Tales from the road and beyond

Kopan

I had planned six days before the start of the pilgrimage—to adjust to the time difference and see everything that was easily accessible. For the first few days, I wandered around the center, absorbing all the sounds, smells, and sights. And then the rains began. So what do you do in Kathmandu when it rains? I typed the question into Google. “Street food tour,” Google suggested. Apparently, Google believes food is a universal answer to any life question. And, generally speaking, it’s right.

Beatrice directed me to Kopan Monastery. I went on Sunday. Typically, visitors aren’t allowed in, but on that day the monastery was full. A big celebratory puja (a Buddhist service with chanting) was already underway. The vast hall was filled with rows of monks in yellow and red robes. They were chanting, each in their own way. There was a head monk leading the service, singing in a very deep bass. The air was heavy with the scent of incense. I felt like a curious, intrusive guest, and I didn’t like that feeling. My soul felt at home, but I had no idea how to behave. I wanted to look at everything, to take it all in, because inside me something like a memory stirred: I know this already. I’ve been here before.

I’m at the hotel. A cozy inner courtyard that creates a green oasis of silence and comfort right in the heart of Thamel, the noisy crowded tourist district of Kathmandu. You turn into a narrow lane, then another turn, and the street noise is left somewhere behind the walls, while silence and calm wrap around me. Stunning interior details—stone bas-reliefs, blooming geraniums, tall monsteras. In this well-like courtyard, monsteras flourish joyfully. I never imagined they could climb all the way up to the second floor of a building. The garden also serves as the hotel’s restaurant courtyard. During the day, I often run here between excursions to calm down and catch my breath.

If you google “Pumdikot,” you’ll see that for many athletically minded travelers it’s simply one of the points along the Annapurna Circuit. But our group came to Pokhara not to test ourselves on mountain treks, but to connect with Nepal’s sacred places. So we reached Pumdikot by bus. Ah, the air there! The mountains are immersed in greenery—fresh, beautiful, and majestic.

My first guide, Rama - a short, plump Nepali man of about sixty – got ahold of me in Durbar Square. My initial intent was to wander around the square on my own, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. Looking around, I noticed that there was a multitude of these persistent guides offering their services to single tourists. Before going to Nepal, I had decided to just go with the flow, to let in whatever comes and to let go whatever leaves. So I “gave in” to Rama’s persuasion. Better to have just one guide talking to me than saying no to the whole crowd shouting “buy a tour”. Besides, it was obvious from the look of me that this was my first time here and that I knew absolutely nothing.

In Nepal, first and foremost, I felt the energy of joy—it is everywhere, it is accessible. In the bustle of Durbar Square, where crowds of tourists walk around the temples—some praying, but many taking photos and listening to guided tours. In the chanting of monks. In the unhurried manner of street vendors. In the grandeur of temple structures. In this hum, this constant hum of human voices. Flocks of pigeons coo and wait to be fed. Sometimes the pigeons take off all at once and settle on the roofs of the many temples. Old men sit on the temple porches and on huge stone steps. They just sit. In the bustle, in the noise of Durbar Square. And what of it? It is joyful here. The energy of joy pulses here.

As a child, I was in love with Roerich’s paintings, where endless ridges of lilac, blue and white mountains told stories of distant sacred lands, where monks, clouds, and immortals live. I dreamed that one day I would see the Himalayas.