Bhaktapur, Nepal
November 14, 2012
Altitude: 4,445'
Mid-morning in mid-November. I've been scrupulously following the circuitous walking tour my guide books has recommended. I hadn't actually been wandering around aimlessly, but I was always walking off track. The route was difficult to follow as it was. I was in a warren of narrow cobblestone streets, winding my way between red bricked houses, scuttling through courtyards peppered with temples, statues, cisterns, wells, women winnowing rice or spinning wool.
I was in the living museum of Bhaktapur--a significant medieval Nepali city state, a slow hour of grimy traffic from the center of Kathmandu.
And I was lost. There were few markers on my map to tell me where I was. The guidebook had said it would take two and half hours to complete the circuit, but I knew better. For me, the journey has always been more important than the final destination. There was still a lot of daylight left. I was surrounded by a pulsing Newari vibrancy and it was perfectly OK to be lot.
Six percent of the population of the Kathmandu Valley trace their routes to the Newari people. The speak a distinctively different language then Nepalis, are excellent crafts people as well as farmers, and the many shops in Bhaktapur sell finely crafted Hindu and Buddhist idols of gold, silver and bronze.
I was sitting at the edge of a large square under a warm autumn sun. In one corner, women were raking newly harvested rice into large piles. The rice would dry for more than a week, winnowed then stored for the winter.
In another corner, women were discretely bathing, their water having come from nearby cisterns and wells. All around me were temples to Shiva, Vishnu and the pantheon of gods and goddesses that make up Hinduism. There was no difference between temples and daily life. The two lived harmoniously side by side.
Men clustered together playing chess or cards and everywhere there were children. And chickens.
Children and chickens. As well as an occasional goat. I wasn't really alone. The longer I sat, the more children assembled. And their mothers, too. I was always asked the same questions.
"What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "Photo? Take photo?"
"Money?"
The children were out of school for the week. This was the second of day Dewali, the second most important holiday in Nepal.
Left over mandalas remained in front of homes. Hopefully, the goddess Laxmi had come and the family would have luck, many and prosperity during the coming year. There was a festive air all around money.
But I'd sat long enough. I asked the group if anyone spoke English. "Yes, Sir, I do, said a young woman. I showed her the map and where I wanted to go. "Oh, Sir. It's not far. I will take you there."
And so I packed up my notebook and camera, bid goodbye to my little friends, introduced myself and learned her name was Sampada. "It means heritage in your language, Sir." What a lovely name.
She led me out of the square. We ducked into a few more alleyways and a few more courtyards and delivered me to the next temple. I was back on track!
I was no more than 20 miles from the city, yet in these narrow streets and courtyard of Bhaktapur with their homes of decorative brickwork and ornately carved windows, I could easily have been in a Nepali village in the middle of nowhere.
This was a typical Newari settlement dating to the 14th and 15th century. The Newari are excellent farmers and they have carried their traditions from the country to the city. Sheaves of wheat drying in the sun as well a string of corn drying between windows. And because this was Dewali, many of the shrines were decorated with garlands of marigolds and flower petals. The mandalas, still lovely only a day later, were elaborately designed geometric figures of many colors, interspersed with flowers. Candles, which had been lit the night before, were still in their same location.
I was careful with my guidebook. Well...maybe not too careful. It wasn't hard to get diverted. Another square was chock-a-block with vendors--their produce spread on the ground on large sheets of plastic. Fruit was piled high: huge pomellos, tiny lady finger bananas, apples and oranges and guavas--all in season. There were baskets of dried fish and tables full of freshly killed chickens and cuts of beef surrounded by hordes of flies.
There were also goats and geese and dogs. And always, in every open area, the piles of rice drying in the sun. These people may live in the city, but they brought their age old traditions with them from the countryside. I also watched a goat being slaughtered, its skin burn off the men cutting the animal into cuts of meat. Dinner, perhaps, for the second night of Dewali.
For over four hours I was the only tourist. I continued detouring through the mazes of interconnecting courtyards. I'd jog through dark alleys, get lost once again, but find my way out. There were times I felt like Hansel and Gretel. Perhaps I should have left a trail of crumbs to get me back to where I'd started.
Well, I got lost time and again. But someone or somehow I'd find my way to the next temple--some Buddhist, some Hindu. What was supposed to be a two and half hour walk took me a delightful seven hours. I felt as if I'd been miles and miles away from the chaos of Kathmandu. In this Newari village, within the large village of Bhaktapur within the larger urban sprawl of Kathmandu, I was allowed to get a glimpse of daily life few tourists see.
I finally wandered into Durbar Square--the historic epicenter of Bhaktapur. By now it was late afternoon and the magnificent temples and pagodas were deluged with tourists. This is, after all, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Those temples and pagodas...they were nice, beautiful, stunning. But I was overwhelmed as well as hungry and dehydrated. I'd been more than satisfied to see the inner Bhaktapur.
I stopped at a coffee shop, ordered an Oreo milkshake and ate a whole bag of cookies. My feet hurt and I was tired. I sat there for over an hour, writing, people watching. I marveled at what a wonderful day it had been.
But it was time to get back to town. I caught a bus to Kathmandu, then a rickshaw to my hotel. It was my last night in the city and I had things to do.
But none of those things could equal my day among the Newari watching, at least for a moment, their daily lives.
As an Asian acquaintance once said when he held snow for the first time..."It was rare and wonderful."
