Imagine a big bowl of noodles, there are a variety, some are fried, some are chowmein, some are actually spaghetti. Now fill it with an array of flavours and fillings, lots of fillings. Add a bottle of hot sauce to spice things up and voila you have my first impression of Kathmandu the next morning. A big, tasty and irresistible feast waiting to be devoured. A feast, that if you weren't careful would swallow you first, like Jim Henson's Swedish Chef (I still have nightmares about this).

The first day was as touristy as they come, we walked down to Durbar Square, where we were swindled more times than we’d proudly say and met our first Nepalese Legend. From this moment forward, anyone that we meet that makes an impression on us will be called a Legend (with a capital L) with respect to the country they’re from.

Avi, our first Legend, was (and still is) a 34 year-old Kathmandu local. He volunteers in a variety of projects, is a guide (trekking and city) and ambassador/salesman for a local art school. Avi, was a great guy. A true embodiment of a patriot; unlike most young Nepalese, he stayed in Nepal to support his country in the ways mentioned above. He loves his country and he loves his gods. All 33 million of them. At first we felt like Avi was trying to sell us something, but after denying a purchase of the artwork from the shop he took us to, he invited us back the next day for tea. It seemed he wouldn’t give up so easily. But to be honest, the prospect of being invited to tea with a local was exciting enough to not care about any sales opportunities.

With our appointment booked, we carried onto Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, the local collection of temples and palaces. A place where you can see the likes of the living virgin goddess, Kumari, at 4pm everyday. A 10 year old girl, selected at the age of 4 through religious trials involving blood and snakes and flinching.

Or perhaps you might be more interested in the erotic carvings that surround Shiva’s temple, the embodiment of man and woman and also the god of destruction? Speaking of which, the temples were not left unscathed in the 2015 earthquake. A number of which were reduced to rubble and sadly, due to misplaced funding, remain that way today. We encountered an assortment of individuals, from shaman to flag bearers, who were more than willing to tolerate our tour-isms and had stay our hands more than a few times from patting the local dogs, of which there are hundreds.

Although the thing, or person, I found most interesting was our guide, Bintur. Let’s call him our second Nepalese Legend. (Don’t worry, everyone we met wasn’t a legend.)

Bintur, had been guiding for 15 years. And knew Durbar Square like the back of his hand. He led us around the temples ($20 for 2 hours) and was keen to share all of his knowledge with us.

But it wasn’t his honeypot of knowledge that impressed me most. It was his attitude to life. Bintur was there when the Earthquake hit and managed to not only save his own life but also the lives of 8 others. He’d witnessed the death of his girlfriend on the same day and was fine to mention these things to us in a matter of fact way. At first I attributed this to a cold abstraction. But the more I got to know him the more I realised he was just a guy filled with joy. He oozed the stuff.

He was able to see the best in everything even when faced with the worst. This allowed him to keep moving and never stagnate, in a city where stagnation was an easy option. And it was clear he affected those around him. Even his dog, a German Shepherd named Bruno. Bintur helped everyone see the best in themselves. And with the addition of a rhyme or two, his pill was an easy one to swallow. Life for him, although it may look hard to us on the surface was easy peezy lemon squeezy.

Also, Bintur smoked a lot of weed. Which might possibly have been a large contributor to his positive disposition, but either way he was still Bintur, and marijuana or not he was still a Legend.

We parted ways with Bintur, hashish in hand (not really) and took a time-out in the garden at home. Weed is abundant in Kathmandu. It was legal up until the 70s, when the government banned it and then forgot to do anything else. It might have something to do with the fact that marijuana is still accepted in religious festivals and seeing that Nepal is the Land of Festivals, having 366 of them in the year for each and every day, it would be easy to pass your smoking as a tribute to the gods.

After a rest and a read. We armed ourselves with our cameras and headed back into the throng, looking for somewhere to sink our teeth for dinner. We had found a place through our Trekking guidebook, only to discover when we arrived, all that remained was the sign left in the street to gather dust, something it was doing a fine job at. The guidebook now discounted, the search continued.

