Photos of Nepal

Welcome to Nepal--November 8, 2012 

Pashupatinath Temple and the Bagmati River

Preparations for a cremation at the temple

One of many temples in Kathmandu

Shopping

One of many temple idols

Friendly kids

Women sitting at home

A side street in Bahktapur

Lake Fewa in Pokhara and the Annapurnas

Annapurna

Annapurna at sunset

More friendly kids I met on a bike ride

ki

Chitwan National Park

Thanksgiving with the elephants

Mustard in bloom

Lumbini--the birthplace of the Buddha

Lumbini

Nepal: In the End

Varanasi, India
November 30, 2012
Altitude: 1,010'

In the end, Nepal still has the ability to astound.  What's not to like about viewing the world's highest mountains.  How amazing is it walk around Medieval Newari villages, coexisting just outside the chaos of Kathmandu.  What's not to like about seeing rhinos coming to the river to drink at dusk or elephants lumbering down the only street in Sauraha.

But in the end, Nepal was a bit of a disappointment as well as a lesson very well learned.  At the end of the 1998-1999 world trip Nepal came in at #1 of the 25 countries I visited.  But it's been 14 years between visits and it's mighty hard to stay #1 for that long.

A lot had changed in the travel world since the turn of the 21st century.

In the end Nepal was simply overrun with tourists.  In the past you could always expect  the usual assortment of Central Europeans, North Americans and Australians.  But the past decade has been good to the Chinese and to Eastern Europeans, all of who were in huge numbers. Add to that mix a generous share of retired boomers and you get the idea.  

In the end I was happy to get out of the  major tourist hubs.  I stayed six days in Chitwan, living in my own bungalow, sitting on its front porch, reading the afternoon away. In the late afternoon I'd go down to the river, watch the sunset, eat, and go to bed early.  It wold be the quite, I knew, before the storm of India.

In the end it's hard to top Thanksgiving with the elephants.  And while I missed home, it was a wonderful day.

In the end, I may come back, but I doubt it.  I learned a valuable lesson.  You truly can't go home again.  The Nepal that existed in my memory was still there, but it was more crowded, dirtier.  I was not seeing the country through the same eyes I saw it from in 1998.

The Pokhara I remember was a small town at the base of the Annapurnas.  There were few cars and it didn't take long to bike out of town into an agrarian world that hadn't changed much in centuries.

But this year!  This year motorcycles raced around me. screaming paragliders who'd jumped off a cliff several thousand feet higher were descending.  Range Rovers raced by me as I rode my bike out of the city.

You really can't go home again.  The places in the world I hold special were experienced a long time ago. 

I remember renting an inner tube in the small Laotian village of Vang Viene and lazily drifting down its river,past a herd of water buffaloes, past women modestly bathing by its banks.

I've read where Vang Vien is now the adventure capital of Laos.  The images I hold of that special place probably dont' exist anymore.

I remember sleeping on sandy Greek beaches, "showering" at local tavernas.  I know that's illegal now, and I certainly wouldn't want to replicate it, but it's a fond memory.

I remember touring Anchor Wat in Cambodia with only a large handful of tourists.  The road back to Phenom Phen had just opened.  Hue potholes existed where landmines had recently been removed. Now more than a million people visit that site each year, many flying in just for the day from Bangkok.

There are a million other images.  What I learned is that I'm not going back to some of these places.  They would never equal what they were when I first saw the,

Still, in the end, Nepal was nice.  But it wasn't the Nepal I remember.  

And that's OK.

Lumbini, Nepal: the Birthplace of the Buddha

Lumbini, Nepal
November 27, 2012
Altitude: 600'

In 1980, shortly after the Camp David Accords, I planned a summer trip to Israel and Egypt.  The borders had just opened and this seemed like the time to do it.

"The Holy Land," my mother said.  She was very excited for me.  Just before leaving she handed me a rosary and asked that it be blessed somewhere.

I carried it with me the entire trip.  The day I went to Bethlehem, I brought it with me.  For me, there could be no better place to have the rosary blessed.

This was 32 years ago, before the days of massive tourism, before the hordes of Chinese and Japanese all wanting their pictures taken in front of every possible place.  There were tourists to be sure, but not in the numbers there are today.

When I stepped into the Grotto of the Nativity I was alone.  In that small space there is a gold marker where tradition says that Jesus was born.  I placed the rosary on top of it and simply sat.  For more than ten minutes I was the only person there.  Only when another person came did I give up my seat.

