Nepal 2025, Day Six (III. Boudhanath stupa)

Okay, this was the big one for me. The original reason why I wanted to go to Nepal — to visit the Boudhanath Stupa in Kathmandu. One of the locations used in the film Little Buddha. After watching that film a few times, I’d been drawn to this stupa with its four pairs of Buddha’s eyes gazing out in all four directions. What could be cooler than that?

So after we left the Golden Temple in Patan, the next stop for our Nandaka Vihara group of travellers was Boudhanath. At first, I wasn’t even aware of where we were heading. I was just following our guide down a road, then we turned into a narrow passageway and suddenly, staring down on me from a distance, were the eyes. Oh, we’re here at last, I told Saw See. We waited rather impatiently for the tickets to be bought. Foreigners have to pay to enter, whereas locals can move in and out freely. That’s just how things are.

For a place I’d been dreaming about for years, Boudhanath didn’t disappoint. It was everything I’d imagined. Standing in the middle of Kathmandu’s chaos, it rises above the bustle like a giant, serene mandala. Calm, immovable, sacred. Boudhanath is not just a stupa. It’s one of the largest and most significant Buddhist monuments in the world. It’s been here for centuries, believed to date back to the fifth century AD, or possibly earlier. For hundreds of years it served as a key stop on the ancient trade route between Nepal and Tibet. Tibetan merchants would pause here to offer prayers before continuing their journeys over the mountains. No wonder this stupa has such deep connections to Tibetan Buddhism. Even today, it remains a central hub for the Tibetan refugee community in Nepal. You can feel that heritage all around.

The stupa’s massive white dome stood tall before us. And those iconic wisdom eyes that had drawn me here in the first place. Of course, they weren’t just decorative. They symbolised the Buddha’s omniscient gaze, watching over all sentient beings. Beneath the eyes, where the nose would be, was a curious symbol that looked like a question mark. It’s actually the Nepali number “1”, representing unity and the single path to enlightenment. Above that, rising into the sky, were thirteen gilded tiers — each one symbolising a step towards full awakening. And at the very top sat the symbolic canopy of Nirvana.

Around the base, colourful prayer flags fluttered in every direction. Monks, nuns, pilgrims and tourists moved about — most walking in clockwise circles, going with the flow, spinning the prayer wheels as they went. Now and then, one or two people insisted on going the other way, but by and large, the movement was smooth and steady. I noticed a few monks and lay pilgrims doing the full three-steps-one-prostration ritual around the stupa, a very slow but determined process with their bodies rising and falling with each cycle.

Boudhanath isn't just a monument; it’s alive. The air hummed with the low drone of chants, the clink of spinning wheels, the occasional beat of a drum and the unmistakable smell of incense. Monasteries and shops lined the circular path. One could browse handicrafts, or just stand quietly and take it all in. Mostly, I stood in awe. I was brought out of my reverie by my friends. We were going for coffee in one of those cafés on the first floor. Jolly good idea. From there, coffee in hand, I continued staring out the window at the two eyes — which stared calmly back at me. Inwardly, I felt cleansed.

This stupa was damaged during the 2015 earthquake, and the top had to be rebuilt. The restoration was meticulous and respectful. To see Boudhanath standing so strong now felt like a symbol of Nepal itself: shaken but unbroken.

And so, there I was. After years of watching Little Buddha, imagining what it would be like, I finally stood beneath those all-seeing eyes. The real thing wasn’t just cool. It was something else altogether — grounding, humbling, strangely emotional. I could have remained there for hours. But soon, it was time to move along.

Celebrating international chess day

When I walked into the playing hall of the 23rd ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships on the 10th of this month, the place was already abuzz—players and spectators alike eager to dive into the day’s blitz games. It was the final day of competition and, fittingly, also days away from International Chess Day, as designated by the World Chess Federation (FIDE). I’d been assigned to take charge of the Seniors 65+ section as Arbiter. With just nine participants, the organisers had sensibly opted for a round-robin format, and I settled quickly into my role.

There were no real disputes, save for one moment when Rico Mascarinas made an illegal knight move. He immediately admitted it, and I added a minute to his opponent’s clock as per the rules but the gesture was more symbolic than consequential. Rico was clearly winning anyway. What amused me most was watching the top four players draw quickly among themselves, clearly saving their energy to pounce on the other five. It might seem tactical, but they were well within their rights.

So today, looking back at the short video clips I’d taken of the blitz events on that final day, here’s my small tribute to celebrate International Chess Day on 20 July 2025.