We didn’t have to go far before we landed on a rooftop cafe called Kasui - Dreamers Cafe Terrace, a small joint that served up projected videos of the internet's funniest fails and our first taste of Mo-mos and Veggie Dhal. Mo-mos, a form of dumpling, being the pride and fried (though we suggest steamed) joy of Nepal. And Dhal, the national tasting plate, a dish of rice and curries that you mix n’ match to suit your tastes. We also sampled some of the local beer, all of which come in 650ml bottles for 350 Nepalese rupees (about $3.50), tonight’s flavour a fine drop aptly called Everest.

Serving sizes were huge and belly sizes were huger. Never ever order something for both of you. Just share. Food waste in Nepal is a big deal, which is why I guiltily finished off our plates. Afterward, Richelle rolled me home, hopelessly trying to take in the night life as we went. Sleep was the only escape from my bloated belly.

Just before I’d slipped into my food coma, we’d made the call to wake early the next day to catch the sunrise from the Monkey Temple. A Stupa, the buddhist’s variation of a temple, that like it’s name suggests is teeming with monkeys. Positioned to the west of the valley, a few kilometres from Hotel Silverhome, we thought it a good idea to walk there. More for the sake of my stomach than a chance to immerse ourselves in a different part of the city. I had a lot of Mo-mos to burn.

50 burnt mo-mos later, we arrived, just as the city was coming to life. An early morning crowd was gathering. The temple also known as Swayambhunath, happens to be the place where a lot of Nepalese go to exercise as much as pray, it seems the steep 365 steps to reach the temple itself offer an opportunity to burn plenty of calories whilst catching up with the daily monkey goss. We were in the right place. A point also reinforced by the large Rhesus Macaque population, of which there were thousands. Each with their own character, sense of self worth and place in the pecking order. Here, the monkeys are seen as sacred, the myth being that they are the “lice that fell from the enlightened ones hair”, so they are treated really well by people, though they treat each other like crap. Their human slaves bring them all kinds of flavoured treats, from your standard arrowroot to the more lavish Mars bar, these monkeys get it all.

We made the climb up the steep stair, only stopping to see the rays of the sun peaking through the fog and watch the occasional monkey scamper down the hill towards their awaiting feast. Once at the top, we took a moment to pay our tourist entry fee and soak in the view. We were greeted by a cacophony of sounds and smells. It was oddly peaceful. Within the chaos there was an order. This was the way it was and has been for a long time.

After our soaking, we turned our attention to the Stupa, the large white dome topped with 20kg of 24 carat gold was just catching the sun as the Buddha eyes painted underneath the cap sparkled with an air of mystery. Like most religious symbols, they had a way of holding your gaze. After losing my staring contest with the eyes of Buddha, we spent the next half an hour snaking our way around, in a clockwise direction, observing the different morning rituals of the people saying their prayers and spinning the prayer wheels along with the animals, also making their rounds to those that offered best food.

We slowly made our way around to the back of the temple, continuing to observe all the different interactions, when we witnessed a battalion of fresh recruits of the Nepalese army undergoing rigorous morning exercise, followed closely by a battalion of small children doing morning taekwondo. It wasn’t long after this I was attacked. A mother monkey had caught me trying to take a picture of her baby, she was not impressed and I was promptly shown a sharp row of rabies dripping teeth. I did what all sane people do in that situation and turned my tale down the stairs.

Accomplishing things early in the morning is a great feeling, the time when I’d usually be sleeping and dreaming about accomplishing things, is actually spent doing the things I was dreaming about. Irony 101. Speaking of which, as we made our way back round to the front of the temple and were about to head home for breakfast I slipped on a banana peel. I’d received the message loud and clear. It was time to leave.

After a simple breakfast of tea, toast, potatoes, capsicum and egg cooked the way we want, we caught up with Avi for tea. He regaled his love for his country and reminded us that Australia as a country has seen much more luck than Nepal. Which is probably why we it was so easy for him to lead us back to the art shop.