Later, I brought the rosary into the Church of the Nativity, found a priest and asked him to bless it.  But to me, the real blessing on this rosary occurred in ten minutes it rested on the gold marker.

This is the power that Bethlehem had on me and I'm sure Lumbini, in southern Nepal, close to the Indian border, has the same power for Buddhists,. It's here, sometime around the year 563 BC, that Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, was born.

And so it was that I found myself in this town--one of the four most important Buddhist pilgrimage sites in the world.  For Buddhists, this is a place of huge religious experience and it attracts pilgrims from around the world.  For years, though, unlike its Christian counterpart, it lay in ruins and was only "rediscovered" in 1896.  Subsequent digs have concluded that this is the site where the Buddha was born.

I arrived at the site early in the morning.  Mist still hung over the village as I rode my bike into the park that was designed in 1978.  A large, white, square buildings that looks more like a mosque protects the 3rd Century BC remains of stupas and monasteries.  Just outside the building is one of the 33 existing Ashoka pillars put there by the Buddhist emperor Ashoka in the 2,200 years ago.Its these pillars that have in Nepal and northern India that have helped archaeologists the most.

There was a long line waiting to get into the Maya Devi temple named after the Buddha's mother.  We walked on raised walkways peering down at the ruins.  In the center of the temple was the actual spot that tradition said that Siddhartha was born.  It was marked with a small footprint which ancient writers spoke of.  For the Buddhists present, this was a powerful religious moment. They bowed in silence.  Some placed gold leaf on the ruin next to the birth site. Above this was a 2nd century terracotta Nativity.

Outside, three groups of Buddhist pilgrims--two from Japan and one from Tibet--were chanting.  Others stood in silence, hand folded in prayer.  Others sat silent in meditation.

It was still foggy and the nicely landscaped garden and streams and streams of multicolored prayer flags fluttered in the light breeze.

Once outside of the temple complex, I meandered across abridge. Wetlands attract graceful white cranes and the ponds were full of lotus.

Beyond this were newer monasteries that had been erected by every Buddhist nation in the world.

That afternoon I joined a small tour that brought us to significant outer sites associated with the Buddha.

I'm very happy I went to Lumbini, but it's no Bethlehem. How could it be?  it's not part of my imagery or culture.  And while I have a lot of respect for Buddhism, it not my tradition and never will be. The imagery I hold of Nativity is far different.

Knowing what I know now, I doubt I'd ever return to Bethlehem.  It truly is for me "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem."  I remember that I made a day of it.  I visited the church and the grotto and then walked to Shepard's Field where tradition said the angels announced the birth of Jesus to the Shepherds.  "For unto you..."
I had Luke 2 with me and will always remember sitting in that field alone, somewhere on the outskirts of Bethlehem, living very much in my Bethlehem moment.

I walked back into the center of town, but was diverted by a Christian Palestinian family who invited me into their home for lunch.  I have often wondered about them as violence erupted in Israel during the last 32 years.

I have a small hand carved Nativity that I brought from an Armenian man who had a shop in town.  I must remember to take it out this Christmas.

Still, I'm glad I went.  But I just couldn't get excited about it the way I saw Buddhists on pilgrimage get excited.  For them, it was their "Bethlehem."  And I had to respect that.

Nepal: Chitwan National Park and Thanksgiving With the Elephants

Chitwan National Park, Nepal

November 22, 2012

Altitude: 1,250'

On the morning of Thanksgiving, I woke very early--before the sun rose. Dew was dripping off trees above my bungalow and the sound of it was like a slow, soft, rainfall. Other sounds--a rooster crowing, the faint din of a distant conversation,, music nearby--stirred me out of bed.

Outside, it was pre-dawn and cold when I walked to the Rapti River. I was in Saurana, Nepal, in Chitwan National Park.  The river was blanketed in a fine layer of mist that hung over the gently flowing water, creeping through the nearby valley and twining itself here and there about the surrounding hills. I sat by the bank, and waited as the sun rose in the eastern sky.

It was a fine way way to begin Thanksgiving 2012!  I would miss home--the annual walk at Point au Roche, dinner with Steve, Ed and Rita, the first Christmas lights lit on the Blue Spruce in the back yard. But all that was OK.

This would be a Thanksgiving with the Elephants.

