Capital: Kathmandu … 29,690,000 People … 147,516 km² 
The Country
Tucked between the soaring peaks of the Himalayas and the lush plains of the Indian subcontinent, Nepal is a land of breathtaking landscapes and deep spiritual significance. Home to Mount Everest, the world’s tallest mountain, this small yet diverse country captivates travellers with its dramatic scenery, rich cultural tapestry and warm-hearted people. Steeped in ancient traditions, sacred temples and vibrant festivals, Nepal is a place where centuries-old Buddhist stupas and Hindu shrines stand alongside bustling markets and trekking trails that draw adventurers from around the globe.
Fun Facts
Nepal is the only country on Earth without a rectangular flag.
Nepal is one of the only countries in Asia that has never been colonized.
Nepal uses the Bikram Sambat calendar, which is about 56.7 years ahead of the Gregorian calendar. For example, 2024 AD is 2081 BS in Nepal.
My Experience
Day 1
Crossing into Nepal by foot through the Sonauli border crossing in India, I followed a dusty road past rows of trucks and roadside stalls. Just steps behind me, India’s usual noise and crowds pressed up to the edge of the border. But on the Nepali side, it was a different world. The streets were quiet, almost still, as if the border itself had drawn a line between chaos and calm.
Alongside a few fellow travellers and a guide we met in India, we hopped on a bus heading west, bound for Lumbini- the sacred Buddhist site where Buddha was born. Crossing over the Tinaau river, only a handful of cars were on the roads alongside us; none of them honking their horns.
In India, honking isn’t aggressive; it’s communication, a way of saying “I’m here” in the constant flow of traffic. But in Nepal a ban on unnecessary honking was introduced in 2017 to reduce noise pollution. After eleven days immersed in India’s constant noise, the sudden quiet of the Nepali countryside felt odd (but very welcome).
Arriving in Lumbini, we were met with a long pathway lined with lanterns and monkeys jumping in the tree canopies overhead. Along the path, a slate stone with the Pancha Sila, the five ethical guidelines of Bhuddism was proudly displayed.
Further along, we entered the Sacred Garden- the heart of Lumbini’s pilgrimage zone. Removing our shoes, we joined a slow-moving line of pilgrims and visitors, walking barefoot across warm stone toward a simple white brick building: the Maya Devi Temple, built over the spot believed to be the exact birthplace of Buddha.
Visitors moved respectfully through the space. Despite the number of people, there was a shared stillness that hung in the air- a kind of collective hush you only find in places of deep spiritual meaning. The floor was smooth and worn from thousands of footsteps, and the air was cool despite the heat outside. Along the walls, faint murals and informational plaques told the story of the Buddha’s birth and the temple’s archaeological significance.
Outside, monks in saffron robes sat in meditation beneath the shade of bodhi trees, while others quietly chanted nearby. Prayer flags fluttered from nearly every branch and railing, their colours faded from the sun, carrying blessings and mantras into the breeze with each movement.
I sat for a while under the shade of a tree and had a deeply insightful conversation with a monk not much older than me. He was looking after a small group of young monks, carefully watching them as they sat beside us. We spoke for nearly half an hour. He patiently answered my many questions, explaining the core tenets of Buddhism: compassion, mindfulness and non-attachment in a way that felt both deeply rooted and refreshingly accessible. It wasn’t a formal lesson, just a quiet, open exchange between two strangers from very different worlds.
As the sky faded into a soft pink glow, the Sacred Garden took on an even more peaceful atmosphere. Across the grounds, groups from around the world gathered in quiet prayer. Some chanting in unison, others meditating in silence. Each practicing in their own language, yet all sharing the same sacred space.
Walking back through the garden, the lanterns along the path now glowed softly in the dusk, and only the flickering shadows of monkeys remained in the trees. We drove through the dark countryside toward our hotel where we were welcomed with wooden beaded necklaces and a cold glass of fruit juice. Simple gestures that felt warm and genuine after a long day.
That evening, I swapped my usual Kingfisher lagers for a Barahsinghe pilsner, brewed locally in Nepal. Dinner was a hearty spread of spicy ostrich meat and steaming chicken momo dumplings. With that, my first day in Nepal came to a satisfying end.
Day 2
After a much-needed sleep-in, we hit the road traveling east. The continued absence of honking was a welcome relief, but the condition of the roads was falling fast. Near Bardaghat, at the base of the Chure mountain range, pavement gave way to long stretches of dusty, uneven mountain roads where every vehicle kicked up thick clouds that clung to the landscape. The lush greenery of the lowlands was now muted under a coat of grey dust; every bush, tree and roadside sign looked as if it had been dipped in chalk.
Along the way, heavy machinery worked steadily, carving through hillsides and repairing roads damaged by earthquakes and monsoon-triggered mudslides.
At a small roadside restaurant we stopped at, the owner explained that her business was swept away in a mudslide just a few months prior; this new location was put together quite quickly, but still offered home cooked meals in a warm and welcoming environment.
The restaurant was more of a pitstop than a formal eatery; its dirt floor kicked up fine clouds of dust with every footstep, and there were no doors or windows to shield the interior from the elements of the highway a few steps away. But none of that mattered the moment the food arrived. Just a few feet from where I sat, a tandoori oven glowed like an open hearth, and from it emerged some of the most succulent chicken I’ve ever tasted. Charred just right on the outside, impossibly tender within, and infused with smoky, spiced flavour that lingered long after the last bite (a spice others around me couldn’t handle, which of course became a point of pride for me).