Mind you, he didn’t force us, and nor did we feel like there was any unwanted pressure placed upon us. We spent a large amount of time sitting with the artist talking through his process and looking at beautiful artwork after beautiful artwork, rolling and unrolling cotton canvas after cotton canvas, admiring the sheer detail of each piece, taking anywhere between 3 and 12 months to create. Until we landed on a piece that we loved. A piece of traditional and religious significance that would anchor our trip to Nepal and be with us till the day we died.

We parted ways with Avi and we made our way to the Tourist Service Centre, to gather the things we need for our trek, a permit for the Annapurna Conservation Area and our TIMS (Trekkers’ Information Management System) card. Each costing 20,000 Nepalese Rupees. Be advised, this isn’t the part of the city for strolling. A constant stream of traffic and a recent dry patch leads to a gathering of dust like no other. Facemasks were donned and we assumed our secret ninja identities. We stopped briefly to check out an action packed game of volleyball then made our way to a rooftop for lunch. Every rooftop in Nepal is available for lunch, whether they serve lunch or not.

Having filled our lungs with enough dust, which we're still coughing and sneezing up, to give a koniophobe a heart attack, we sought refuge in the Garden of Dreams. And aptly named place where only the richest locals and tourists are welcome. In saying that, the garden itself was stunning, and with a large wall built around it was enough to forget about the chaotic hustle for awhile. Taking off our shoes was the natural progression of seeking comfort as we spread ourselves out on the soft grass, reading and watching young children play with the squirrels. I’m not kidding.

After about 20 minutes, an uncomfortable feeling started creeping its way through my body, it was guilt. The feeling that only people with money could enjoy such a place, that in spite of our greatest efforts to enjoy ourselves, we couldn’t help but think that sitting in a beautiful garden while the rest of the city sat in dust was unjust and a sad reminder that we were the lucky ones. Which is probably why I allowed myself to be so easily swindled by a man selling magazines. We took our pictures and newly bought magazine and left.

That night we met with the next Nepalese Legend, Dheeraj, a man we’d been introduced to by our friend Sue, who insisted that we meet with him and learn about his volunteer work in Nepal. Of course we agreed. But as you'll soon find out, you don't meet with Dheeraj, you connect with Dheeraj. And not in the superficial telecom way, but on a deeper level. The level where you meet someone who challenges your entire concept of society and your way of life, but doesn’t hate you for it. Making it all the more easier to accept theirs.

We immediately felt comfortable with him, as he told us about his life from when he was a child in a rural village worshipping planes as flying gods (that really is true), how he was now taking up carpentry and planned to build his family a four-storey house and his recent life with an Australian wife and his soon to be born child, both whom are back in Australia for the birth. (Sadly, Dheeraj won't be able to make it because the Aus government didn't approve his visa.).

The feeling of comfort was so great, by the time we sat down for dinner (another all you can eat veggie Dhal) we were willing to cast aside our metal forks for our flesh ones. Dheeraj explained the Nepalese (and many other cultures) reasons for eating like this, "For thousands of years we've been eating with our hands, till someone invented a "better" way. But can a fork tell you how hot your food is? Can a fork tell you how much food is right for you? Our fingers and hands are proportional to our bodies, so we know how much food is right for us. Does combining metal and food sound good to you? Food just tastes better from your hand." Just to clarify, we washed our hands before. These aren't a dirty people, they're a people that understand and appreciate themselves.

After leaving Dheeraj, we were spent. Our second day in Kathmandu had been huge. And another Dhal buffet had done my stomach no favours. But I was starting to see how beneficial a full belly was for instantaneous sleep.

It was Friday morning and after our chat with Dheeraj I was feeling generous. I wanted to give something back to Kathmandu before we left. I decided to give blood. After a bit of research, we jumped in a cab and headed to the Blood Transfusion Centre. After 20 minutes in the cab we arrived at a car park. The earthquake was not discriminatory. As we were close to the Tourist Service Centre we headed back for directions to somewhere else.

