Brother Knows Best: part 2 – Kathmandu
As I leave the airport terminal, the feeling is unbearable. A relentless pounding headache combined with waves of nausea that seem to grip my entire body, leaving me weak, disoriented, and desperate for relief. I’m here to meet my brother, Steve, who’s been travelling these parts for years. With Steve’s travel experience comes knowledge and street cred, a ‘brother knows best’ kind of deal. Before I even see Steve, I know what he is going to say. As I approach him his wisdom kicks in and he says “I told you not to trust anybody. What happened to you”?
Interruption to the story: To learn more, read Brother Knows Best: Part 1 – Bangkok
Kathmandu feels like stepping into another world. The air here is heavy with a blend of spice and incense, thick and earthy, with a hint of the mountains that surround the valley. Everything seems more vivid, from the colours of the prayer flags fluttering over market stalls to the steady rhythm of bells tolling from nearby temples. It’s ancient, chaotic, intense, yet beautiful in a way that words can hardly describe.
The year is 1987, a year marked by the vibrant buzz of travellers flocking to Nepal, drawn by its mystique and beauty. Steve helps me with my backpack and ushers me into a taxi. Eventually, we arrive at a small guesthouse tucked away in the heart of the Thamel district. Cosy Corner is modest and cheap, with character in abundance.
The guesthouse itself is a simple, multi-story building with narrow staircases and low ceilings. Our room is sparse — two single beds with no linen or pillows, a small window, and a fan in the corner that hummed and sputtered occasionally. The floor is dirty and dusty, and the walls, a faded shade of yellow that bore the marks of years of travellers who had passed through, each leaving behind their own bit of history.
We unpack, though “settling in” doesn’t quite feel like a word I want to use to describe it. I need to lie down, my head feels like it’s about to explode. Slightly refreshed, and a few hours later, I give myself a guided tour of Cozy Corner. Surprise, surprise – right behind the guesthouse there is a giant marijuana plant growing.
It is time to go out for dinner. We head out into the busy streets, which are teeming with people, rickshaws, and the faint aroma of incense drifting through the air. I’m wide-eyed and taking it all in when I spot a sign that catches my eye: ‘International Cuisine’. It promises ‘all vegetables washed in bottled water’, which, at the time, sounds like the reassurance I need. I read the menu “They sell chilli con carne” I excitedly say to Steve.
Steve, always the more experienced traveller, advises. “Don’t eat meat here, you’ll regret it.” After the debacle that was Bangkok, I want to prove him wrong, I felt deviant.
Steve, in his usual knowing way, raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “I’ll find something else,” he says. “Good luck.” I nod and head inside. The restaurant feels a little more polished than most of the places we passed along the way, a little more Western. I order my chilli con carne, feeling like I’ve made the safest choice. The food tastes good and I finish my meal with a sense of satisfaction.
Day two, I wake up with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, but I dismiss it as nothing serious, probably the after-effects of being drugged in Bangkok, and all the associated vomiting! We go downstairs and order breakfast. The chef is a lovely Tibetan woman with limited English. During breakfast, we discuss the plan for today. The first sight I ‘must see’ is the famous Monkey Temple – properly known as the Swayambhunath stupa. This sacred Buddhist site has been perched here since the 5th century, a timeless symbol surrounded by trees and, of course, monkeys. The monkeys are like little sentinels that add to its otherworldly charm. Steve tells me there are 365 steps leading up to the top, one for each day of the year, winding their way steeply up the hillside.
We rent bush bikes for the day. The wind rushes past as we dodge motorbikes, buses, and pedestrians. We navigate the narrow, bustling roads of Kathmandu with both excitement and trepidation. On our way to the Monkey Temple, we stop at a small yoghurt stall tucked into a narrow alley, its modest sign promising a taste of something uniquely Nepali. As we approach, the tangy aroma of freshly made yoghurt fills the air, drawing me in. Behind the stall, a boy who looks around 13 years of age is busy at work, seated on a foot-powered pottery wheel, shaping small clay pots. The wheel spins with a rhythmic pulse, powered by his foot pushing a wooden pedal that turns the base of the wheel in a steady, fluid motion. It’s a simple yet ancient technique. I watch as he deftly pulls up the sides of the vessel, shaping and smoothing the clay with practised precision. I am impressed with his speed as he churns out 10 pots in a minute.
Beside the yoghurt stall, there are hundreds of discarded clay pots, all cracked and chipped. They’ve served their purpose. Once consumed, the pots are discarded, and the cycle begins again. Every day, the boy makes more, his work seemingly endless as people drink their yoghurt and toss the pots aside. I feel sorry for him and wonder how much money he makes per day.
In Nepal, the yoghurt is typically made fresh, using a culture passed down through generations. It’s rich and velvety, often called dahi, and is made from cow or buffalo milk that’s been boiled and then cooled to the perfect temperature before the starter culture is added. The yoghurt is left to ferment naturally, often in clay pots like the ones the boy makes, which help maintain a consistent temperature for fermentation. The pot itself adds a distinct flavour to the yoghurt, giving it a slightly earthy taste. We down our yoghurt with delight before getting back on our bikes to continue our journey. Eventually, I get a glimpse of the temple complex. Gazing out at the hazy skyline of Kathmandu, I catch sight of it on the hilltop, its white spire gleaming like a beacon above the valley.
The wind rushes past as we dodge motorbikes, buses, and pedestrians, navigating the narrow, bustling roads of Kathmandu with both excitement and trepidation. With every moment that passes, I feel worse for wear, my stomach is really churning now and I am sweating profusely. We finally reach the steps, I feel a mix of awe and dread. Awe at the size of the temple complex, and dread regarding the steps I will have to endure before getting to the top. The Swayambhunath stupa rises above me, its gilded spire crowned with the Buddha’s all-seeing eyes, a watchful gaze over the city and all its people. I feel a quiet reverence as we begin our climb.