November 14, 2012
Altitude: 4,445'
Mid-morning in mid-November. I've been scrupulously following the circuitous walking tour my guide books has recommended. I hadn't actually been wandering around aimlessly, but I was always walking off track. The route was difficult to follow as it was. I was in a warren of narrow cobblestone streets, winding my way between red bricked houses, scuttling through courtyards peppered with temples, statues, cisterns, wells, women winnowing rice or spinning wool.
I was in the living museum of Bhaktapur--a significant medieval Nepali city state, a slow hour of grimy traffic from the center of Kathmandu.
And I was lost. There were few markers on my map to tell me where I was. The guidebook had said it would take two and half hours to complete the circuit, but I knew better. For me, the journey has always been more important than the final destination. There was still a lot of daylight left. I was surrounded by a pulsing Newari vibrancy and it was perfectly OK to be lot.
Six percent of the population of the Kathmandu Valley trace their routes to the Newari people. The speak a distinctively different language then Nepalis, are excellent crafts people as well as farmers, and the many shops in Bhaktapur sell finely crafted Hindu and Buddhist idols of gold, silver and bronze.
I was sitting at the edge of a large square under a warm autumn sun. In one corner, women were raking newly harvested rice into large piles. The rice would dry for more than a week, winnowed then stored for the winter.
In another corner, women were discretely bathing, their water having come from nearby cisterns and wells. All around me were temples to Shiva, Vishnu and the pantheon of gods and goddesses that make up Hinduism. There was no difference between temples and daily life. The two lived harmoniously side by side.
Men clustered together playing chess or cards and everywhere there were children. And chickens.
Children and chickens. As well as an occasional goat. I wasn't really alone. The longer I sat, the more children assembled. And their mothers, too. I was always asked the same questions.
"What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "Photo? Take photo?"
"Money?"
The children were out of school for the week. This was the second of day Dewali, the second most important holiday in Nepal.
Left over mandalas remained in front of homes. Hopefully, the goddess Laxmi had come and the family would have luck, many and prosperity during the coming year. There was a festive air all around money.
But I'd sat long enough. I asked the group if anyone spoke English. "Yes, Sir, I do, said a young woman. I showed her the map and where I wanted to go. "Oh, Sir. It's not far. I will take you there."
And so I packed up my notebook and camera, bid goodbye to my little friends, introduced myself and learned her name was Sampada. "It means heritage in your language, Sir." What a lovely name.
She led me out of the square. We ducked into a few more alleyways and a few more courtyards and delivered me to the next temple. I was back on track!
I was no more than 20 miles from the city, yet in these narrow streets and courtyard of Bhaktapur with their homes of decorative brickwork and ornately carved windows, I could easily have been in a Nepali village in the middle of nowhere.
This was a typical Newari settlement dating to the 14th and 15th century. The Newari are excellent farmers and they have carried their traditions from the country to the city. Sheaves of wheat drying in the sun as well a string of corn drying between windows. And because this was Dewali, many of the shrines were decorated with garlands of marigolds and flower petals. The mandalas, still lovely only a day later, were elaborately designed geometric figures of many colors, interspersed with flowers. Candles, which had been lit the night before, were still in their same location.
I was careful with my guidebook. Well...maybe not too careful. It wasn't hard to get diverted. Another square was chock-a-block with vendors--their produce spread on the ground on large sheets of plastic. Fruit was piled high: huge pomellos, tiny lady finger bananas, apples and oranges and guavas--all in season. There were baskets of dried fish and tables full of freshly killed chickens and cuts of beef surrounded by hordes of flies.
There were also goats and geese and dogs. And always, in every open area, the piles of rice drying in the sun. These people may live in the city, but they brought their age old traditions with them from the countryside. I also watched a goat being slaughtered, its skin burn off the men cutting the animal into cuts of meat. Dinner, perhaps, for the second night of Dewali.
For over four hours I was the only tourist. I continued detouring through the mazes of interconnecting courtyards. I'd jog through dark alleys, get lost once again, but find my way out. There were times I felt like Hansel and Gretel. Perhaps I should have left a trail of crumbs to get me back to where I'd started.
Well, I got lost time and again. But someone or somehow I'd find my way to the next temple--some Buddhist, some Hindu. What was supposed to be a two and half hour walk took me a delightful seven hours. I felt as if I'd been miles and miles away from the chaos of Kathmandu. In this Newari village, within the large village of Bhaktapur within the larger urban sprawl of Kathmandu, I was allowed to get a glimpse of daily life few tourists see.
I finally wandered into Durbar Square--the historic epicenter of Bhaktapur. By now it was late afternoon and the magnificent temples and pagodas were deluged with tourists. This is, after all, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Those temples and pagodas...they were nice, beautiful, stunning. But I was overwhelmed as well as hungry and dehydrated. I'd been more than satisfied to see the inner Bhaktapur.
I stopped at a coffee shop, ordered an Oreo milkshake and ate a whole bag of cookies. My feet hurt and I was tired. I sat there for over an hour, writing, people watching. I marveled at what a wonderful day it had been.
But it was time to get back to town. I caught a bus to Kathmandu, then a rickshaw to my hotel. It was my last night in the city and I had things to do.
But none of those things could equal my day among the Newari watching, at least for a moment, their daily lives.
As an Asian acquaintance once said when he held snow for the first time..."It was rare and wonderful."
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