Turns out they weren’t aware it had been destroyed, as they directed us back to the BTC. We dug a little deeper and were redirected to a blood bank across the park, donning our masks once again we headed over there. No luck. We then navigated our way through a bazaar to the main hospital. They directed us next and finally we spoke to a doctor in ER who directed us to a telephone number, which belonged to the local Red Cross. After 3 hours of searching and a difficult phone call later we were told that giving blood was only an option for people that had lived in Nepal for more than a year. Dang. Today was not to be our day of giving.

It was now lunch time, so we jumped in a cab and headed over to our next temple destination, Bhoudanath, the biggest stupa in Nepal. It’s a well known fact that the bigger the attraction the bigger the crowd, and we weren’t disappointed. Like a whirpool, the crowd moved clockwise around the stupa, saying their prayers and stopping occasionally to touch a sacred statue. We pushed through the whirlpool and climbed up the stupa, slowly making our way around, watching the people conduct their unique process of prayers and the prayer flags flutter in the wind as the spanned from the four corners to the pinnacle of the temple.

Slowly, we made our way through the surrounding buildings and were greeted by many a beggar, after our failed blood donation it was hard to refuse. Richelle and I were torn. We didn’t like the idea of just giving people money, as we feel it perpetuates the need to beg, becoming an individuals sole source of income. And secondly, we like to see where our money goes. Not just see it tucked in a pocket. In other words, we’d rather pay for the lunch of a poor person than give them money. Which is why it felt oddly serendipitous when we were approached by a woman holding a baby.
 

She introduced herself as Dena and her 4 year old child as Dunoo. She asked if we could help her as Dunoo squeaked a little “Namasté”. But as I reached for my wallet, she stopped me. “No money.” She said. “I need rice and formula for my baby.” After literally only talking about this 2 minutes before it felt magical that we met a person who instead of money wanted our help to buy the things she needed. We followed Deena to the store as she placed her order. The total was 26,000 rupee. That’s about $26 US dollars. That’s a lot. It came to surface that the baby formula was $18 a box. A box being the size of your usual cereal box. I asked her how long the baby formula would last and she said two weeks. So I bought another. The coldness of the shopkeeper and the injustice of the price were enough to activate a sense of protection. Dena was ecstatic. “Thank you! No begging for one month! Please come to my house and have tea.” She said. Our excuses were too feeble to warrant a refusal, so off we went to have tea at Dena and Dunoo’s.

We tracked our way through a snaking pile of rubbish, down past piles of rubble and the run off from the sewer. A mainstay of the back alleys of Kathmandu. It was clear that Dena and Dunoo were a part of the community, as school kids chanted “Dunoo! Dunoo! Dunoo!” while we walked past. Dena was repeatedly apologising to us, telling us she lived in a plastic house and to forgive her. I could feel a lump growing in my throat.

After about 3 minutes of walking we came to a flat open space the size of a standard school sport’s oval. There were men working to our left amongst what appeared to be the messy foundations of a house. Piles of rubble dotted the area, shanty’s made of wood and tin formed the edge of the western end and falling down structures edged the rest. A cow was slowly working its way across our path as it chewed at the dusty ground. The foggy haze of the afternoon was settling as the sun made its way closer the the horizon. We could hear the distant chaos of the road far from our minds as we approached Dena’s house.

The size of a standard bathroom, Dena and Dunoo lived there with her two sisters and their six children. They say a home is not the structure but the people within it and Dena and her family were the living example of this. We were the first foreigners to set foot in their house. They were all thrilled. There wasn’t a moment that I didn’t feel comfortable. Once inside it was easy to forget the woes of the outside world. They treated us like family as they served us tea and spoke of how they came to live in a plastic house. Dena came from India and fled her abusive husband to live with her sisters in Nepal. All was well until Dena’s sister, Gita’s husband was killed in an accident at work 18 months ago. No compensation was received and because none of them were Nepalese, working a normal job was not an option. They were forced into their current accommodation, where the locals helped them build their house out of plastic sheeting and bamboo. Dena was forced to beg, as the others too proud to lower themselves. And because all the children were unable to attend school, as it isn’t free in Nepal, the family’s future felt bleak.