I sat on the banks of the river for a long time, until the sun had risen and burned off the swirls of mist.  Only then did I move to a table at a riverside restaurant for breakfast.  In front of me, on a small island, a crocodile was sunning himself.  But my attention was directed to my left when I began to see elephants march towards the river.

I paid my bill and walked about 200 years north.  This was the time of day that the mahouts--the elephant handlers--brought the giant beasts for their bath. And...for 100 rupees--the chance for tourists to ride the elephant into the water and have himself sprayed by the elephant.  I had no intentions of doing so, but after watching ten or tourists doing it, I thought...here I am, far from home.  It's Thanksgiving and what an amazing opportunity lay in front of you.  

So I took the plunge.  I handed my day pack to a couple I was watching this show with, asked them to take photos, took of all my clothes except for my shorts and hopped onto the elephant.

Well...hop on isn't exactly the word.  The mahout gave me a boost and I held on the elephant rose and lumbered into the water. Chowp," said the mahout and up came a spray of water.  I was like a kid, laughing uncontrollably.  What an amazing experience.  A few minutes later he directed the animal into deeper water.  "Let go," the mauhot said.  And I did.  And as the elephant knelt into the water I fell off.  I didn't want to think what was int he water.  It certainly wasn't deep.  I was still laughing.  Again, I was put back on the elephant and it walked toward shore where, safe from the water, it knelt and let me down.

There are not many OMG moments in life, but this was one of them.

I dressed, headed back to the guest house, washed out my clothes and set off on the next adventure.

The night before I'd rented a bicycle.  I headed out of Sauruha into the small indigenous villages of the the Tharu people that dotted the landscape in all directions.

It wasn't long before I was out of town.  I biked past women herding oxen to a grazing area, I rose past flocks of and ducks and more goats than I could count.  I rode through one dusty town to another.  Houses were tiny--most not more than one or two rooms.  This is a climate where people can live most of the year.  Almost all were made of brick and covered in a brown clay.  Many homes were painted with fun designs of hand prints or footprints on the outer walls.

All around the land was flat. Summer's wheat had been harvested.  Tall pyramidal shapes of hay stood next to most of the homes.  Food, imagine, for their animals during the cooler months to come.  Rices was drying on large, flat circular bamboo mats. More than once I saw tiny women carrying large wicker baskets of produce--the baskets attached to their head by fabric bands. Fields of bright yellow mustard were in bloom--a lovely contrast to the brown of late autumn.

Old men were sitting together in the sun and women clustered together chatting.  Children--out of school for the Thihar holiday--were everywhere.

"Hello.  Namaste.  Namaste.  Hello.  How are you?  What is your name?  10 rupees? Namaste. Bye. Bye. Bye."

By now it was noonish and the warm yellow sun felt good on my skin.  It was only in the low 70's, but after a cold night it felt wonderful.  I crossed a bridge and saw a perfect place to park the bike, rest a bit, absorb the landscape and enjoy the late November sunshine.

In the river, groups of women were doing different tasks.  Some were bathing, others were washing their clothes.  A team of six women were as a unit--each carrying a reed basket, attempting to gather fish or crustaceans. I'm still not sure. 

It wasn't long before a group of boys spotted me.  They lived in a small village on the other side of the river and they soon splashed across.  My bike was the big draw.  Each of them wanted to ride it.

I had to be firm.  It wasn't my bike and I didn't want to be responsible for them hurting themselves or their damaging my bike.

Instead, we played marbles.  Two boys had a large handful each.  One dug a small hole and the three of us got equal numbers.  They played just like I did when I was a child.  

Marbles!  I hadn't played marbles since I was in elementary school outside the old St. Peter's Catholic School--Ecole Sainte Pierre--torn down more than fifty years ago.

It was great fun. 

I finally turned my bike around.  I passed a small Buddhist stupa, then a Hindu temple and, to my surprise, a church. I asked later if there were problems--each group living together, but was told things were harmonious on a religious level.

I returned to my guest house, ate a late lunch, read, washed a few clothes and waited for the next adventure...a ride on an elephant. 

At 3:00 I boarded a long dug out canoe and crossed to the river to where elephants waited for tourists. I climbed a tower and stepped onto the back of an Asian elephant a began a two hour safari through tall grasses.  In all there, were six elephants and all would be in search of black-horned rhinoceros.  The idea of riding an elephant is one thing; it's quite another reality as it lumbers slowly through the brush.  The beast often stopped to eat grasses, but ultimately we all reached a point where the six animals and their cargo surrounded a pair of rhinos.  It was an awesome site.