Children on a bicycle

The day after the Social Evening of the ASEAN+ age-group chess championships, Berik, Hamid and I visited Ernest Zacharevic at his studio on Malay Street. I had originally planned to go after the tournament wrapped up, but when I heard that Berik had already been invited, I thought I’d tag along.

The studio is currently hosting a weekend exhibition that's running until the end of August. It's deeply personal to Ernest. It’s his response to a corporate dispute with AirAsia, who had used his Children on a Bicycle mural in their airplane livery without his permission. The matter has yet to be resolved. Although legal action is still on the table, Ernest hasn’t brought the case to court just yet. In the meantime, this exhibition is his way of saying that this wasn’t right. It’s a mix of outrage, frustration and quiet defiance.

What’s troubling is how common this sort of thing has become. A large business appropriates a well-loved piece of public art, confident that the artist, often an individual with far fewer resources, won’t be able to push back. That imbalance is glaring. In Ernest’s case, this wasn’t just a mural. It was part of a larger vision to inject creativity into George Town’s heritage core, back when the idea of street art hadn’t yet caught fire. The work took root. People came to see it. It became iconic. And now, others want to profit from it without so much as a courtesy call. On the other hand, we, the organisers of the championships, went out of our way to seek permission from him to use the artwork as the backdrop of the chess event. That's the difference between responsibility and irresponsibility.

His studio itself feels like a creative haven. Downstairs and upstairs, a small team of collaborators was at work, immersed in various projects. And tucked in a corner, I spotted a collection of vinyl records and naturally, I gravitated toward it straightaway.

In conversation, Ernest shared how he first arrived in Penang in 2012, largely unknown. He approached the GTWHI or the MPPP with a proposal to add some life to the heritage zone through wall art. But the idea met resistance. Many property owners were hesitant to grant permission for something so new, so untested. Eventually, the Cheah Kongsi took a chance on him. They let him paint on an otherwise unremarkable wall along Armenian Street. One that, Ernest was told, would be demolished within six months. He poured himself into the mural anyway. More than a decade later, that wall still stands, and so does his Children on a Bicycle—although it had a fresh repaint not long ago.

Before we left, I gave him one of the tunics specially made for the officials and Malaysian players in the chess championship. I hope he liked it.

Looking back, what struck me most wasn't just the mural, or even the exhibition. It was the reminder that boldness often begins quietly. A single idea, a stroke of paint on a wall once thought temporary, can outlast every doubt, resistance, vandalism and threat of erasure. Sometimes, the most lasting change is the one no one sees coming.

Homemade remedy

I’ve been under the weather ever since coming home from the Berjaya Penang Hotel on the 11th of this month. The body aches started creeping in, along with some chills. Looks like I might be coming down with a cold of sorts. I haven’t felt like this in ages! And the coughing—relentless and annoying—kept me half-awake through the night. So, it was time to reach for a homemade remedy. I went across the road today to ask my neighbour for some papaya leaves. “What’s it for?” he asked. “For my cough and phlegm,” I said. He was intrigued. “How do you prepare it?” Well, I suppose it’s time I revealed my homemade cure for coughs and phlegm. It’s something of an open secret—except that few people are willing to try it because of how bitter it tastes. Here’s how I do it.

Take a whole papaya leaf, including the stalk, chop it roughly into pieces, and dump the lot into a fruit blender with a cup of water. Salt and honey are optional, depending on how brave one is. Blend it thoroughly, then pour the mixture into a cloth sieve and squeeze the juice into a cup. Discard the pulp. The resulting juice should be a deep green. Now, a warning: it’s bitter. I assure you that it is Very Bitter. So drink it immediately and quickly without hesitation unless one enjoys self-torture. The taste will linger, so it’s best to have something sweet on standby to chase the bitterness away. Personal verdict: my cough's  reduced considerably but I may need to have a second dose of that awful concoction again.

A brief update (18 July 2025): Amidst all the coughing and phlegm-clearing yesterday, I ended up losing my voice. It started off sounding a bit rough, but as the day wore on, it grew harsher until I could barely speak above a whisper. On the bright side, after taking that dose of papaya leaf juice, the phlegm output dropped significantly and the coughing subsided. This morning, I woke up free from both phlegm and cough, which is a relief, but my voice hasn’t returned yet. Still, one step at a time.

Nepal 2025, Day Six (II. Patan durbar square and Golden temple)

Our guide had told us early in the day that there are three Durbar Squares in the Kathmandu Valley — one each in Kathmandu, Bhaktapur and Patan — and while all three are UNESCO World Heritage Sites, visiting just one or two would give us a good enough feel for their historical and architectural importance. We settled on the Patan Durbar Square, and what a fine choice that turned out to be.