Even though Dena and her family wouldn’t have to beg for a while, the supplies that we bought her meant that she’d be back on the streets after a month. Dena expressed her hate for the vicious cycle she was caught in. With no help from the government and no way to get jobs, their situation seemed a hopeless one. We asked Dena if we could help. Her eyes lit up and we could tell she’d been thinking about telling us something. She told us about a man who was selling shoe shining boxes in the neighbourhood and that with one of these boxes she could make up to 2000 rupees a day. Easily covering the entire family’s expenses. The only problem was that the box itself was 200,000 rupees. That’s about $200 USD. An amount of money that each of them struggled to fathom. After a whispered chat with Richelle, we realised that if there was ever a moment to break the cycle it was now. There were new players in the game. We agreed to buy the box for Dena.

They called us their gods. I insisted on friends. We settled on family. We made the deal with the salesman and he vowed that our karma would be good for life. We didn’t care. We finally felt like we were helping someone. We donate and participate as much as most, but being there and being a part of the moment when you help a person take control of their own life is incomparable to anything else we have done before. So you can forgive Richelle for crying when she did. Dena and her sister’s immediately started to worry. There culture has conditioned them to cry only on sad moments, so when they saw Richelle’s tears they assumed it was over the loss of her money. Obviously to us it wasn’t. But it took a few minutes of convincing them that they were tears of joy before they agreed to keep the box.

Dark was fast approaching when we had to leave. I exchanged my local number, I thought it wise to get a SIM and we exchanged hugs. After a family photo with all the willing members Dena led us back to a path that would take us home. We said goodbye one last time and Doonu squeaked another “Namasté” as Dena again promised us to send us pictures when he and his cousins went to school.

We had planned to visit Pashupatinath Temple, the Hindu temple famous for it’s public cremations at sunset, but as we made our way towards it, we had a change of heart. Drained from the days undertakings, we decided to make our way home. A storm had suddenly made it’s way across the skyline, as lightning informed us of its presence. We went to jump in a cab, being 5km from home, when the sudden change of wind caused cab prices to soar, rising 500% on the spot. We would have to walk. We made the quick decision to walk to the famous bar Rum Doodle to wait out the storm. Walking soon turned to a jogging, which soon turned to running. Panic set in as the storm angrily bellowed. However, the Nepalese were oddly calm, taking their time across the street as the slight sprinkle turned to downpour.

By the time we made it to Rum Doodle, we were sufficiently drenched. There was only one thing for it, beer. Just a bit of context on Rum Doodle, it’s a famous trekkers book that talks of the first (and only) ascent of the world’s highest mountain Rum Doodle. A mountain that stands at 40,000 and a half feet. It’s probably the most ridiculous book I’ve ever read and reads like a Monty Python skit. Someone in Nepal thought it was a great idea to create a themed around it, and so did everyone else. It was a major hit, when it was located in Thamel, the trekking sector of Kathmandu, where we happened to be staying. Then someone thought it was a great idea to move it a bit further out to a bigger venue. Unfortunately, no one else agreed with them. We ate our dinner quietly, reflecting on our wonderful day, and walked home.

The next day was going to be a big one. Yes, another one. It was Richelle’s birthday. It’s not everyday you turn 27. But don't worry, that's all for now. If you made it this far, thank you, please let us know so that we can upgrade you to the status of Legend. 

One last piece of parting advice, before I leave you. If you ever plan to travel and write a blog, write it as you go. Day by day. Don't save it for one big day. Firstly, you miss crucial details 5 days back and secondly you end up spending more time than you can possibly imagine on it. The kind of time that magically turns 5pm into 1 am the day before you're meant to go trekking in the Annapurnas. You'll be impressing no one. Except maybe Shiva. The god of destruction, because you destroyed your back leaning over this damn laptop. Worth it. 

Goodnight and Namasté.