Yoga in Kathmandu and the Journey to Pokhara

I’ve been in Nepal for nearly three weeks already, and time has absolutely flown. I’ve been meaning to write, but other writing projects have been captivating my attention, and many days have been passed in a haze of waking up early and having no time to write at all.

Perhaps I’ve also avoided writing this because I knew I would have to discuss why I cut my Thailand trip short and went home two months ago. My grandmother, Rosalind Gordon, died of cancer in late March. I went home to see her two weeks before, and was fortunate enough to have two weeks with her before she died. It was an incredibly difficult time for everyone involved.

Then my return to traveling was delayed by health issues for over a month, and during this time my dad’s girlfriend’s mother also died. Then I fell into a depression, which I coped with by hiking and writing an entire novel. 

Ultimately I was jerked out of it by attending a beautiful ritual hosted by my old roommate in upstate New York that occurred five days before leaving. The event was a clear reminder that all the spirituality, community, mystery and wisdom I could ever hope to find out in the world can also be found right at home, an hour from where I grew up.

Now I’m back in Nepal, and the trip already has a much different tone than it did when I left for Thailand. That trip already feels more innocent; I feel changed. I suppose we are always changing no matter where we are or what we do.

But I’m still extremely grateful, just as I was in Thailand and perhaps even more so. Now, this trip has been delayed by a full two years; I meant to originally begin it in May 2022 after I left San Francisco, but my knee surgery and other factors mean I am now closer to 30 than 20. I do not take a second of it for granted, because I know it can all be taken away in a second — both the trip, and life itself.

I am writing this while looking over the sunset in Pokhara, Nepal, in the tourist village of Lakeside, on a perfect night. Wind blows away the last of the day’s heat. I can’t believe I finally made it. But here I am. 

I arrived in Kathmandu on May 10 after being unexpectedly upgraded to business class on my 15-hour flight to Delhi, which made the 10-hour layover easier to bear. At last I arrived in Nepal’s capital and immediately went to my hotel and slept away the afternoon.

The next day, I set out to see as many sights as I could in Kathmandu before starting my yoga retreat. I began with breakfast in my hotel’s lovely, secluded garden, followed by a walk to Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, its town center. The moment I stepped out of the hotel, I was immediately immersed in the sights and smells of the city. Most of Kathmandu is covered in a layer of dirt, and the streets are cramped and full of people racing by in cars and on motorbikes; to cross the streets you kind of just have to walk into traffic and hope the cars stop. But I was so happy to be there and enjoyed my walk to the temples and stupas.

Once there, I commissioned a tour guide to lead me around, and he took me to see Kathmandu’s living goddess, the Kumari — a young girl who is said to be the incarnation of the goddess Durga, at least until she begins to menstruate. The goddess stepped and gazed haughtily out the window as the people looked on in awe, then retreated back into her palace.

Afterwards, I made my way through a nearby museum and then headed to the famous Swayambhunath, or the Monkey Temple, which — true to its name — was flanked by countless monkeys, which provided me with endless joy as they leapt and swung across the trees and Tibetan prayer flags. 

I climbed up the 365 steps to reach a kind of touristy heaven, complete with tons of families and vendors hawking their wares on top of the spiraling stupa. Everywhere I looked I saw the eyes of Buddha, looking in all four directions — a distinctly Nepali characteristic meant to signify the fact that karma is always watching us.

Later I visited the Bodhunath Stupa, walking three times clockwise around the massive structure along with hundreds of other pilgrims, sending om mani padme hum mantras into the air with each spin of the prayer wheels.

Finally I settled into my final destination of the day: Pashupatinath Temple, where I spent a while sitting by the cremation ghats, watching bodies burn beside the dirty river.

I’d wanted to come to the ghats since hearing about them After the death I’d just experienced, I just wanted to sit with grief and honor the sacred ritual of collective mourning that is as old as life itself.

Women wailed as the bodies burned above the river. Smoke and ash wandered on the air.

At last I walked away and headed up a long tower of steps towards the temple complex, which took my breath away with its beauty. As the sun sank down and stained the sky pink I passed intricately carved temples — everywhere the faces of gods and goddesses observed me, their stories and sacredness carved into shiny black stone. Cows and stray dogs and monkeys wheeled by as I wandered past a blue Shiva statue nestled into the basin of a huge, ropey tree that spread its arms above us all. 

Finally I made my way back to the river to watch the nightly Aarti Ceremony, a ritual of grief and praise dedicated to Lord Shiva, Goddess Sararaswati, and other deities that comes from Varanasi, India. Drums and flutes rang out over the crowds and incense flowed; orange-wrapped priests sang Vedic hymns and lifted candlelit lamps aloft in time with the rhythms.

