This latest governmental drama is not good PR for the country. American tourism has dropped over the past few years as the U.S. State Department has issued travel warnings against the country due to violent Maoist activity —- although no tourists have been harmed in the insurgency. Truth is, I felt safe while I was in Nepal —- whether I was walking the crowded streets of Kathmandu, a city of 2.5 million, the preserved villages of the surrounding valley or tourist-friendly Pokhara, the jumping off point for trekkers. Fact is, the country is still much safer than most U.S. cities.

In the towering shadow of the snow-covered Himalayas, you’ll find some of the best walking trails on earth with the most breathtaking scenery. I love the faces here: browner, flatter, broader and with higher cheekbones than in neighboring India, where I’ve spent the preceding month. I see Mongolia and Tibet, as I snap picture after picture, trying to capture the proud planes of these Asian faces.

Dakshinkali is a temple dedicated to Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. On the auspicious days of Tuesday and Saturday, animal sacrifices are made in thanks to the goddess for prayers that have been answered. Standing in line, young children clad in school uniforms clutch writhing chickens. Men lead tethered goats. A few women hold coconuts, which are offered in lieu of animals. When they reach the temple, “professionals” make one quick, practiced slice and the animal’s head is placed on the altar. The animal is then butchered, dressed and returned to the family. Blood flows. Incense burns. Prayers are chanted. I find more spiritual than gruesome.

Other traditions are practiced in two indigenous Newar villages we visit, terraced with rice fields but without electricity (just 5% of the country’s inhabitants are Newars). Walking down the cobbled streets, I see the severed head of a water buffalo —- the animal will feed the community for several days. Hay is drying in the sun, bare-breasted married women are washing clothes at the communal well, girls braid their mothers’ hair, men play cards, old women card wool, boys scamper after a dog.

I spend the evening ambling the winding streets of downtown Kathmandu. I buy beautiful amber and coral and turquoise jewelry, eat a darn good Mexican meal and peruse numerous bookstores laden with volumes sold or traded by backpackers, finally settling on “Everest,” the place-appropriate bestseller by John Krakaeur. I take a rickshaw back to the hotel at 11 p.m.

The next morning, we drive to Nagarkot, an hour away. Here, I enjoy the best mountain views on the trip—save for the mountain flight I splurge on the following day. Buddha Air offers a one-hour sightseeing tour. The weather has been foggy, but as we climb to 25,000 feet, jaws drop: the dramatic craggy mountains seem almost close enough to touch. The stewardess points out the peaks and allows us, one by one, to peer over the pilot’s shoulders for a spectacular straight-on view of Sagarmatha, the Nepali word for Everest, meaning “head of the world.”

At Pashupatinath Temple, on the banks of the Bagmati River, I watch as a yellow-swathed body is carried aloft on a stretcher. This is Nepal’s holiest pilgrimage site, a collection of Hindu temples and cremation ghats where ritual bathers and half-naked sadhus, religious men, gather. A woman wails her beloved, as the attendants —- brothers or sons —- dip the deceased’s feet into the water one final time before he makes his passage to heaven via the wood-stoked funeral pyre.

At the thriving arts center called the Tibetan Refugee Camp, established in 1961 by the Swiss and the American Red Cross, women are weaving beautiful rugs and preparations are underway for the Tibetan New Year, just four days away. Stupas in the courtyard are getting a whitewash by the men. Fifteen percent of the area’s population is Tibetan.

The Hyatt is a luxurious, 37-acre compound on the edge of town, unlike any Hyatt I’ve ever seen, with its Nepalese architecture and exterior water and interior temple courtyards, replicas of shrines built in the 11th through 18th centuries. The staff is so embracing, I feel like family after a day. From my lovely, graciously appointed room with its gleaming wooden floors, I have a panoramic view of Boudhanath (or Buddha) Stupa, the most holy of Tibetan Buddhist temples outside Tibet. You know how a dog loves its belly rubbed? At the hotel’s Oasis Spa, the therapist, Lahami, pours mountain forest oil into my belly button and starts her magic. It’s bliss.

At dusk, I walk 10 minutes to the dome-shaped Buddha Stupa, with its painted eyes that rise above the city. Butter lamps flicker. The Tibetan pilgrims are easy to spot, circling the stupa with red tassels woven into their hair and their traditional woolen striped clothing. They clutch prayer beads, chant mantras and spin the prayer wheels. I fall into the group, mouthing Om Mani Padme Hum, prayer flags whipping above my head. It’s a deeper bliss than the massage.