Step after step, I feel my breath grow heavier, and with each turn of the stairs, the view becomes more remarkable, as if rewarding us for our efforts. The monkeys dart along the railings and skitter up the steps, some stopping to eye us with an almost human curiosity. Steve explains that they’re considered sacred, descendants of the deity Harati who guards the temple grounds. They’re guardians in a sense, drawn to the temple because it’s believed to be their ancestral home.
As I climb higher, however, something starts to feel off. At first, it’s a creeping fatigue – a dull ache in my limbs that goes beyond the strain of the ascent. Then comes the nausea, swirling in my gut, sharper with each step. “Are you alright, mate?” Steve asks, noticing my slow pace. I brush it off, pushing forward, determined to reach the top, but my body has other ideas.
About halfway up, I stop, gripping the railing. I feel weak, like the ground beneath me is tilting, and a wave of dizziness hits. Steve senses what’s going on. “You’ve got the bug, I told you not to eat meat,” he says, a grim look of concern on his face. Giardia, a traveller’s nightmare. Steve has had it more than once and recognises the signs – the nausea, the fatigue, and the inevitable dash to a bathroom. Defeated, I manage to stumble back down the steps with Steve’s help, dodging monkeys and tourists alike, each step a small victory until we finally reach the base.
Back at the guest house, Steve takes charge. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know exactly what you need.” He rushes out to find medication, confident from experience. I spend the next three days bedridden, drifting in and out of sleep, too exhausted to do much more than sip water and hobble to the toilet every hour. This experience reminds me of a Roxy Music song – Both Ends Burning. So much vomiting and diarrhoea.
Day four, somewhat recovered, I called out to Steve, “I’m going for a little walk, get some fruit”. My stomach is full of gas, too much in fact, so I decide to let some out. It started as a fart but then I felt a sensation like liquid running down my leg. I look down for confirmation, crap. I decide I am not ready for a walk and go back to our room to shower and wash my undies. Steve has a right old chuckle and thanks me for the entertainment.
The next day we venture out again – slowly this time – to the open-air markets. Here, stalls are bursting with handmade jewellery, spices, and vivid tapestries, but, being an artist – what catches my eye are the Thangka paintings. A vendor proudly displays his work: intricate, circular designs filled with symbolism. The paintings are delicate and complex, with scenes of deities and mandalas crafted with precision and devotion. Each brushstroke tells a story of the universe, of cycles and rebirth, of balance and meditation. It’s mesmerising, a glimpse into the spiritual depth that underpins this culture.
I stand there, taking in the colours and patterns, and I marvel at the precision of all the artists. The tiny brushstrokes and intricate lines leave me in awe, I am drawn to a particular painting and on an impulse, I batter. In the past, I had a mindset to never buy artwork created by somebody else, yet here I am – handing my cash over to another artist in exchange for the most incredible painting I have ever seen.
The spirit of this place – Kathmandu’s pulse – has welcomed me, offering lessons I hadn’t expected. Meeting Steve here, in this wild, chaotic, and spiritual city, has already changed me in ways I can barely understand.
After spending time in the markets, enchanted by the Thangka paintings, I find myself lingering, curiosity tugging at me. I approach the artist and ask, “Do you have classes for painting Thangkas?” His face lights up with a broad smile. “Yes!” he replies with a glint of enthusiasm. And just like that, I signed up for a five-day Thangka painting course, ready to dive into a tradition that stretches back centuries.
The classes are held in a small, dimly lit studio near the market, and each morning, I settle into my spot on the floor, surrounded by brushes, pigments, and a slight aroma of incense mixed with – oddly enough – the unmistakable sounds of Bob Marley. The artist-teacher is an unexpected character, half-monk, half-rasta, as committed to his reggae tunes as he is to teaching the sacred art of Thangka. “Marley keeps the mind open,” he says, nodding along to the beat, as if the wisdom of ancient Buddhist art flows seamlessly with Three Little Birds.
We grind natural pigments by hand – brilliant ochres, blues, and greens, each carrying a unique spiritual symbolism – Bob Marley drifts through the air, creating an atmosphere that’s both serene and absurdly groovy. And whenever he’d catch me singing, the teacher would wink and say, “Marley is good for the soul – just like Thangka.”
Each morning, as I settle in for my Thangka painting class, the studio is filled with the familiar sound of Bob Marley drifting from the teacher’s cassette player. At first, I’m thrilled – there’s something surreal about learning this ancient art form to the mellow groove of reggae. This guy’s got good taste, I think, grinding my pigments in time with One Love.
But by the fourth day, One Love is the last thing I want to hear. I’ve mixed powders in time to Buffalo Soldier, painted intricate patterns to Three Little Birds, and contemplated spiritual enlightenment to Is This Love more times than I can count. The novelty is long gone, replaced with a slow-growing frustration. I look angrily at the cassette player in the corner, imagining just how satisfying it would be to shut it off – or, in a less charitable moment, toss it out the window.
As we reach the final afternoon, I catch myself muttering along, almost pleading with the song, Everything’s Gonna Be All Right, hoping it’s the last time. The teacher catches my expression and laughs, patting my shoulder with a knowing grin. “Not everyone appreciates a good thing,” he says, pressing ‘play’ with a mischievous look. And so, with Marley’s beat rolling on, I finish my Thangka – then walk back to our guesthouse with a newfound appreciation for silence.
Next on the agenda – a trip to Chitwan National Park to encounter wild animals – elephants, rhinos, crocodiles, and tigers.
See blog post: Tiger Territory
After that – trekking in the Himalaya Mountains – starting from Pokhara, and ending at Annapurna Base Camp