It was hard to see among the huge crowd, and there was a festive feeling among the group; everyone craned their necks to see the show, and I caught glimpses of fire rising up and down, a few of the flames sparking out in the wind as the sun sank below the city completely.

I found Pashupatinath unspeakably moving and powerful, and wished I had more time there. But the taxi driver I’d hired was waiting, and so I sped back to the hotel.

The next day I went to see a shaman.

I’d seen the tour advertised on Tripadvisor and signed up on a whim before arriving. One of my goals with this trip, and with traveling at large, is to learn as much as I can about world religions (and history, and culture, and whatever else); I consider it almost an intensive in comparative religious studies. I wanted to see Nepali shamanism in action, and was also curious if he might have any insights for me.

The shaman was young and dressed in plain clothes, and he sat next to an altar of skulls and fire and prayer beads and read my palm and aura. He told me I was a kind and good person, but that I also unfortunately had a bad astrological outlook, and that I should pursue yoga and meditation and should be very careful when deciding who I marry.

Vaguely unsettled, I made my way through the hot streets back to the hotel, collecting dirt on my feet. The unsettled feeling followed me all the way through the next day, and I arrived at the yoga retreat feeling a bit out of balance. 

The retreat, located on the very edge of Kathmandu against the green foothills of the Himalayas, was lovely and small — about ten people were there along with the staff, and our days followed a ritualistic order. In the morning we’d wake up, drink tea, cleanse our noses through the Ayurvedic process called Neti, which involves pouring a great deal of water through one nostril and letting it flow out the other. Then we’d do a two-hour yoga class before breakfast.

Yoga as it is taught in the West is not much like actual yoga at all; here and in reality, yoga is as much about breathing and meditation as it is about difficult poses. It is a spiritual practice first, and it is so typical of the West to commodify and consume such a sacred practice, stripping it of all but its most superficial characteristics. (The West/East divide is also a very flawed and binary way of separating the world, but I’ll save that for the papers I inevitably write in grad school). 

I started every class feeling horrible and exhausted, and ended each one feeling impossibly revived.

We had three home-cooked vegetarian Ayurvedic meals a day, which were simple and nourishing and delicious. In the afternoons, I had sound healings or massages or oil treatments, and at night I had another yoga class followed by an hour-long meditation. In the hours between classes, I made my way to seek out coffee in the city as the center didn’t have any of its own, walking through the serpentine streets until I found some of the city’s many cafes.

I have yet to have a bad latte in Nepal, and overall have been thoroughly, thoroughly impressed by the quality of this country’s coffee and cafe culture. 

I was also able to sit in on an Ayurveda class, and learned that I am mostly a mix of all the elements, but have slightly more air in my constitution than anything else, which means my nature is to rush and move around, and I do think that’s true; I can often feel sluggish and tired, but I’m at my absolute best when traveling and whizzing through concepts and writing stories at a mile a minute.

Ayurveda is essentially predicated on the concept that medical care should be preventative and tailored to each person’s individual body — rather than generic and focused on treating sicknesses after they occur, as it is in Western medicine — and it makes a whole lot of sense to me.

On the fourth day I took a private tour of a collection of temples outside Kathmandu in an area called Pharping, and scaled some two thousand steps up a hill until I reached a small temple honoring Kali, where I was invited to light a candle. I sent out a few prayers, just in case. 

A terrible white tourist was sitting on top of the Kali temple, and would not leave even though my guide asked him to. It’s disrespectful to the goddess to climb on top of a sacred structure, he told me, and even workers doing construction had to do a cleansing ritual before and after. But the tourist merely smiled an evil smile, and in that moment I absolutely hated where I’m from and the way that tourists and particularly white people have so often commodified and disrespected ancient faiths and sacredness for no reason other than hubris. 

On the walk down, I told my guide about my poor astrological outlook, which had bothered me a lot in the past few days. He told me that I shouldn’t worry, as it’s only bad if I believe it is. And, breathing in the silence and the mist at the top of the hill, I let it go. 

We also stopped in the Asura Cave, where Guru Rinpoche (also known as Padmasambhava) — a tantric Buddhist master who was a key part of bringing Buddhism to Tibet — had reached enlightenment. I sat for a while among other worshipers at the shrine inside, among the candle wax and orange flowers.

Finally we ended up at a monastery, where we listened to monks robed in red chanting and banging on huge drums, blowing massive rag-dungs and repeating their mantras over and over and over. Buddhas and gods and wheels of life shone from the walls and ceilings and floors in every color and shape.

Since arriving in Nepal I’ve been struck by how often Buddhism and Hinduism are fused together; Buddhism makes space for Hinduism by acknowledging that there are indeed gods, and all sorts of magic in the world, but all of these things also exist inside samsara, or suffering, and none of these should replace the ultimate quest for enlightenment.

