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At the far end of the runway, the temple/castle, Paro Dzong, dominated the narrow valley. In it we queued before a man wearing what looked like a cross between a dressing-gown and a full-body kilt; the top was loose, voluminous, and I had heard that one could carry six bottles of beer within, kept in place by one's belt.

The garment was the gho, the male equivalent of a kira, and was worn at all times, by law, when more than 300 metres from one's house.

One of the world’s smallest capitals, Thimphu had a population of 31,000 then; today, I believe, it is three times that, but in 1992 it had the air of a small country town, the sort you drive through now and then in England when the motorway is blocked and the police divert you. In each one, at busy times, there stood a smartly-dressed policeman in a blue, Western-style uniform, directing the traffic with stylized gestures, the balletic grace of which was enhanced by immaculate white gloves.

The difference was its dramatic location, in a very narrow valley at 7,500ft; from its edges, steep slopes rose to peaks twice that height, their summits shrouded in the mist and rain of the monsoon season that was just beginning. (In the early hours of the morning a year or so later, two friends and I emerged from a private bar a hundred yards or so from the central island, well the worse for wear. My friends made straight for the nearby island and began to walk clockwise about it as if it were a religious structure, chanting Om mani padme hum – Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.

We fled.)The main street was lined with low wooden shops, each with a front partially open to the street. And there was a small but very well-kept public library halfway up the street, with an excellent selection of old English-language paperback novels.

They seemed, for the most part, to sell much the same thing; plastic implements, packets of tea, rather hard soap, chillies, and, for some reason, dried fish – always dried fish, although I never saw anyone buy any. It was run by a charming young woman who appeared genuinely embarrassed when I returned some books a week late, and she had to make me pay a few pence in fines.

One of a small armada that set out from the former Soviet bloc in those years – it was 1992 – packed with enormous women in old-fashioned headscarves with things to sell and things to buy; a tramp-steamer of the skies, the air around its exhausts distorted and liquid. I wondered if the Indian diplomat could tell me what a gup was, or indeed a ngolop; but he was dozing.

They were shrouded here and there by a little cloud—thin as yet, for the monsoon was barely beginning.

Before long, the peaks came closer as we sank into a valley.

A structure strange to me but clearly a temple of some kind slid below us, wisps of cloud reflecting the sunlight.

The peaks were above us now, although we were barely 60 miles away from the blistering Bengal plain.

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