That evening, we arrived at our home for the next two days: a Tharu Community Home Stay nestled at the edge of a forest, not far from the buffer zone of Chitwan National Park. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and wild grass, and a group of women welcomed us as we stepped into the courtyard.
Our hosts, members of the indigenous Tharu community, greeted us with warm smiles and garlands of marigold; their hospitality as rooted in tradition as the mud-and-thatch homes they lived in. The Tharu people have called the Terai region of southern Nepal home for centuries, long before it was carved up by conservation zones and tourist trails. Known for their deep knowledge of the jungle and unique resistance to malaria, the Tharu have a rich cultural heritage that blends rituals with Hindu traditions, and a lifestyle closely tied to the land.
We were each given a key to the mud-and-thatch homes where we’d be staying, each one named after the woman who owned and looked after it. My house was called Bishnu, and like the others, it had beautiful charm. The outside walls were marked with white handprints, traditional decorations meant to bring good luck and keep away bad spirits. Inside, the space was simple but welcoming. A neatly made bed sat in the corner with a thick quilt and clean sheets. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture, but the breeze coming through the window and the soft sounds of village life outside made it feel incredibly peaceful. It was the kind of place that didn’t need much, just clean air, quiet surroundings and the sense that someone had put care into making me feel at home.
After a few hours exploring the community and soaking up the midday sun, we were invited to hop on bicycles to see more of the village. These bikes, straight out of the 1960s, had definitely seen better days. Squeaky brakes, worn-out seats, and handlebars that didn’t always want to cooperate. Combined with the uneven, bumpy roads, the ride was far from smooth. The bell was broken, the left break didn’t work, and the right break barely worked.
But even with the rough ride, the experience had its magic. The warm weather held steady, and as we pedaled through the village, we were met with cheerful waves and bright smiles from locals. Children ran alongside us, laughing and calling out, clearly delighted by the spectacle of visitors on old bikes. The village itself was bathed in a soft light, lending everything a relaxed, almost timeless feel.
The dense foliage of Chitwan Natural Park edged closer into the village with every turn- vines creeping up walls, tall grass pushing through fences and the sounds of bird grew louder. It was as if here the boundaries between human life and the natural world were blurred. After some time, we reached the banks of the Narayani River- one of Nepal’s longest waterways which eventually joins the Ganges further south. The scene was striking in its quiet simplicity.
Much like my experience in India just days earlier, a cremation ceremony was about to take place at the river’s edge. But unlike the busy, ritual-filled ghats of Varanasi, this riverside was nearly empty, marked by stillness rather than massive crowds. We stood about half a kilometre away, chai tea in hand, at the banks of the river; far enough to give the grieving family their privacy as we watched the gentle flow of the river, a reminder of how these sacred waters connect lives, cultures and farewells across borders.
That evening, women from the Tharu community hosted a traditional performance filling the air with the rhythmic beat of drums and spirited singing. What began as a show quickly turned into a full celebration. Before long, we were all on our feet, dancing together under the open sky. The music echoed through the village as the night unfolded in a joyful blur of movement, laughter and shared connection.
Day 3
I was woken by the sound of roosters just before sunrise with crisp, fresh air flowing from the window right beside my bed. Stepping out of my hut, I was met with a thick fog snaking its way through the village. We climbed into a waiting 4x4, ready to head toward Chitwan National Park and whatever the day might bring.
Chitwan National Park, located in the lowland Terai region of southern Nepal, is one of the country’s most interesting conservation areas. A UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1984, the park spans over 900 square kilometres of dense jungle, grasslands and river plains. It’s home to a remarkable variety of wildlife including endangered species like the one-horned rhinoceros, Bengal tiger and gharial crocodile.
Driving through a shallow stream, we crossed the natural boundary between the village and the park. The fog was thick, almost cinematic, muting colors and sound as we entered the dense jungle of Chitwan. Everything felt still, suspended in the early morning haze. The first signs of life came from above: dark birds cutting through the mist, their wings wide and silent. They perched on high branches, silhouetted against the pale sky, watching as we passed below.
Then, through the undergrowth, the faint movement of a small herd of spotted deer made their presence known. They stood half-hidden in the mist, their speckled coats blending into the filtered light. Still and alert, they watched us cautiously, ears flicking at the sound of our tires on damp earth.
For the next hour, we moved slowly through the jungle, the fog still hanging thick and low, obscuring much of the landscape. The forest felt quiet, almost too quiet, as if everything inside it was watching and waiting. The chaos of city life was completely behind us, and for the first time in a while I felt like I could hear myself think.
Just as we were beginning to settle into the rhythm of the drive, our vehicle came to a sudden stop. The driver pointed ahead to what looked like a large grey rock in the middle of a clearing. But it wasn’t a rock. About 100 meters away, a lone rhinoceros was sleeping in the grass. Above her, crows circled in slow loops, occasionally dropping down to rest on her broad back. We watched in silence for only a few moments before she stirred. With surprising grace the rhino slowly pushed herself upright and began walking, steady and deliberate, directly toward us. There was no panic, no charge, just a quiet certainty in her movement.
