Any hopes I may have had, while studying advertisements of snow-covered mountains in the arrivals hall, of exiting the airport and taking in a deep breath of crisp mountain air, were dashed as soon as I stepped into Kathmandu. It was hot, like I hadn’t left Laos, and the air was crowded with low-hanging monsoon clouds and a fog of dust and exhaust.
Clearer skies over Thamel.
After a 20 minute journey from the airport–over canals, past storefronts of glittering formal saris, down alleys seemingly meant only for bicycles–I arrived in my pit stop for my first night in Nepal. Thamel: backpacker’s paradise.
What do you want? What did you never realize you wanted? Yak wool sweaters in every color? Kama Sutra playing cards? A hang gliding tour of Mount Everest? Ride in my rickshaw? Namaste–hello–the shopkeepers and touts called from every angle, eagerly hoping for a customer. The narrow streets were a constant and colorful human traffic jam of pedestrians, rickshaws, cars, motorbikes, and carts, feeling like an obstacle course of sorts.
Not long after I settled in and walked a few laps around this neighborhood, those monsoon clouds started to sprinkle, and soon to fully open up into a heavy rain, which would continue for a few days. Discouraged from much further exploration by the dark, soggy evening, I instead enjoyed my first dinner of momos (Tibetan dumplings), and got some rest.
The following morning, the rain hadn’t let up at all, but I was scheduled to fly to Pokhara, northwest of Kathmandu, to meet my friend for a trek. I was rather looking forward to a flight out of the domestic terminal–I’ve developed quite a fondness for Asian domestic terminals, with their single rooms and non-mechanized baggage delivery, among other charming features–but was worried about the ability of my flight, on Yeti Airlines, to take off in the rain. Indeed, we were delayed, and I entertained myself by watching a group of Japanese tourists dance to Gangnam Style. But miraculously, we took off at a reasonable time, and I arrived safely in Pokhara, later learning that the rest of the day’s flights had been cancelled.
When I returned to Kathmandu at the end of the trip, the rain had cleared, so I was finally able to wander a bit further from the rows of postcard stalls and jewelry sellers of Thamel. I walked from there to Durbar Square, a historical center downtown, with palaces and temples of interesting architectural heritage, and more importantly, supreme evening people-watching. Children flew kites from the steps, as salespeople, motorcyclists, tourists, and families thronged through the plaza.
The next morning, before my flight back to Bangkok, I managed a quick trip to Swayambhunath, commonly known as the “monkey temple,” for the troupes of furry bandits that inhabit its hilltop. It’s one of the most sacred Tibetan Buddhist pilgrimage sites, and, unfortunately for me, lies atop a 365-step climb. My legs were still in agony from trekking, but I slowly crept to the top, allowing a few old ladies to pass me on the way. At the top, prayer flags waved and devotees spun rows of prayer wheels, the tranquility occasionally punctuated by a monkey squabble. The bustle of Kathmandu appeared distant now, cloaked in city haze and clouds, the last of many remarkable views on this adventure.