Later, the elephants regrouped and returned a long way to our starts point.  They marched in a long single file.  There were no clouds and to my east the sun was setting in a gold washed sky.  To my west, the last rays of the sun were illuminated the snow-mantled Annapurnas in the far distance.

We returned to the river at dusk.  About three hundreds upstream the guide alerted us to a treat.  A pair of rhinos had come to the river to drink.  They were far enough way not to pose any threat.

Well..what a way to end the series of adventures.

Later that evening I slipped into the town's most popular restaurant and ordered a nice meal--a steak sizzler and a big pot of lemon tea. There would be no traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but that was OK. 

The day had been unforgettable,almost reverential, and when I went to bed I gave a silent, yet grateful prayer, for a Thanksgiving that I won't forget

A Thanksgiving Alphabet

Chitwan National Park
Sauraha,, Nepal
November 22, 2012
Altitude: 1,250'

Thanksgiving 2012 


I am grateful for so many people, so many things.  These are some of the things that give me joy, make me grateful, define the person I am.  And for all of them I am very grateful.

I invite all of you write your own Thanksgiving Alphabet.  When I started this, I thought it would be difficult, but the words just flowed and flowed.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A -- Aunt Gloria -- Al-Anon -- Acceptance --Adirondacks -- Autumn -- Almond Joys -- Altiplano of South America -- Apple Crisp -- Another Day -- Awe

B -- Bob the Cat -- Bolivia -- Brilliant Blue Days -- Baked Chicken -- Books -- Bounty Bars -- Bicycles 

C -- Christmas -- Christmas Trees -- Children -- Coyoacan -- Cruises -- Candlelight -- Caribbean Beaches -- C. S. Lewis -- Constellations

D -- DQ Buster Bars -- December -- Dreams and Dreams Fulfilled 
-- Diversity -- Daisies in June

E -- Ed and Rita -- Espanol -- Eggnog -- Every Good Thing in God's Good Earth -- Eyesight -- Education

F -- Friends Who Have Stood Presence -- French Fries -- Figure Skating -- Forgiveness -- F. Scott Fitzgerald -- Fresh Tomatoes 
-- Friendship

G -- God as I Understand Him, Beyond All Conceptions, Beyond All That Theologies Attempt to Teach -- Glenda -- Gerardo -- Grace -- Greece -- Greek Islands -- Greek Food -- Green Mountains -- Gentleness

H -- Helen -- Himalayas -- Heaven -- Health and Health Care -- Hearing -- Hues of Every Shade -- Hershey Kisses -- Hiking 

I -- Ice Cream -- Innovative Thinking -- Iceland -- Islands of Lake Titicaca

J -- Jazz -- Joy -- Jesus' Teachings -- Jeans

K -- Kittens and All God's Gentle Creatures -- Kites

L -- Love, Plain and Simple -- Lake Champlain -- Libraries -- Literature -- Latin America -- Lemon Tea

M -- Mary -- Mexico -- Mexico City -- Mariachi Bands --Montreal -- Macaroni and Cheese -- Milk Chocolate -- Mountains -- Moussaka

N -- November -- New Clothes -- Narnia

O -- October's Colors and Cool Nights -- Oceans -- Over the Rainbow

P -- Parents Who Shaped Me -- Playa del Carmen --Passports -- Point au Roche -- Peanut Sauce -- Plans -- People Who Keep Their Word -- Photography -- Physical Therapy

Q -- Questions and Questions -- Quirky Kids

R -- Rice Pudding and Rice Paddies -- Retirement -- Reading -- Redemption -- Reconciliation

S -- Steve, Always and Above All Steve, Who Has Always Allowed Me to Live the Melody That is My Life -- Spirit of God Who Surrounds Me All the Time -- Summer and Sunshine -- Skiing -- Snow Days -- Snow flakes and Snowfalls -- Shoes That Fit -- Sunsets

T -- Tropical Latitudes -- Travel -- Tapioca -- Truman Capote --  Thanksgiving -- Trains -- Time to Do the Things I Want to Do -- Theater -- Tropical Beaches -- Tibetan Plateau

U -- Unconditional Love

V -- Vicki -- Vietnamese Spring Rolls -- Valium -- Vacations -- Vermont -- Vision

W -- Whiteface Mountain -- Wow! -- White Christmases -- Writing -- Wildflowers -- Wonder