She stopped just a few meters from our vehicle, standing still as she began to graze. Between bites, she lifted her head and looked at each of us in turn. There was no fear or aggression in her gaze, just a quiet, curious presence, almost as if she were searching for company. No one said a word. The silence was deafening. After her meal, she turned and wandered back into the jungle, accompanied by the dark birds that followed her, circling above and occasionally settling on her back like loyal shadows.
Moments later, deeper inside the jungle, the trees above rustled once more. This time it was monkeys moving through the canopy. They kept their distance, leaping silently from branch to branch, their sharp eyes following our slow progress below. By now, the morning fog had begun to lift revealing more of the forest’s detail. Light filtered through the leaves in patches, and with it came clearer glimpses of the animals- fur, movement, expression. The jungle, once veiled and mysterious, was gradually revealing itself.
We stopped briefly at a watchtower deep in the forest to take in the landscape from above. From that vantage point, the surroundings unfolded in layers: lush savannahs stretching into the distance, slow-moving rivers winding through the greenery, and dense pockets of jungle pressing in from all sides. Nearby, a lone crocodile was resting by the shore of the river, watching us with complete indifference.
As we began the journey back toward the village, one stretch of the path in the jungle felt noticeably still. No rustling in the underbrush, no monkeys overhead, just a heavy silence. Suddenly, our driver pulled over and jumped out of the truck, motioning for us to follow. He pointed to the ground with a mix of excitement and caution: tiger tracks.
Pressed deep into the sandy path were multiple large paw prints, leading off into the jungle. A fresh trail; unmistakable and rare. Our driver’s enthusiasm quickly gave way to tension. He glanced around and asked everyone to get back into the truck. A family of the park’s most elusive animals was nearby, and while the sighting was thrilling, he wasn’t particularly keen on us becoming tiger chow.
Back in the village I spent the rest of the day on the front stoop of my hut, reading and enjoying the tranquility of it all. For months leading up to the trip, I’d been waiting on a visa confirmation for Bhutan, the next country on my itinerary. It was supposed to arrive in my inbox weeks earlier, but had been delayed again and again. That uncertainty had been a constant undercurrent; anxiety quietly tagging along with every step of the journey. But now, at last, the email arrived. I sat back, phone in hand, the air clean and still around me, and exhaled- one of those deep, satisfying breaths that feels like it reaches the bottom of your lungs. The weight had lifted.
That evening, I was invited to help cook dinner and enjoy a meal at a local Tharu family’s home. I stooped to enter the low doorway of their hut, stepping into a dark, cozy space lit only by the soft flicker of fires and a single fluorescent lightbulb hanging overhead. The floor was packed dirt and the kitchen was simple; no gas, no appliances, just firewood crackling beneath a few blackened pots and pans. I was handed a large pile of green beans and began preparing them for cooking.
The air was thick with the warm, smoky scent of woodfire- a smell that clung to my clothes and felt incredibly comforting. As we worked, a group of kittens wandered in from underneath a cupboard, meowing softly, brushing up against our legs, hoping for scraps and offering distraction with their playful persistence. After learning some ingenious cooking techniques, we enjoyed an incredible thali consisting of rice, spinach, dumplings, meat and some perfectly prepared green beans.
Conversation flowed easily, even across language barriers. Over a communal meal and shared laughter, I asked questions about life in the village, and they told me about the Tharu way of life. The sense of hospitality was effortless; the kind that makes you feel at home even in a place completely unfamiliar. Later, with smoke curling gently through the air and stars appearing overhead (clear and sharp in a way I hadn’t seen since leaving Canada), I walked back to my hut and called it a day. For the first time in a long while, my mind was quiet; no visas, no schedules, no rush.
Day 4
Another early start marked the end of our time in the peaceful village. As we prepared to leave, a few of the villagers gathered to see us off. They handed us small red flowers as a parting gifts and wished us safe travels. With smiles and waves, they stood by the roadside as we boarded the bus, their silhouettes slowly fading into the morning light as we pulled away, heading toward the city of Pokhara.
Our guide had warned us extensively about this leg of the journey; it wasn’t going to be pretty. The road to Pokhara was long, winding and riddled with potholes. Landslides were common, and traffic could come to a standstill for hours. “Brace yourselves,” he had said with a half-smile. We quickly understood why. Within minutes, the bus was lurching around sharp bends, hugging cliffs with sheer drops on one side and thick jungle on the other.
After a few hours of winding roads and hairpin turns, the bus came to a stop beside a suspension bridge stretched high above the Trishuli River. We were invited to stretch our legs, or, if we were feeling brave, cross the bridge for a better view. A few passengers chose to stay near the relative safety of the roadside, clinging to the edge of the cliff like it was solid ground. I opted to walk ahead to take in the river from above. But before I could step onto the bridge, I spotted a group of men struggling with a reluctant companion: a cow.
The animal stood stubbornly at the edge of the bridge, legs locked, clearly unimpressed by the prospect of walking across swaying metal high above rushing water. The men pushed, pulled, and pleaded, trying everything short of lifting her. Eventually, with a mix of force and persuasion, she gave in, one uneasy step at a time, hoof after hoof clanging against the steel.
Then it was my turn. I stepped onto the bridge, which felt reassuringly solid beneath my feet. No dramatic sway, just the occasional creak of metal as I moved forward. On either side, steep cliffs towered above the Trishuli River, which flowed in a murky teal ribbon far below, carving its way through the gorge. In the distance, a large but narrow waterfall streamed down one of the cliffs- a thin silver line cutting across the dark rock. I paused midway to take it all in- the cliffs, the water, the quiet steadiness of it all- before walking on toward the other side, and then promptly walking back so I wouldn’t miss the bus.
