We are in Kathmandu. Or rather, we are in Patan, one of the three royal cities in the valley. It is like and unlike home, and I think that made it it even more intense for me than I would have expected, because my mind was continually readjusting its expectations – to stupas and temples around every corner, of course, but also the different clothing, the different faces, the different colours. We are just off the darbar square where many of the buildings are in scaffolding still after the earthquake in 2015. Outside right now I can hear music and singing, there is a festival of some sort going on.
I finished the Snow Leopard on the way. Truly a product of its time, an enjoyable read and made me wish to climb up the mountain passes as well to see the stupas strung with prayer flags in the clear Himalayan light. But I know my limitations. The expedition to the mountains was to watch the blue sheep rut to help confirm whether blue sheep are goats or sheep. These days, presumably, a DNA sequence would answer the question without undue trouble.
I had my first taste of Newari food, the cuisine of the valley’s original inhabitants and its cultural heart. We went to a tiny restaurant called Honacha, which consisted of a couple of tables, and a large woman sitting on a low platform surrounded by pots and a cast iron tawa on which she made Newari style pancakes. Very delicious, but also a bit mystifying as we were not entirely sure what to make of some of the components of the meal such as the beaten rice.