonian, Sumerian, Akkadian, Aramaic...etc. Perhaps I'll wait a few years.

One problem being out of season – no boats leaving regularly.  So I am forced to hire one – just for myself. 100K lira to Eyüp and back – hope it's worth it.  Well, up the Golden Horn is not exactly beautiful – though the great bowl of Eyüp's hill is – but interesting.  Obviously, the Bosphorous would have been better – I should have thought to do this over the weekend.  Next time…  Vague feeling of Venice – the shipyards, the thudding engine, the smells, the constant buffeting of the wind.  Also of Paris, on the Seine.  But with the differences compared to these.  Strange UFOs on the horizon, rockets pointed Allah-wards.  

But cold.  My head is freezing, so back to the hotel for a rest, then out again to the Tünel – to check the bus times.  Then past a possible fish restaurant, to the old Pizza Hut again, usual reasons.  A week here is enough: I'd have liked to get out – Troy beckons, as do numerous other sites.  It'd be great to drive down the coast.  One day, perhaps…  At least Turkish looks doable: one irregular verb, one irregular noun ("to be"and "water").  But what really fascinates me is this sense of reaching into this whole region – where civilisation was born (pace the Chinese).  Also of Turkish stretching across into the other Turkic languages: Azerbaijani, Turkmen, Uzbek (hi, Samarkand) – a great swathe across the steppes of Central Asia, the heart of the world (good title…).

Jolly busy this place, I must say, where all the young folk "hang out", as they say.  In some ways, it sums up Turkey's integration into the West – something it claims for itself, but that the West has always rather patronisingly pooh-poohed.  You would be hard-pushed to identify any specifics here, and yet it is no mere anonymous, soulless clone.

31.3.93 Istanbul

Up by the great mosaic in Aya Sofya's gallery again.  The tourists (well, other tourists) are awful – especially the Spaniards, for some reason – lots of school parties here, it seems.  Up late, lazy breakfast.  Not doing much today – I need a holiday from this holiday, which has been pretty exhausting.  But as I like it – walking and looking a lot.  Hotel room really quite good – especially with French and Spanish satellite TV – very useful, particularly for improving my understanding of French Canadian sounds – very odd… Very cold today – as ever in Aya Sofya.  Up to the usual restaurant in Sultanahmet.  Ate döner the right way, and then followed with muhallebi (tavukgöğsü).  Very sweet, slightly rubbery, not unpleasant.

By the Blue Mosque: muezzins in stereo – one from here, the other behind me somewhere. Weird.  After buying some cassettes (including what sounds rather groovy Sufi stuff), along to the baths.  Opt for the 195K lira job.  Into cubicle – rather cold, it has to be said.  There are about 30 of these, in two tiers, in the entrance hall, old and domed.  Strip, wrap tablecloth around middle, clogs on feet, then through towel room and main hall (double door) to steam room.  There for 5 to 10 minutes, working up mild sweat.  The through to the central hall – without spectacles, not so wonderful: small openings in the ceiling, water dripping down (hi, Andrei again), steam, vague smells of soap, male bodies.

My masseur, a reasonable, apparently non-gay bloke, works me over mildly – I was expecting much more.  But it was worth it for the sense of imperial coddling, of being some lord attended to.  Lying on the warm marble, vaguely naked, relaxing, sweating, stretched etc – I felt 2000 years ago.  To one of the alcoves, where I sit and then have tepid water poured over me.  Then soaped on the head, and scrubbed rather vigorously with what looked like an oven mitt – I hope it was clean given the depth it went into my skin.

Then the haggling began: did I want a super-soapy massage? All this "assisted washing" lark was vaguely embarrassing, it has to be said, although no improprieties were committed beyond some use of body contact – on the arm, I hasten to add – by the bloke.  Poor sod: I suppose he has to make a living.  So instead of 100K lira, we agree on 50K lira, and no tips.  This service consists of lying on the floor and being massaged when soapy.  Ho-hum.  But quite relaxing, though a work-out and reflexology knocks the spots off it.  The thing about this place is its atmosphere.  Hidden away in dusty concrete Istanbul is this living fossil.  Altogether, 250K lira to experience it – rather a rip-off in retrospect.  But worth doing once, the old Cağaloğlu Hamam.

To my left, a barber (inside) snips away; the masseurs wait, dressed in their Italian-red-and-white tablecloths.  Unfree drinks are on offer (declined).  Turkish music plays in the background.  Wonderful dome above, flaking and stained plaster.  Life is...pretty good.

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