Eventually, we reached Mugling, a small but busy junction town where everything seems to meet: highways, rivers, trucks and buses all crossing paths in a tight, scenic valley. Placed where the Marsyangdi and Trishuli rivers converge, Mugling is surrounded by steep, forested cliffs that rise sharply on all sides. Bridges stretch across the water carrying traffic toward Pokhara, Chitwan and Kathmandu. Mugling sits right in the middle of it all.
Despite its size, there’s a steady flow of life: long-distance buses lined up by roadside restaurants, vendors selling fruit and fried snacks, and drivers ducking into tea shops for quick breaks. It’s not a place most people stay long, but nearly everyone heading across central Nepal passes through. And with the cliffs, the rivers and the sheer movement of it all, it’s one of those places that feels more important than it looks. We stopped a few more times to take in the view- quick roadside breaks with just enough time to stretch or snap a photo.
Suddenly, about an hour outside of Pokhara, our bus filled with the sharp smell of burning rubber, and smoke began to billow out of the AC vents. Without hesitation the driver swerved to the shoulder and cut the engine. Bags were grabbed, windows opened, and people began to quickly get out of the bus. Outside, the smoke thinned quickly in the open air.
Thankfully, there was no fire, but the engine was refusing to start. The driver popped the hood, muttered something to the assistant, and they got to work with a wrench and a water bottle while the rest of us stood around in the sun, offering to help, but they assured us everything would be okay. The engine started again briefly, but after a few minutes of driving, we were forced to the side of the road again.
This unscheduled pitstop brought a particular problem for a few travellers: there were no real bathroom facilities, just a small concrete structure behind a roadside shop. For anyone used to western standards, it was going to be a challenge. Still, a few people didn’t have much choice. One traveler ended up sacrificing her pants after… something not belonging to her got splashed on them. I didn’t ask too many questions, and she didn’t offer many details. But it was clear the whole experience wasn’t ideal.
For most people, it was uncomfortable, but I guess it was part of the deal when traveling through this part of Nepal: scenic roads, unpredictable buses, and the occasional bathroom story you’ll never forget. Standing on the side of the road we passed the time by buying a few bags of spicy chips and sipping glasses of roadside chai. The stall was basic, but the tea was hot and sweet, served in small glass cups that fogged up in our hands. As we waited, school buses crawled past in the opposite lane, packed with uniformed students who grinned and waved out the windows. We waved back.
Eventually our driver, now convinced the problem was fixed, called us back on board. The engine rumbled to life and we rejoined the long, winding line of traffic heading toward Pokhara. Progress was slow. Trucks, buses, and motorbikes jostled for space on narrow curves, and we held our breath every time the bus groaned on an uphill or jerked to a stop behind stalled traffic.
We finally rolled into Pokhara late in the evening; more full twelve hours after we’d left the Tharu community. No one said much as we climbed off the bus; we were stiff, dusty, and completely drained. A few of us rallied just enough energy to find a bite to eat and a stiff drink. After that, we called it. No exploring, no nightlife, just straight back to the hotel and into bed. Pokhara could wait until morning.
Day 5
Another very early start. We left our hotel at 5 a.m., bundled in layers and still half-asleep, climbing into a van while the streets of Pokhara remained quiet and dark. The drive up to Sarangkot wound slowly through the hills, the headlights catching glimpses of terraced farms and the occasional dog trotting across the road.
As we gained elevation, the city lights dropped away behind us, replaced by the faint glow of the sky beginning to change. We weren’t alone; other vans and motorbikes made their way up the narrow road too, all heading toward the same view. Sarangkot sits on a ridge just outside Pokhara, known for offering one of the best panoramic viewpoints of the Annapurna range.
On a clear morning, you can see the peaks light up one by one as the sun rises behind them. Machapuchare, with its distinctive fishtail shape, and the snowy bulk of Annapurna South among them. It’s become a must-do in Pokhara, and despite the early hour and growing crowd, there’s a quiet anticipation that builds as the horizon starts to glow. Everyone’s just waiting for the mountains to appear.
We got there before sunrise, while the ridge was still cloaked in darkness. The only lights came from the scattered twinkle of houses in the valley below and a faint spread of stars overhead. A few people murmured quietly, but mostly it was still- just footsteps on gravel and the occasional rustle of jackets as everyone settled into place. The temperature was just above freezing, and after facing 30°+ days in India, it came as a bit of a shock.
The city below looked like a map lit from beneath, little pockets of light tracing the edges of Phewa Lake and the winding roads of Pokhara. Above us, the sky was just beginning to shift, stars fading slowly as the first hint of morning crept in. Then, as the horizon began to glow, the peaks emerged—first as outlines, then as massive, solid forms. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the hills behind us, but the Himalayas were already catching light. They turned pink almost instantly, lit up like they were separate from the rest of the world.
Machapuchare stood out first, sharp and unmistakable, then the rest of the range followed, glowing brighter as the sky turned from blue to gold. It was perfectly clear. No haze, no clouds. just cold, still air and a view so crisp it hardly looked real. With a classic cup of chai in hand (much needed for its warmth), the views of the Himalayas were simply breathtaking.
