-And in Kathmandu? my brother asks me.
He is going trekking to Nepal and will have a few days in the capital before taking the plane back.
I make the pertinent list with the obligatory visits.
“In any case, don’t miss out on the city of Bhaktapur,” I stress.
I first visited it four decades ago. The day started in Nagarkot. From the hill that culminates that town, you have views over the Himalayas, with the top of the world, Mount Sagarmatha, included. Of course, only on clear days, I found then, because in monsoon season one can’t even distinguish one’s hands. I then walked down and ended the tour in Bhaktapur, the City of Believers, not knowing what I would find.
Red brick houses, wide eaves with chiseled braces, superimposed temples on staggered plinths, lintels and windows of exquisite carving, each neighborhood with its small square, with its well, with its temples of dusted gods and their banners and bells. Every corner offers a gift. Here a pool where a cobra stands out, there, on a tall column, the mount of a god watches over the temple of his lord, with lions, or elephants, or stout stone warriors guarding the access.
Bhaktapur is the icing on the cake, the most beautiful jewel, the pinnacle of Newar art. The Newar people, who settled in this valley in time immemorial, made it their capital in the 12th century. The city ruled the valley and remained an independent kingdom until its star began to decline in the 18th century.
I ended that visit on top of a roof. I mistook it for a bar and the neighbors, not to disappoint me, invited me to a drink. Then I went back to Kathmandu by tram. At that time, much of the journey to the capital passed through cultivated fields. Today they have been taken over by the buildings and from the tram there is barely a piece of rail left. But, upon entering Bhaktapur, time stands still. And I pick up the thread where I left it. Durbar Square is what it was, or may be even more impressive: palaces, temples, carved images, the praying statue of King Bhupatindra Malla perched on its column. If I had not seen the photos, I would accuse anyone who claims that the 2015 earthquake damaged more than a hundred monuments as a liar. In a short time they recovered the old techniques and masons and carpenters set to work to rebuild them and leave them to the nines.
But Bakhtapur is much more than its monuments. I am lucky enough to visit her when they celebrate the new year. In the squares they have arranged community meals and I come across different processions that advance to the sound of cymbals, cymbals and songs. They hold palanquins with images and stop from time to time at the request of a neighbor, who prays for an auspicious year. I also come across a family that has taken a street: Mom is turning eighty years old and dozens of neighbors pass by to pay homage to her, and she is so serious on her golden throne, under a red canopy adorned with colorful garlands and necklaces with white beads.
Finally, when my strength wanes, I stop at a shop, where I am served a small ceramic bowl of juju dhau, literally the ‘king of yoghurt’, made from buffalo milk. Obligatory stop, like the Nyatipola temple, where the visit ends. It is the tallest building, a pagoda raised on five plinths, with five successive roofs, which has become the emblem of the city. It took six months to build, which attests to the mastery of the Newar craftsmen, who exported these structures to China.
When my brother returns from Nepal, he tells me about his adventure.
-And Bhaktapur? I ask at the end.
-Bhaktapur? her -she looks at me suspiciously, as if the question had a trick-. Bhaktapur is Venice!
