A very muddy, pot-holed road, and our standard, solid Volvo bus cruises not so slowly from the border along a ferocious and full river for several hours.  Inching our way through lush forest and impeccably terraced farmland and rural people.  Hours and hours and hours of hairpin bends from Soonali sunrise to dusk in the city of so much darmha.

The valley IS a polluted dust bowl.  But that changes nothing.  Katmandu and its’ medieval labyrinth urban planning and 360 degree mountain views holds onto something that beckons and begs to be seen and felt.  It has its’ secrets written on winding hill paths and through a walled garden.  It is like an abundant eggplant wrinkled and aubergine dark at first glace,  but rich and oozing with so much sweetness and only the feint sting of bitterness.

Hours and hours sitting on a rooftop and watching nothing much in the bright beckoning day.  It calls its unreasonable change moment by moment.  Rain,  sunshine,  morose dense dark clouds and a chill and then beating brilliant heat.  It is one of those places that requires you adapt moment by moment.


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