The sun had fully risen and hot air balloons began to float over the valley. Clouds hung low, but we were high above them. After some time basking in the views, we took a short drive to a small local coffee collective tucked into the mountainside. The drive was short but winding, past farmhouses and terraced fields already warming in the sun.
We walked down the steep banks of the plantation, following a narrow dirt paths in the cool morning air. At the bottom, members of the collective greeted us with warm smiles, fresh marigold garlands and a small red tika pressed onto our foreheads- a traditional Nepali welcome. We settled in for a simple breakfast and a short introduction to the farm. The farm focuses on organic, community-led coffee production, with a mix of Arabica beans, seasonal vegetables and other crops growing along the hillside. As we listened, we looked out over the valley below- still partly wrapped in cloud, but with the sun now casting long light across the fields and villages in the distance. It was peaceful, quiet and felt far from the uncomfortable drive of the day before.
After breakfast, we took a short tour of the farm, weaving our way through rows of coffee plants and vegetable patches. Along the way we met the animals, including a sleepy cow that watched us pass without much interest. One of the farmers led us to their beehives, tucked into a quiet corner of the property. They explained how the bees play a key role in pollinating the coffee plants, giving the beans a natural sweetness that makes their brew almost like a honey coffee.
The coffee plants grew in jumbled bunches along the hillside, their glossy green leaves dense and vibrant against the rich soil. Small clusters of bright red cherries peeked out among the branches, signalling beans nearing harvest.
Back at the main hut we were offered small cups of their coffee; smooth, rich, and just a little sweet. Alongside it came generous spoonfuls of honey, perfect for drizzling over fresh bananas that added an incredible sweetness to the morning. Above us, skydivers were taking advantage of the clear blue sky, parachuting into the valleys below.
Heading back to Pokhara, there was a lot to see but not much time to do it. I decided to check out the nearby Gurkha Museum, a short cab ride from the city centre. The driver navigated smoothly through Pokhara’s modern streets, lined with shops, cafes, and flowering trees. He offered to wait and drive me back when I was done; an offer too good to refuse.
The Gurkha Museum is dedicated to the history and legacy of the legendary Gurkha soldiers: Nepal’s fierce warriors who have served in armies around the world, most notably the British and Indian armies. Inside the exhibits are thoughtfully laid out with a mix of artifacts, photographs and personal stories that bring their history to life. Old rifles, traditional khukuri knives and worn uniforms sit alongside letters and medals, each piece telling a story of courage and sacrifice.
One of the most striking parts of the museum is the story behind the Gurkha motto, “Better to die than be a coward.” This phrase isn’t just words on a plaque—it’s a deeply held belief, a code of honour that has defined the Gurkha spirit for centuries. There’s a quote from a Former Chief of Army Staff of the Indian Army, Sam Manekshaw, that reads:
“If a man says he’s not afraid of dying, he is either lying or is a Gurkha”.
The museum doesn’t shy away from the harsh realities of war, but it also highlights the pride, loyalty and resilience that have made the Gurkhas respected worldwide. Walking through the exhibits, it’s clear that this is not just a history lesson- it’s a tribute to a people and their unbreakable spirit.
From the museum, I stopped for a quick lunch at a cozy café nearby; just enough time to recharge before heading to the World Peace Pagoda, perched high on a hill overlooking Pokhara and Phewa Lake. The climb up to the pagoda was a steady trek- countless stone steps winding through a quiet, wooded path with small shops occasionally lining the climb. The air grew cooler with every step, and the only sounds were soft footsteps and rustling leaves.
When I arrived, I was instructed to take my shoes off before stepping onto the pagoda’s platform. Walking barefoot around the pristine white dome, with prayer flags fluttering gently above, the silence was almost complete. No loud voices, just a peaceful stillness that made the whole experience feel thoughtful and sacred.
Built by Japanese Buddhist monks in the 1970s, the pagoda was meant to inspire unity and non-violence, serving as a reminder of the importance of global peace. The design follows traditional Buddhist architecture with four large golden statues of the Buddha facing the four cardinal directions, each representing different teachings: peace, protection, meditation and enlightenment.
From the pagoda’s platform, the views are panoramic and impressive. To the south, the calm waters of Phewa Lake stretch out, dotted with colourful boats and framed by green hills. Beyond the lake, the city of Pokhara spreads out, its rooftops and streets visible but softened by distance. Looking north, on a clear day, the towering peaks of the Annapurna mountain range rise sharply against the sky, their snow-capped summits shining in the sunlight (now much less pink than this morning).
Rays of light poked through the clouds, making the entire scene feel deeply still and almost surreal. The contrast between the quiet of the hilltop and the slow-moving world below gave everything a sense of weight and perspective. I spent a while standing in silence, walking slowly around the pagoda, taking in the incredible views in every direction.
Heading back down the hill, I bought a small package of prayer flags from a young girl sitting quietly at the edge of the path, her stack of goods neatly arranged on a cloth. She smiled shyly as I paid, and I tucked the bundle into my bag. I caught a cab at the bottom of the hill and had an easy, genuine conversation with the driver. He talked about his family and how It was the kind of ride that leaves you with more than just a drop-off point.
Back at the hotel, I had just enough energy left to wander the streets of Pokhara. The city was relaxed in the late afternoon way; shops still open, cafes filling up, soft light reflecting off the Himalayas. It felt like a place you could stay for a while without ever needing a reason.