My guide takes me to Bhojan Triha for a traditional Nepali dinner. As I enjoy momcha, meat-filled dumplings, mismas tarkari, mixed vegetable curry and mascura, fried, pressed lentils, nimble-footed dancers perform in this restored home turned restaurant. I sip smoky rum called kakuri, the nation’s ceremonial knife.

The following morning, I go to the U.S. Embassy and send an email to family and friends that I am fine, should they catch a distressing dispatch on CNN (turns out only a few saw any mention of the small country). The process takes less than 15 minutes. Then we visit Swayambhunath, another stupa where the devoted walk clockwise around the massive base, twirling prayer wheels while rhesus monkeys scamper about, begging for food.

It’s incongruous to see posters advertising Virgin, Playboy and Valentine liquors in the impressively preserved town of Patan, known as the city of fine arts. Along with Bhaktapur, it is an open-air museum with numerous palaces, monuments, narrow streets and temples built during the Mala Dynasty that ruled the Valley from 1220 to 1768. In durbar murg, or central square, I watched a band procession followed by the garlanded car that signifies a wedding party. I have become so transfixed by the meditative chanting at the stupas, I buy a Tibetan singing bowl made of seven layered metals. When struck, its rich sound resonates in me.

Pokhara is only a 30-minute flight west from the capital; the Annapurna range begins here; it is the country’s second most popular destination. Sadly, cancellations have left my hotel, the lovely Shangri-La, with only seven guests. The staff huddle, bored. The Maoists have called for a transportation strike and the locals, fearing reprisal, are honoring it: no taxis, buses, rickshaws or private cars will run during the three days I am here, the first time the coup has impacted my movement. I’ll just have to get around on my feet.

It’s about a 45-minute walk from my hotel to Lake Phewa, its shoreline studded with shops, hotels, restaurants and travel and trekking agents. The streets of Pokhara, normally swarming with trekkers are like a ghost town, save for the occasional cow. Some shops shuttered, notably Internet cafes and the army presence is everywhere. The armed guards are happy to give directions; they seem as bored as the hotel staff. A few Tibetan women implore me to look at their trinkets displayed on the sidewalk. Young men and boys drape arms casually over each other’s shoulders. A middle-aged man wears jacket emblazoned rich man.

A skinny yellow dog sleeps on a stoop. A young woman crouches, rigorously cleaning tea glasses with a frayed gray rag. I see several men in doorways, hunched over circa-1950s sewing machines, sewing embroidered logos onto t-shirts. I buy one with the famous Buddha eyes from a boy of perhaps 16. He promises to deliver it to my hotel by 7 p.m. He’s there by 6:45 p.m.

At Mike’s restaurant, I tuck into moist apple walnut cake at a small café overlooking the water. I hire a boat. From the brightly painted wooden canoe, we ply the waters, but the distinctive Fish Tail Mountain -— the most photographed peak in the range -— remains elusive behind thick cloud cover.

Chalkboards outside inviting restaurants advertise nightly, first-run movies like Alexander and Ocean’s 12. I’d love to see an English language movie, but the hotel has recommended I return by 8 p.m., although no curfew has been established. In darkness, I walk back to the hotel, directed by the shopkeepers who huddle over fires in the cool evening air. Friendly children shout hello or namste, the all-purpose greeting often said with hands in prayer position.

At the hotel’s gift shop, I purchase a paper maché tray depicting a childlike scene of cows and farmers. Min tells me it is Mithila art, folk art from eastern Nepal. I hire Min, a 28-year old father of two, to accompany me on a hike tomorrow to the World Peace Pagoda. He charges $15 for a half-day trek.

The World Peace Pagoda was built by the Japanese in a forest with a commanding view of the valley. As we walk together, Min and I talk about family, politics, food, religion, TV, work. We laugh, comparing the similarities and differences in our cultures. He tells me that although Nepal is a poor country, life is good for most people. He explains he has built a simple five-room house on his guide salary, no one is homeless, no one is begging. When we finally arrive at the top, backpacks have been shucked; bodies are stretched out in the grass, soaking up the midday sun. Frustratingly, clouds obscure Fishtail again.

The following morning, I rise in darkness, meeting Min in the lobby at 5:30 a.m. to catch sunrise at Sarangkot. As I huff my way uphill, a small woman with thick black braids trudges down the same path with a huge aluminum milk container strapped to her back. Women here work hard, carrying all manner of stuff on their backs and heads. Min carries my water bottle as I painstakingly pick my way from stone to stone. As I breathlessly survey the dawning beauty -— even though Fishtail again refuses to show itself -— I feel literally on top of the world.

© 2005

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