The two faiths sit side by side here, woven together in a braid that feels natural and true, and once again I found myself thinking a lot about how absurd it is to me that religions continue to proclaim they are the correct ones, when really, many are just saying the same thing.

We are all connected.

We are part of something greater.

Be kind.

I returned to the yoga center and had one more day of class before the retreat’s end. Everyone at the center was quite obviously seeking something — a yoga certification, yes, but also healing and respite or guidance and understanding, and I was lucky to bond with some of the other students during the course, who were all lovely and kind. Still, I was supposed to stay on for a sound healing certification, but I’d been strongly advised that the last week of May was the last good week for a trek, and so I decided to put the course off.

I was also itching to travel and explore further, so I headed out to Pokhara after the seven-day retreat’s conclusion.

The bus ride to Pokhara is supposed to be seven hours long, but ours was twelve. And I’m grateful that the ride was so slow, because the roads were disastrous; most were in construction and often we’d wait for what felt like an hour as buses inched by, navigating endless traffic jams as we scaled the hills of the Himalayas, plunging down and creeping up. But, resting on the extremely comfortable seats — necessary for tourists, I’d been told, due to the amount of bouncing around the bus ride entails — I just read my book, listened to music, and felt like I was in heaven.

I once wrote the lyric heaven is a highway, and I mean that literally. I love traveling for many reasons, but one of them is that I simply actually love the physical act of traveling from place to place. I love the long bus rides, train rides, plane rides, car rides, and walks through cities; I love the space to think, and read, and the ability to drink in new scenery, which always sets my mind on fire and fills me with inspiration and love for the whole world.

So I had a fabulous time on the drive, but was happy to be in Lakeside as night fell. I was blown away by the beauty of the little enclave created by Lake Phewa, made specifically for tourists and rife with souvenir shops and cafes open extremely late. 

The next day I set out to explore the lake, taking a ride across the green waters in a little red boat rowed by a local. I’ve been constantly impressed by the friendliness and helpfulness of the locals; every Nepali I’ve met — and in fact everyone I’ve met on this trip — has been extremely kind and lovely. I haven’t felt as open as I perhaps did in Thailand; I’m still shaking off some ice from the past few months, I think, but I know that will come in time. 

We stopped at a small temple in the center of the lake, and then rowed to the other side, where I hiked up a hill (not a mountain, as the Nepalis like to say) to the World Peace Stupa. The internet had described this as an easy, 45-minute hike, but two hours later I was sweating buckets as I struggled up the final steps, my legs and knees aching. 

Quickly I messaged the guide who I was going to go trekking with, asking if I could possibly do an even easier hike.

I rested at the World Peace Stupa for a while, looking over the city, listening to a monk play a drum, praying for peace as bombs fell on the other side of the world.

Then I tried to walk back down the other side of the hill, but eventually gave up when I found myself alone on a dirt road in a tiny village as the sun was setting, and quickly scampered down the hill towards the lake and took a boat back.

The next morning I went paragliding, running off a hill to soar over the city. I was extremely excited — I’ve loved skydiving and bungee jumping in the past and have had paragliding on my bucket list for years — but unfortunately I grew extremely nauseous as we rose up to 5,000 meters, and had to cling onto my breakfast for dear life until we made it back down to earth. I sat in the grass for a while, having never been so grateful for solid ground.

I spent the rest of that day and the next one resting, hanging out in cafes, and finishing the novel I’d started back after my grandma died — a messily constructed dark romance that was immensely cathartic to write. I still adore writing fiction, apparently (as well as poetry, which I’ve also been writing on this trip — and essays, which I spent all day writing today). Since being laid off from my writing job six months ago I’ve finished writing two full-length novels; I already knew I’d always be writing songs and poetry no matter what, but as it turns out, when I’m not paid to write prose, I still write it anyway.

I am quite nervous about what I’m going to do with my career when I do eventually have to go back and work, as the media industry is a disaster and AI is evolving at a breakneck pace. But I’ll just keep writing and following where my writing leads me, and I hope that will lead me to a place where I can do what I’ve always wanted to do, which is write all day and every day — though ideally not about celebrities, ever again (unless it’s an interview, or a well-thought-out piece of cultural criticism). 

I am so grateful every single day to be out here and not working at my old job. But I’ve also been reflecting on how abundant my life was in New York, how rich and beautiful and full of opportunity it was in many ways, and how I took it for granted, as I was always, always itching to travel, itching to escape. 

The key, as Buddha realized so clearly underneath the Bodhi tree, is to be in the moment. It’s the truth. Everything exists in the here and now. This is really all there is and ever will be. 

The next day I went on the best tour I’ve ever been on, which merits a separate post, so I’ll leave it at that for now.