Pokhara is often called Nepal’s capital of tourism, and it’s easy to see why. The city is the main gateway to the Annapurna region, drawing trekkers from around the world who come to hike trails like the Annapurna Base Camp and Poon Hill circuits. Adventure companies line the streets, offering everything from paragliding to whitewater rafting, and gear shops are everywhere, stocked with knockoff North Face jackets and last-minute hiking essentials.
But beyond its reputation, Pokhara feels like it was built with travellers in mind. The layout is easy to navigate, especially around the lakeside. Cafés, restaurants, and guesthouses are all within walking distance, many with rooftop patios or lakeside views. Menus are in English, ATMs are easy to find, and there’s a laid-back rhythm to the city that makes it easy to settle in. Pokhara feels like a place that knows exactly what kind of rest and reset travellers need. I wandered through endless shops before arriving at Phewa Lake.
Walking around Phewa Lake in the evening felt like stepping into a postcard. The water was calm, dotted with dozens of brightly painted wooden boats- reds, blues, and yellows gently bobbing near the shore. Along the lake’s edge, families and groups of friends sat around enjoying picnics. The smell of smoke and street food hung in the air, mixing with the scent of the cool, clean breeze coming off the water.
Despite the activity, the scene was relaxed. Kids played near the shore, a few people strummed guitars and sung aloud and couples strolled quietly along the paths. In the distance, the Himalayas stood massive and unshaken, their snow-covered peaks just catching the last of the light. The cool air carried a bit of mountain crispness- the kind that wakes you up but doesn’t bite. It was the kind of evening where everything feels alive and calm at the same time. Simple, grounded and completely unforgettable.
Day 6
After a full day of enjoying the bliss of lakeside living in Pokhara, we were back on the road heading to Nepal’s capital city, Kathmandu. It was going to be another long day with the same potholes, washed out roads and traffic jams as before.
Nepal's highways, often more a suggestion than a reality, obviously hadn’t changed since our drive in. The road twisted and buckled through the hills, packed with the same bone-jarring potholes, landslide-worn edges and bottlenecks of traffic that had tested our patience days earlier.
Brightly painted overloaded trucks wheezed uphill, motorcycles weaved daringly through narrow gaps, and the ever-present scent of diesel mingled with dust and incense.
Ten hours later, tired and dusty, we finally began our ascent up a steep mountainside road into Kathmandu. The city greeted us under the soft glow of a setting sun. As light filtered through the haze, casting the sky in warm amber tones, we were dropped off at one of the capital’s most iconic landmarks: Swayambhunath, better known as the Monkey Temple.
Perched high above the city on a hill, the ancient stupa was filled with energy; not just of visitors, but of hundreds of resident monkeys. They darted along the stone railings with mischievous energy while prayer flags fluttered in the breeze. Below, the sprawling chaos of Kathmandu unfurled; a tapestry of ancient temples, tangled alleyways and the endless hum of traffic.
Swayambhunath, or the Monkey Temple, is one of Nepal’s oldest and most sacred religious sites- believed to date back over 1,500 years. According to legend, it rose from a lotus that bloomed on a primordial lake that once covered the Kathmandu Valley. The stupa’s iconic all-seeing Buddha eyes overlook the city, symbolizing wisdom and watchfulness. Revered by both Buddhists and Hindus, the temple complex is a powerful spiritual centre and a crossroads of Nepal’s diverse faiths. With prayer wheels spinning, incense wafting and monkeys darting among the ancient stupas, Swayambhunath is a timeless sanctuary above the city’s chaos.
I spent some time wandering the Swayambhunath complex as the sun set over the city. The place was packed with visitors, all navigating the narrow paths around the stupa. Dozens of professional cameras were set up adding to the bustle. We later found out they were filming for a travel show similar to The Amazing Race (which explained some of the heightened energy in the air).
Leaving the temple, it was a quick ride back to my hotel. I didn’t even bother unpacking, knowing I wouldn’t be staying long. My time in Nepal had (temporarily) come to an end as I had an early morning flight to Bhutan in the morning. A few hours in Kathmandu wasn’t nearly enough to scratch the surface of the city’s energy, history and culture.
As I sat in my room, reflecting on the whirlwind of experiences, I couldn’t help but feel that I hadn’t seen nearly enough. I knew one thing for sure: I would be back.
Day 7
Arriving back in Kathmandu after four incredible days in Bhutan, I felt a renewed sense of energy and an unexpected sense of calm. The trip had been everything I hoped for and more, and to top it off, the visa process I had been stressing over for months went off without a hitch. The relief left me feeling more at ease than I thought I would ever be on this trip.
The tranquility of Bhutan was immediately juxtaposed with the bustling streets of Kathmandu. As I weaved through the chaotic traffic, the honking horns and the dizzying blend of motorbikes and rickshaws, I felt like I had been thrust into a different world.
My ride took me straight to Thamel, Kathmandu's vibrant heart and a haven for travellers. Thamel is a maze of narrow alleyways lined with colourful shops, restaurants and hostels all brimming with energy. The streets are alive with a constant hum; the sounds of street vendors calling out their wares, the smell of incense and spices in the air, and the vibrant chaos of tourists and locals alike. It’s a place where the old meets the new: traditional temples stand side by side with trendy cafés and outdoor gear shops.
As I walked through the lively streets, I was struck by how much life seemed to pulse through Thamel. It felt like the perfect blend of Nepal’s rich history and modern-day hustle. From backpackers haggling for souvenirs to locals rushing about their daily routines, there was always something happening around every corner.
