It is 10 am. As promised Dawa is waiting in the lobby. We are visiting the Boudhanath Stupa on the edge of Kathmandu today. The largest Buddhist temple and one of the holiest sites outside Tibet. It sits atop a hill and on a less smoggy day, it’s large white dome is unmistakable from my hotel room miles away. Those days are rare.
Dawa’s Honda scooter awaits outside. He puts on his helmet. Are you ready. He asks. Let’s go. I answer faking confidence. The last time I was on one of these was nearly 40 years ago. I straddle behind him without a hemet and within seconds we are weaving through the streets and alleys of Kathmandu like a small fish being chased by sharks. Darting in and out of impossibly tight spots. Taking action hero style tight turns. Zig zagging between snarled traffic. Thick smog. Smoke belching buses. Between aggressive cart venders selling vegetables. Grapes. Bananas. Buddha statues. Between young boys selling bottle water and Coca Cola. Between people crossing in every which direction. Dodging horns and whistles and traffic police who look confused. I am terrified. And Dawa is as cool as as the watermelon juice I had for breakfast. He’s even pointing out places of interest. I am hanging on for dear life.
Neighborhoods are flashing by. We pass the Hindu part of town. It is Tuesday. The day of worship and beggars are lining the sidewalks. Their eyes desperate. Their hands extended and cupped. Most with red dotted foreheads, Some are wearing bright colored wraps. There are hundreds of candles lit in a large courtyard to ward off the darkness. The smell of incense is competing with the smog and dust. And sometimes winning. We cross a bridge over a wide unkept canal with more trash than water. Past a few nice high rise apartment buildings and hotels. Past shops selling colorful shawls. Kitchen sinks. Wash machines. Pottery. Used furniture. You name it. Kathmandu is a city of a million people. Today it feels like a lot more.
Moments later we are under the ornate colorful entry way of the Boudhanath Stupa. Inside is a tranquil space. The dome of the stupa sits center stage. It was badly damaged during the 2015 earthquake but quickly rebuilt. It is blindingly white. All around it are small shops. Selling handicrafts. Singing bowls. Prayer beads and flags. Incense. Copper statues. There are colorful religious flags strung in all directions. Flocks of pigeons are welcoming visitors. They are circling the white dome. Landing on its side and the wide walkway below. A vendor is selling pop corn to excited children to feed the pigeons. The now comforting smell of incense is ever present. There are workers on the terrace surrounding the dome. They are making repairs. Filling cracks. Slapping white paint where needed. Some are watering the plants and the flowering bushes. The public is not allowed on this level. Below, worshipers are walking clockwise around the perimeter. Their hands extended spinning the hundreds of prayer wheels along its wall. They walk around at least 3 times or any odd number while chanting prayers and mantras. A handful of monks are among the crowd. There are no foreigners to speak of. Dawa tells me that this is a favorite place for tourists to come to. Right now, but for a handful, they are no where in sight. The impact on the shop keepers is palpable.
We enter a covered walkway and up a set of stairs that empty into a spacious cafe. It could be anywhere in Soho or The Village. The large espresso machine behind the bar is constantly hissing. Servers dressed in tight jeans and black shirts. Low tables and overstuffed seats. It overlooks the dome and the walkway below. It is now close to lunchtime. There are plenty of seats available. We order lattes. They come thick and delicious. Complete with perfect milk hearts. Dawa orders spaghetti. I get the crispy chicken sandwich with fried potatoes. The fried potatoes are the frozen kind. Adequate, but no where near the ones I had on the trek. There, they took over 30 minutes to prepare. They were made to order from just harvested fresh potatoes. Cut into wedges. Fried and sprinkled with Himalayan salt. And served with that plum colored thick ketchup. They were worth the wait. There is a handful of foreigners. Some in small groups. Others alone. Several locals are meeting friends. On their laptops. American Indy music completes the scene.
We are sitting at a window table overlooking the walkway below and the dome straight ahead. A cool breeze is blowing in. I am watching people circling the dome. Hearing the murmur of the pigeons. The colorful flags slapping the air. And I am missing the Himalayas. The villagers I met. I am longing for those mountains. I am missing the roar of the Milky River. That unforgettable turquoise blue. The face of the red apple cheeked Sherpa girl. The generosity of the tea house owners. The yaks and the donkeys. And I turn to Dawa and say. I am definitely coming back. I know you will. He replies with a smile.
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