X -- X-tra Crunchy Peanut Butter -- Xylophones in Marimba Bands -- Xanax

Y -- YOU, Blessed Friend, Who Reads This

Z -- Zinnias -- Zest for Life -- Z's When It's Time for Bed -- Zillions and Zillions of Things Left to Do

Sunset Over the Annapurnas--Pokhara, Nepal

Sarangat, Nepal
November 19, 2012
Altitude: 3,159

I was a bit frazzled after Kathmandu and it was very nice to leave the city and travel six hours to the lovely lakeside city of Pokhara, Nepal's second largest city.  It's located on a pretty lake but the most dramatic aspect of the city are the Annapurna's that lie a mere six kilometers away.  They rise to 25,000 feet and in November they are spectacular against the deep blue, cloudless skies.

I spent the first few days enjoying easy things to do: hiking to the World Peace Pagoda on a hill 800' above the lake where the views of the mountains were even more expansive.  Another day I spent  biking south along the lake, past the guest houses, past the restaurants, past the screaming paragliders parachuting off a peak a thousand feet higher than the lake.  Beyond that were traditional villages, centuries old traditions.  At one point I parked the bike just to sit by the river, but that became impossible when a large group of boys spotted me.

Bike.  Ride bike? Namaste.  Hello.  What is your name?  Bike?  Ride bike?  Namaste. Where are you from?  Hello.  Namaste.

It was fun for awhile, but I preferred to be alone, enjoy the vistas of the Himalayas and watching locals harvest their wheat.

When I got back to town it would be my last night.  I'd met a more-than-pleasant Australian couple from the hotel and we'd decided to hire a car and drive to Sarangat--a thousand feet above the city, where we would have unimpeded views of the Annapurnas and cold stare into the clear blue distance of ate afternoon as the sun set behind us.

Nettie and Walter had been living in Pokhara for almost two months.  The four of us made our way to the summit with plenty of time to watch light transform the mountains.

Far below us was the Hemja Valley, with the winding Seti River running sinuously through it.  It had been on the banks of that river that I'd met the boys.

As shadows crept up the Annapurna range, contours of the lower mountains became more pronounced and change to a coppery red.

We had a panoramic sweep of three major Nepali mountains, rising to their glacial summits and all part of the Annapurna Range: to the south lay Dhaulaaagir at 26,542'.  In the center was the dramatic pyramidal shaped Machhapuchhare at 22,740'.  (Nepal will not permit anyone to climb it as it's considered a holy mountain.) And directly in front of us was Annapurna III at 25,95.'.

As the sun set behind us the peaks transformed from purple to pink then to gold.  It was a mighty fine sunset.

But it was time to descend.  The day was shedding its warmth and we all needed warmer clothes.

At a stall near the cab, I rummaged through million year old fossils that are harvested from the Kalikandaki River.  Nettie said, OH, I can't.  It's just too cheesy."

"What are you talking about, I asked her.  "Well...you...an old fossil buying an old fossil." 

We laughed.  She wasn't much younger than I.  At least the ammonite I bought was several million years older either of us.

When we got back to town we'd been invited to the hotel owner's home for dinner.  His wife had prepared a typical Neapali meal, including the national dish--dal bhat.  We used silverware, but Cool and his wife ate with their right hand. We were the odd ones out in this culture

The next morning we separated. Nettie and Walter and Cool and his wife headed off into the mountains.  But Nettie had left me a note: "Dearest Dan... May your journey is life be happy and prosperous and God willing our paths will cross again. Love, Nettie (the younger fossil in making!)"  I had to laugh. 
 

This is one of the most wonderful things about travel--the people one meets and connects with on an almost on a daily basis. I still maintain contact with folks I traveled with more than thirty years ago, and I do not doubt Nettie and Walter have heard the end of me.  Perhaps it's time for a revisit to Australia.

I lingered on in Pokhara another day then left for lower climes. Autumn was now crawling toward winter and the nights were getting too cold for me above 3,000 feet.  It was time to move on to the jungle, then into the plains of Nepal and India where, I'm sure, I'll long for cool nights.

Photos of Kathmandu

Rickshaws in Kathmandu

Royal gardene attached to the King's palace

On the streets

Durbar Square

A Hindu temple

Durbar Square

Idols attached to trees

Beautiful stone work in temples

Life on the street

One of the many gods on display

An outdoor  flower market

The Living Museum that is Bhaktapur

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."