When I am not working on the UN poster I walk the snowy streets. Some children throw snowballs at me, others salute as I pass. Armed soldiers guard all the government buildings. In fact the only people on the streets are soldiers. They wear olive colored greatcoats with red tabs on the collars and fur hats. Their Asian faces and uniforms remind me of the photos of “The Enemy” during the Viet Nam thing. They warn me away from some buildings, which I have absolutely no desire to enter.
Whatever Polly saw in this place I do not see.
The UN Radio Station is a hopeless bureaucracy. The two young female secretaries speak English. They are attractive and seem “Westernized” but they are Moslem, after all, so dating is out of the question. The director is an odd Dane cordially despised by his staff. He invites me up to his lavish apartment for sandwiches, booze and conversation and this turns out to be the only pay for my work. I suppose the UN can’t afford to hire an artist.
There are more immature earthquakes. I am kept awake by my own spells of coughing.
I locate the Chinese embassy. They are sorry but they do not grant visas to backpackers. I find the Pakistani and the Indian embassies. They are not presently at war so I can cross both if I want to.
I am feeling very ill and depressed. One night I pass through what Melville called “a Cape Horn of the soul.” A time so dark and stormy I am not sure I am going to make it, I draw a dream-picture—using just a faint hint of color; a misty Hawaiian valley. While I am working on it I think it might be my farewell to life and I am glad it is peaceful and about a place where I have been happy. Then I take a long walk in the snow and somehow make it around my Cape Horn.
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