Bhaktapur

Bhaktapur is by far the best preserved of the cities of Kathmandu Valley. In its Durbar Square (or “great square”), it is impossible to turn around without tripping over a different temple or shrine. The city takes up 6.88 square kilometers, sits 1400 meters above sea level, and houses some 80000 residents. It is also a UNESCO World Heritage site, stuffed with tasty restaurants, eclectic statues, and (actually really interesting) souvenir shops.

So it was there that I travel to on my first free day, dragging along a couple of friends with me. The buses stymied us, and so we wedged ourselves into one of the city’s Beetle-sized taxis and roared through the smog and up the hill to Bhaktapur (“City of Devotees” in Nepali, perhaps due to the plethora of temples there.)

One of the joys of Paraguay was the lack of tourism infrastructure. I could wander around the Jesuit missions with impunity, unwatched and unmolested. Bhaktapur sits at the other end of that extreme. Guardians at the city gates demanded a hefty 1100 rupee entrance fee (around $13US), and would-be tour guides set upon us almost immediately.

My first stop was the 55 Window Palacethrough the famous Golden Gate. Hindu engravings of a Garuda wrestling with some overgrown serpents adorned the gatehouse. After we entered the gatehouse, we stopped at the Naga Pokhari, or royal bath, used by Ranjit Malla and the other Newari kings of Bhaktapur. A pillar topped by a massive cobra jutted out of the bath, and along one bottom edge I found the derelict fountain spout shaped like the gaping maw of a gluttonous crocodile, from which a goat was trying to flee.

At the inner sanctum of the palace we came to the Teleju Temple. We weren’t allowed entry (only Hindus can), but I learned that the building houses the statues of nine reincarnations of the Durga. Vermilion powder covered many of the statues.

From the main square, we traveled to the Potters’ square, where many of Bhaktapur’s potters throw, mold, and fire the bowls and masks sold around the city and in other parts of Kathmandu. A series of huge kilns set back under a series of sloping roofs cast heat into the square, adding to the day’s formidable heat. I wandered past artisans shaping bowls and half-finished masks, trudging through piles of ash from the recent firings.

From the Potters’ square we wandered into Bhaktapur’s second main square, Taumadhi Tole (or Square). This area is famous throughout Nepal for the Nyatapola Temple, which is the tallest in the valley. The mammoth, 90-ft tall structure sits on a series of five terracing platforms, each guarded by a pair of spirit guardians. They are a pair of wrestlers, then a pair of elephants, followed by two lions, then gryphons, and finally, the goddesses Baghini and Singhini. The legend is that the two wrestlers at the bottom of the temple are ten times stronger than any other men, and at each step above them, the guardians increase in power by a factor of ten.

Taumadhi Tole also holds the Bhairab Nath temple, devoted to the Hindu god of death Shiva. Though the temple is a massive three-storey structure, the main statue of Shiva is only about six inches tall. The tour guide we hired said "he's a very wrathful god, he never walks on the ground, only on human bodies." (Pretty badass!)

There’s a three-storey café a stone’s throw from the temple, and I headed there for a quick breather. From the upper levels of the building I could see over the whole square, from the motorcycles zipping around, or the women in bright saris of different hues of reds and blues and golds.

I ordered  curd, the local variant of sweet yogurt. (And the other thing that Bhaktapur is famous for besides its temples.) The curd was smooth, with a sort of cheesy tang.

Fortified, I head back into the square for one more gambol through the place before heading back into Katmandu. This time I duck into the alleyways leading out of the square, through tall, narrow, moss covered canyons. The chill was a welcome relief from the low broil I’d been under in the square. It was a space to get lost in – to turn a corner and stumble upon yet more statues, or come around a bend and find a small shrine filled with hundreds of flickering candles.