Walking down a very busy street, I slipped through an alley and stumbled upon Yetaka Bahal, a peaceful courtyard tucked away from the noise. The quiet atmosphere was a stark contrast to the hustle of the city just a few steps away. People were sitting, enjoying the stillness; some lost in thought, others just soaking in the calm. It was a simple, serene spot that offered a welcome break from the chaos of Kathmandu.
Enjoying the lingering sense of calm (perhaps being a softened by my time in Bhutan), I stopped for a quick lunch before making my way to the Garden of Dreams, a peaceful oasis tucked just outside the bustle of Thamel. The entrance was understated but stepping through it felt like entering a different world. Inside, the noise of Kathmandu faded again, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of fountains.
Originally built in the 1920’s by Field Marshal Kaiser Sumsher Rana, the Garden of Dreams, also known as the Garden of Six Seasons, was designed in the Edwardian style by architect Kishore Narshingh. It features six pavilions each representing one of Nepal's six seasons, along with pergolas, fountains and a central pond. After decades of neglect, the garden was restored between 2000 and 2007 with support from the Austrian government- reviving its neoclassical charm.
Walking along the paved paths, I passed manicured lawns, sunken flower beds and elegant pavilions. The garden's design blends formal European elements with naturalistic plantings, creating a serene environment. Visitors lounged on the grass, read books and simply enjoyed the gardens. I relaxed for an hour or two before facing the congested streets once again.
The streets of Thamel, though undeniably busy, were exactly what I had imagined Kathmandu would be like. Backpackers wove through narrow lanes alongside locals, the air buzzing with the hum of scooters, chatter and music from nearby shops. Strings of faded prayer flags crisscrossed overhead, fluttering gently above rows of trekking stores and souvenir stalls. I spent the evening wandering aimlessly, soaking in the rhythm of it all.
Every corner seemed to offer something new- yak wool felts, ornaments, handmade journals, brass singing bowls and so much more. I picked up a few small gifts for friends and family back home, the kind of things that carried a bit of this vibrant place with them. Despite the noise and crowds, or maybe because of them, Thamel felt alive. Busy, colourful, and unforgettable.
In the evening, my hotel had a quiet rooftop bar. So quiet, in fact, I was the only one there. From my table I had a clear view over the city, with Swayambhunath silhouetted in the distance; its stupa catching the last light of day. Kathmandu buzzed faintly below- honking scooters, dogs barking, the usual sounds of a busy city winding down. From the rooftop, though, it all felt distant.
Dinner was simple but memorable: rich, fried yak-cheese balls with a crisp exterior and gooey centre, followed by a deeply spiced curry that warmed me against the evening chill. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, the sky turned soft shades of orange and blue before fading, little by little, into darkness. The lights of Kathmandu flickered on below, and the valley slowly settled into night.
Day 8
Another day, another flight. But this time I wasn’t going far. Operated by Yeti Airlines, this was a roundtrip flight from Kathmandu to Kathmandu, looping past the Himalayas with one goal: to get a clear view of Mount Everest. I’d already seen the mountain twice, once on the way to Bhutan and again on the return, but Everest is one of those sights that never gets old. When the weather’s clear and the timing is right, it’s worth every chance you get to see it again.
The aircraft was small, with every aisle seat empty- only window seats were bookable to give every passenger a fair chance of seeing the mountains. Once we were airborne and the Himalayas started to come into view, the atmosphere shifted from quiet anticipation to quiet excitement.
People leaned forward, craning their necks to catch the first glimpse of snow-capped ridgelines. Phones and cameras came out fast. Flight attendants moved up and down the aisle, pointing out key mountains by name: Lhotse, Makalu, Kanchenjunga. As the left side of the plane caught the first glimpse of Everest, people from the right began leaning over, standing up, even sliding into the empty aisle seats to sneak a better view. The flight attendants reassured us that the plane would loop back and everyone would get a chance, but patience was in short supply. Everest was visible now, and no one wanted to miss it.
The mountain rose sharply in the distance, only slightly taller than the surrounding peaks. Phones came out, voices dropped, and for a few minutes, most of us were pressed to the glass, quietly taking it in. On the way back, the right side (my side) got its view. Less frantic this time, but no less impressive.
Everest rose alongside the plane, its summit nearly level with our altitude. From the window, it felt like we were flying right next to the mountain, close enough to see the sharp edges of the ridges and the deep shadows in its crevasses. The usual sense of distance disappeared; this wasn’t some far-off peak on the horizon, but a massive, towering presence right beside us. It was a rare perspective, one that gave a real sense of the mountain’s scale and power, making the flight feel less like travel and more like a front-row seat to one of the world’s greatest natural wonders.
Arriving back in Kathmandu, I signed up with a local guide to get a deeper look into the city’s culture and history. Straight from the airport, our first stop was Pashupatinath Temple, one of Nepal’s most sacred Hindu sites. The sprawling complex sits on the banks of the Bagmati River and is known for its stunning pagoda-style architecture, intricate wood carvings and vibrant religious ceremonies. It is here that bodies are cremated with rituals performed right by the river’s edge.
Watching cremations begin on the riverbank, I was reminded of my time in Varanasi, along the Ganges in India just a week earlier. Both rivers hold immense spiritual significance and serve as places where life and death are closely intertwined. At Pashupatinath, the atmosphere was a mix of solemnity and activity.
