Much of our experience in Nepal makes such a strong sensory impression
that five senses seem inadequate. Here are some that defy the
narrative style of a travelog: the intertwined smells of wood smoke,
masala tea spices, and nectar laden flowers; the local dress – most
women dress in a variety of Indian styles, sarees are most popular,
and kurtas – those pajama-like pants-suits, maroon being the most
popular color, while men are uniformly western in button down shirts
and slacks;  flip-flops are ubiquitous, but there are plenty of shoes
and sneakers;  older men sport those Nehru caps – sort of like the
boyscouts or old fashioned diner workers wore, usually woven in pastel
diamond patterns — younger men wear Yankees caps or go bare-headed
and sport knock-off t-shirts with unintelligible logos;  cricket,
volleyball and of course soccer are played by youngsters everywhere;
the giant smiles on these tiny people are infectious – one feels
guilty for not greeting each and every person passed;  we are
addressed as mama and maiju (uncle and auntie) by the more respectful
youngsters; some drivers become horn addicts – honking every 100
yards, regardless of the traffic; everyone who can, has a little
convenience store in the front room of the house – might as well try
and sell something while sitting around all day; people walking on the
street make some kind of devotional sign at each shrine passed – which
can be every block; romantic rowers on the lake all conform – women at
the oars, men lazing at the bow; electric power is all the more
precious when you only get a few hours a day; with a little squeezing
it's possible to squish sixteen people, including two giant Americans,
and a chicken or two, into the tiniest jeep made; sterilizing drinking
water with our ultraviolet wand (SteriPEN) seems like a miracle;
two-tone grey and black House Crows rule the urban skies; villagers do
indeed eat the pigeons and build dovecotes in the fields to collect
their guano; swallows zoom in and out of the roadside shops and nest
in the rafters and on the upper shelves; everyone who reads reads the
newspaper; an old man caresses and re-examines his new brass pot
incessantly and shows it off proudly to everyone on the bus; even in
the city, many need to carry water home from the neighborhood tap;
the bus baggage hold is opened at the end of the line and out pops a
family of goats;  on the festival day called Holi, kids roam around
plastered head to foot in red powder while young guys at the bus stand
break eggs over each other's heads — we escape with only forehead
smears; Nepali faces vary greatly – some look very Chinese, others are
round-faced Tibetans, most are very Caucasian looking, most are dark,
but not very, much like Latinos;  henna-dyed hair is popular, even for
men; most homes are tiny, unheated, often blackened from cooking on
wood fires;  Nepali pop music blends Hindi and Chinese styles and is
infectious;  Bollywood posters abound and Indian dramas are on every
TV channel; potato chips are popular – one local brand is Shaka Laka
Boom; the bone-jarring buses careen mercilessly round blind mountain
curves, horn blaring, driver on the cellphone while turning the
distorted music up to eleven;  a bindi (the Hindu forehead's third
eye) can be a speck, a smear, a red and yellow trident, even a big
blob of crimson rice krispies; bunker-like buildings with tiny slits
for windows emit the rhythmic clacking of dozens of hand-operated
looms; wood-carvers and metal-workers chisel and pound workpieces held
gingerly between their bare feet; on commercial strips the same eight
shops repeat over and  over – bangles, booze, snacks, dry goods,
pharmacy, paper goods, cold store, beauty shop, bangles, booze…;
rhododendrons the size of oaks, bananas the size of twinkies;
delicious masala tea available absolutely everywhere in a flash; kids,
kids, kids (40% of nepalis are under 14); I inadvertently step on a
piece of a carrot laying in the street – behind me a boy picks it up
and eats it; tumplines-forehead-mounted carrying straps handle any
load: 50 lbs of firewood, a conical basket of rocks, a dozen caged
chickens, fifty bamboo poles; ten aligned bicycle-carts drive down the
road, carrying a hundred foot long plastic water pipe draped from one
to the next; building a house? no problem piling sand, cement and
rocks right across the sidewalk and blocking a third of the road for
months; the people we meet are fit, if a bit puny, there are few
beggars, most are blind or amputees, no one sleeps in the street;  bus
stations are whirlwinds: buses racing thru the lot, cabbies coaxing us
off the bus and into a comfortable ride, samosa stands and tea stalls
cheek-to-jowl scent the air and people rush everywhere; flattened
strips of motor bike tire serve as vertical battens over  the gaps
between boards on the occasional wood-sided house and corrugated roofs
are often secured by piling big rocks on them; young men hold hands
walking down the street; country women unabashedly strip down to bathe
at public spigots; and of course, everyone says namaste.

Namaste y'all,
MarcnSally