Thamel is possibly the busiest town in Kathmandu, every road a smorgasbord of colour, smell and culture, every corner offering up visually stunning moments that only my camera and I seem to find magical. The emaciated structures pilled on top of each other seem out of place as I catch glimpses of picturesque mountainside and blue skies between the buildings I pass. Shop owners and street peddlers are a little forceful, almost begging for business. They sell traditional musical instruments, jewelry, creams and balms, Buddhist and Hindu art called “Thanka”, as well as handmade fabrics, clothing and beads. Every minute a taxi driver stops to convince me that walking is unnecessary. Occasionally someone will whisper, “ice,” “hash,” “marijuana,” “psychedelics,” gesturing for me to enter a narrow alley for the exchange.

One man selling a traditional viola type instrument follows me for two blocks giving demonstrations and lowering the cost to less than a fifth of the original asking price, a common negotiation tactic should they find you inexperienced. Despite being new here, I’ve already experienced being taken advantage of, paying over seven times the normal price for a simple bamboo flute. The feel of the hard bamboo tucked in the waistline of my shorts serves as I reminder when I assert my latest Nepali catch phrase of “malaitsainainda,” no thankyou. The man that sold it to me played so beautifully and painted a vivid picture of long nights spent on the mountainside playing haunting melodies to the stars. Reality quickly set in after repeatedly failing to produce even a simple tone. I like the feel of it though and I am determined to learn. I have managed a few tones since then but I can’t seem to grasp how my lips should be positioned, where the air should be directed and how hard I need to blow. It seems to be a ridiculously precarious balance of lip position and air control and every time a brief tone emerges, I can’t work out what I did to produce it. Surprisingly there is no frustration when trying, only a deep awareness and focus.

We leave the town of Thamel on foot on our way to the famous monkey temple.

I walk past many piles of rubble swept aside from the recent, devastating April and May earthquakes. I’m drawn to a group of children playing ping pong on a concrete slab with jagged rocks placed in a line where the net would normally be. The concrete surface of the table is uneven and scarred with protrusions and pockmarks, yet the children still play quite well, a feat I think I might manage also until losing 7-0 to an eight year old boy that always served onto a pockmark on my side of the table with deadly accuracy, spinning the ball into random unpredictable directions. More children hurry over to look at the strange man with a mohawk and exchange fist bumps that leave them in fits of laughter every time I feign brutal injury. There are two girls of around eight years old, a boy and girl of maybe ten years, a four or five year old that could have been either boy or girl and four older boys playing ping pong and soccer. They all wear brightly coloured summer clothes over their tiny frames and some wear sandals where others are bare foot. The younger children’s clothes are dirty and their feet caked in dirt. They are all astoundingly beautiful with fine caramel features and big brown eyes that take up their entire face. As soon as the camera comes out they bunch together in separate groups, the girls posing like super models and the boys in gangster style.

They all live on a temporary campsite in tents made of old tarps and other used plastics. There are roughly 40 tents at this campsite and I’m told there are more temporary homes than permanent homes in and around the city. In the regions of Sindhupalchock, Dolhka, Nuwakot, Rasuwa and Gorka, the vast majority of homes are temporary homes filled with villagers that have been displaced in the aftermath of Nepal’s April and May earthquakes. There doesn’t seem to be much memory of the disaster as I continue up a steep stony road bursting with Kathmandu’s commonplace activity. Life truly goes on.

I stare in disbelief at the largest stairway I have ever seen. It reaches out to taste the infinite, disappearing into the sky. They lead to a Buddhist temple commonly referred to as “monkey temple”, due to the abundance of monkeys that have taken up residence, devouring food offerings laid out to honour Buddha’s past, present and future. The stairs are swarming with street merchants that hound each tourist laboriously ascending the steep stone steps. The temple has been mildly affected by the earthquake with only the foundations of some damaged statues remaining. A Nepali man is crouched low packing earth between the bricks and stones of one of the remaining foundations. There doesn’t seem to be a visible reason for his efforts as the ancient statue the base once supported is now a pile of rubble. Nevertheless, he seems devout in his task and I get the feeling he is contributing in the only way he can, his dark brooding eyes filled with grief. Our eyes meet for a moment but he seems to stare right through me and melancholy sweeps through my being like a dark cloud sudden and terrible in the sky. There is no reason in his endeavour and yet it is the only pursuit he finds meaning in right now. How many of our endeavours are utterly futile? When time renders all to dust, what remains to echo through eternity?

These steps seem the perfect setting for pondering eternity. My breathing is laboured as I struggle to climb, focusing on the highest visible step and removing all ownership and judgment of the pain I observe throughout my body. Is it truly MY body? I guess it will be until I leave it behind. The Nepali don’t identify with the body as much as the western world. Their language reflects this idea. A Nepali never says, “I am stressed,” or “I have a headache,” instead expressing the symptom as “I have taken stress,” or “I have taken a headache.” There is no ownership of the body’s symptoms. They can be removed as easily as they are taken on. There is no Nepalese word for sorry either and I assume it’s because “it’s all good.” I pause for a moment and fill my lungs with air, looking upon the final stretch of steps with respect. I can’t help visualising the slinky scene in Ace Ventura, pet detective. Everyone loves a slinky. My laughter is raspy and devoid of oxygen, so I remain a moment for a few more deep breaths, still chuckling to myself imagining what it would be like to try to get a slinky going from the top step.

The temple doesn’t hold to my expectations. It seems a shadow of its former glory, packed with tourists and beggars. The structure is beautiful though, filled with stone alters of burning incense and candles, ancient prayer wheels made of copper, bronze and other metals, small mysterious temples dark and musty, larger temples with their outer walls of carved Buddhist prayers and of course the superb golden dome of the main temple. It shines under the light of the sun as though made of pure gold. One side of the temple is roped off and under construction after the earthquake and I sneak glimpses into the inner rooms of a temple made bare by sections of wall now missing. Some walls stand without any apparent support and some walls seem to be floating at angles that defy gravity, giving the area an eerie aura.

I walk away from the crowds in search of peace and find it in a small temple where local Buddhist’s sing prayer songs in a smaller temple before an alter of burning candles and incense. Their voices echo in unison, joy with a hint of despair, faith with the subtle undertone of doubt. An elderly Nepali woman deep inside the temple maintains the integrity of the group’s intention lovingly and without doubt. Her voice is clear, pure, faithful and filled with loving kindness. Her red and aquamarine robes fall loosely over her gaunt frame but she emanates strength and power. Her eyes are blacker than the darkest of nights, and yet they are somehow bright. Eyes without fear. Eyes that choose to see only love. I join the group’s purpose for a while, meditating with the prayer that all beings be happy before making my way back down with the strong determination to see only love.

My decision is challenged the instant I make it, surrounded by six little girls of around eight or nine years old, begging for money in the most desperate and heartbreaking manner I have yet to experience. They plead sweetly in broken English for rupees. “No mum,” “please help,” “no food,” “no mum.” I have been told by all locals never to give children any money as it supports and perpetuates begging gangs that use children for sympathy as well as glue sniffing and other activities that place these young children at great risk. My heart sinks as I force myself to pull away from the group and my silent prayers feel terribly inadequate. I continue on holding their faces in my minds eye while praying for their happiness, adding the fruitless builder to my prayers as I pass him on the way down. There is so much suffering. I want to see only love. May my decision be strong and may my will follow. May all beings be happy.

-James