Nearby where we were standing, a large, busy ritual was underway for a young adult. Family members moved with a mix of grief and ritual precision, splashing water into the mouth of the deceased- a symbolic gesture to purify the soul and ease its passage. The clothes worn in life had been neatly brought to the riverbank, waiting to be laid alongside the body as part of the final rites.
Not far away, smaller, quieter ceremonies were unfolding for older individuals. One elderly woman’s body rested close to the water, the ritual slower and more intimate. The water was poured gently, her clothes folded with care, as family members prepared for the moments to come. The contrast between the large, bustling preparations for the young adult and the calm, tender farewells for the elders highlighted the personal and communal layers of this ancient tradition, all set against the steady flow of the Bagmati below.
After Pashupatinath, we headed to Boudhanath Stupa, one of the largest and most important Buddhist pilgrimage sites in Nepal. The massive white dome topped with a golden spire and the all-seeing eyes of Buddha painted on each side make it instantly recognizable.
According to legend, the land for Boudhanath Stupa was donated by a woman who asked for as much land as could be covered by a cow’s hide. To her surprise, she was granted exactly that- but she cleverly cut the hide into thin strips and stretched them out to cover a much larger area than anyone expected. That’s why the stupa and its surrounding space are so expansive, allowing for the large courtyard where pilgrims gather to this day.
Built centuries ago along ancient trade routes, Boudhanath has long been a centre for Tibetan Buddhism and a gathering place for monks, pilgrims and locals alike. The stupa is surrounded by a busy square filled with prayer wheels, shops, and cafes. Pilgrims walk clockwise around the stupa, spinning the prayer wheels as they go, while chants and mantras fill the air. It’s a place of calm and devotion amidst the city’s bustle, where centuries of tradition continue to thrive (along with plenty of dogs lounging in the sun).
I climbed up to a rooftop restaurant overlooking the stupa, where the view stretched across the massive white dome and the bustling square below. Over a traditional Thali lunch (an array of flavorful rice, lentils, vegetables, and more), I soaked in the vibrant atmosphere.
Next stop was Durbar Square, the historic heart of Kathmandu. Packed with ancient temples, palaces and courtyards, it’s a place rich in culture and history. Despite damage from the 2015 earthquake, many buildings have been carefully restored, preserving the area’s unique charm. Locals and tourists alike wander the square, where festivals, markets and daily life unfold against a backdrop of impressive heritage.
In the square there was a brick house with shuttered black windows- home to the Kumari, Kathmandu’s Living Goddess. This young girl, chosen for her purity and believed to be the earthly incarnation of the goddess Taleju, rarely appears in public. She only leaves the house for important festivals and ceremonies, making her presence a mysterious and deeply respected part of the city’s spiritual life.
The square was filled with relics and sculptures, including one particularly interesting one. Kaal Bhairav, the fierce form of Shiva associated with time and destruction, is usually depicted as terrifying and wrathful. But in Durbar Square, the statue of Kaal Bhairav famously wears a rare smiling expression.
In one version of the legend, a married woman was accused of having an affair and had to prove her innocence before Kaal Bhairav, the fierce god of justice. The test was deadly- if she lied, she would be killed. To prove her innocence, she cleverly said, “I have done no wrongdoing since nursing from my mothers milk”, insinuating she hasn’t done anything wrong since being a baby.
The catch? She had secretly drunk her mother’s breastmilk the night before giving her statement. By framing it this way, she technically told the truth- she hadn’t been unfaithful since that exact moment. Kaal Bhairav, bound by truth and justice, couldn’t punish her, and is said to have smiled at her cleverness.
Wrapping up the tour and bidding my guide farewell, I was back to exploring the packed streets of Kathmandu on my own. I stopped for a quick lunch of Nepalese momos before spending the evening wandering through the maze of motorbike-filled alleys. Without an agenda, I let myself take in the energy of the city at a slower pace, soaking in the sounds, smells, and colour of everyday life.
Day 9
Sitting on a quiet rooftop overlooking the sprawl of Kathmandu, my month-long journey through Nepal, India and Bhutan had come to an end. In just a short time Nepal had shown me an incredible range of experiences. From misty jungle mornings in Chitwan National Park, watching animals emerge from the grasslands, to the chaos and calm of the roadside breakdown on the way to Pokhara and fighting my way through traffic in Kathmandu. I stood before the Annapurna range at sunrise, drank coffee high above the clouds on mountainside farm, and wandered the peaceful shores of Phewa Lake; where the Himalayas loomed quietly in the distance.
I flew level with Everest, explored sacred temples, watched cremation ceremonies along the Bagmati River, and listened to centuries-old legends in Durbar Square. I tasted yak cheese, honey coffee, fiery curries, warm momos and some fantastic beer throughout it all.
Nepal had been intense and peaceful, sacred and chaotic. It was a country that made me slow down, pay attention and take things as they came. I've dreamed of visiting Nepal for as long as I can remember; captivated by the sight of colourful prayer flags fluttering in the wind, bustling trekking shops on every street, and the rich, layered tapestry of its cultural history. It was everything I imagined and more.
With more than 30 hours of flights ahead of me, including a 12-hour layover in Qatar, it was time to head home. But the sights, sounds, and stillness of Nepal would linger long after. Without a doubt, this had been the trip of a lifetime- always on the move, learning at every turn, and immersing myself in some of the most unique and unforgettable places on Earth.
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