Patan was one of three ancient cities that formed the cultural heart of the valley. The Durbar Square here is a rich mosaic of Nepal’s Malla-era grandeur: a place where art, religion and royal history all seemed to merge into one timeless moment. As we arrived, it was easy to see why Patan is often called the "City of Fine Arts." With its wealth of temples, statues, palaces and courtyards, every corner of the square seemed to whisper stories of the past. I let out an audible gasp when the first sight of Patan totally overwhelmed me.

The square itself was a feast for the eyes. The Krishna Mandir immediately drew attention. It was a three-storey temple built entirely of stone and adorned with beautifully detailed carvings that depicted scenes from the Mahabharata and Ramayana. Built in the 17th century by King Siddhinarsingh Malla, it stood as a reminder of Patan’s golden era. Nearby was the Bhimsen Temple with its gleaming golden windows and intricate woodwork. And all around us were tiered pagoda roofs and prayer flags fluttering in the breeze.

We wandered into the palace complex with its series of royal courtyards, and then into the Patan Museum. This museum was one of the unexpected highlights of our visit. Housed in a beautifully restored part of the old palace, its galleries offered a compelling look into Nepal’s sacred art and history. The exhibits were thoughtfully curated, blending ancient bronze and gilt figures with detailed explanations of Buddhist and Hindu symbolism. Some pieces dated back centuries, and yet felt timeless. What stood out was how the museum managed to be both informative and atmospheric. The quiet courtyards, soft lighting and elegant architecture made it a perfect setting to appreciate the artefacts. We could’ve spent much longer there, but the day was pressing on.

From the museum, we made our way to the Hiranya Varna Mahavihar, more popularly known as the Golden Temple. Built in the 12th century and still functioning as a living Buddhist monastery, it remains one of the most important shrines for Buddhists in Kathmandu. The temple is an outstanding example of Nepalese metalwork. There were gilded walls amd sacred sculptures all gleaming in the light. 

Unfortunately, the temple was undergoing some form of repair work during our visit, and it was not possible to move about freely. The courtyard felt congested. too many visitors milling about. Everyone seemed to gravitate towards the inner sanctum, eager to view the main Buddha image. But taking a decent photograph proved difficult. There was always someone in the way — especially one rather authoritative holy man (or was he a caretaker?) who stood near the doorway throughout, seemingly blocking every perfect angle. I'm sure it was on purpose, for whatever reason.

Still, the atmosphere remained potent. It was clear this wasn’t just a historical site but a place of living faith. Despite the crowds, the scaffolding and our thwarted attempts at photography, we left feeling that we’d experienced something rare and genuine.

By the end of our visit, I could fully understand what our guide meant about the three Durbar Squares. Patan alone had so much depth and character that it left us quite fulfilled visually. It was a living museum, a sacred space and a window into Nepal’s rich and layered heritage. The dust, the crowds, the holy man in the way — all part of the experience. And all quite unforgettable.

A horse with no name

I would think a band named America would have started somewhere in the United States but no, the story began in London. It was the late 1960s, and three teenagers—Dewey Bunnell, Gerry Beckley and Dan Peek—were living in England because their fathers were stationed at the US Air Force base in South Ruislip. They were what people call Air Force brats, and all three ended up at London Central High School.

Far from home, they gravitated towards one another over a shared love of music. Folk-rock was booming at the time, and the boys were hooked on everything from Crosby, Stills & Nash to the Beatles and the Beach Boys. There were tight harmonies, acoustic guitars and melodies that linger.

They started jamming together, writing songs and playing at small clubs and pubs around London. Their early stuff was mostly acoustic, very stripped down, built around their harmonies and the blending of voices. Dewey tended to write more of the moodier, atmospheric songs; Gerry had a knack for writing the kind of pop tunes that stuck in the head; and Dan brought a slightly edgier touch. Different flavours that fitted together quite nicely.

Somewhere along the way, they crossed paths with someone named Ian Samwell who had written Move It for Cliff Richard. He’d done time with the Drifters too. Samwell saw something in them and helped get them signed to Warner Bros Records. That was the big break.

Their self-titled debut album, America, came out in 1971. Initially, it had modest sales, some radio play but nothing earth-shattering. Then in early 1972, they released A Horse with No Name as a single. The song shot up the charts, hitting number one in the United States and made waves internationally too. The anecdote is that Dewey wrote that song in rainy old England while dreaming of wide desert landscapes he had never actually seen. Yet somehow, he nailed the American West vibe perfectly.

The success of the single pushed the album back into the charts, and suddenly America was a household name. The album had more to offer too. Gerry’s I Need You became a hit on its own: a ballad that still held up today.

So that’s how three kids from American military families, stranded in the UK, ended up forming one of the most recognisable folk-rock bands of the 1970s. They may have started out far from home, but their music sounded unmistakably American and it struck a chord with listeners all over the world.

Side One: Riverside, Sandman, Three roses, Children, A horse with no name, Here 
Side Two: I need you, Rainy day, Never found the time, Clarice, Donkey jaw, Pigeon song

Ah, an author at last!

On the third day of the Standard Chess competition at the 23rd ASEAN+ age-group chess championships, I received a message from a friend—obviously not a chess-playing one—telling me that someone from Kelantan had posted a picture of my old chess book on Facebook.

“Buku catur pertama yang ambo baca 29 tahun lepas ditulis oleh Mr Quah Seng Sun,” he’d written. And right there, beside a photo of me playing chess at the Berjaya Penang Hotel, was the book itself: CATUR. “Buku Bahasa Melayu pertama ni,” someone commented. “Legend,” wrote another. Aiyah, I’m so embarrassed to be called a legend.

There’s actually a story behind this book that I’ve never told anyone before—at least not until a few days ago when that same picture started circulating on WhatsApp too, and other people began noticing it. So finally, here’s the inside story of how CATUR came about.

It was way back in 1990 when two old friends, former classmates from our Penang Free School days, came to visit me at home. After some catching up, one of them raised the idea of me writing a chess book in Bahasa Malaysia. As far as we knew, nothing like it existed yet. Since I was already writing chess columns for The Star newspaper, they told me I’d be the most logical person to write such a book. By then, my columns had already been running for about 10 years. I’d also been the editor of a local chess magazine in English—also called CATUR—so they felt a book was a natural continuation.

But I protested: my command of Bahasa Malaysia wasn’t that great, and besides, I didn’t know any publisher. “No problem,” one of them said. He knew someone who wrote textbooks and workbooks for schools—and he was a chess player too. I asked who, and it turned out to be Saw Boo Pheng, whom I knew very well since 1972 when we both played for our respective schools (he was from Technical Institute) in the first-ever Penang Schools Sports Council (MSSPP) chess team competition.

The idea was that I’d write the manuscript in English, and Boo Pheng would translate it into BM. Once he agreed and the publisher came on board, we were on our way!

I spent weeks piecing the book together manually. This was pre-Internet, pre-chess software. Fortunately, desktop computers had already appeared, and I worked on an Intel x286 machine using an early version of Microsoft Word. I’d write one chapter at a time, print it, deliver it to Boo Pheng for translation, then retype the BM version into the computer. It was painstaking work.

The second challenge was creating the chess diagrams manually. I managed to get ready-made diagram stickers from a friend in Singapore. I’d sit with a tweezer in hand, peeling off the miniscule chess pieces and placing them on a blank board. Everything had to be labelled precisely so the publisher could match diagrams with the correct text.

Once the manuscript was done, I sent it to the publisher to be retyped into their system, which was another headache. What if the type-setters made mistakes? What if the mistakes were not spotted by the proof-readers? And sure enough, all that happened. I had to go through draft after draft—first, second, third—making corrections everywhere. Eventually, we cleaned up all the obvious mistakes. If there were any left, well, not intentional lah. We really did try our best.

When CATUR finally went to print, I was thrilled to see it on bookstore shelves despite having some trepidation about the cover design. I had not known at all that the publisher had planned to use a picture of Jimmy Liew who was at that time Malaysia's foremost chess player. Did they contact Jimmy for permission? I don’t remember how well it sold, but for the next three or four years, Boo Pheng and I received our modest royalty cheques. It didn't make us rich though. Lim Eng Siang was also credited as a third contributor, though in truth, his only role was to propose the idea in the first place! But I couldn't leave him out. For old times sake, I couldn't do that.

Then in 1994, the publisher came back and asked for an English version of CATUR. But alamak, I no longer had my original English manuscript! Back then, we stored everything on floppy diskettes and mine had gotten corrupted. So what to do? I had to retranslate the BM version back into English. The irony of it. Of course, the job was so much easier and Boo Pheng didn’t need to be involved at all. This was also a chance for me to correct mistakes spotted after the Bahasa Malaysia version had come out.

I finished the retranslation and emailed everything to the publisher. Since the manuscript was now fully digital, production became much easier. The English version, Taking Up Chess, came out in 1995 with all three of us still credited as authors.

Looking back now, I never imagined that CATUR would still be remembered after all these years, let alone spoken of fondly by people I’ve never met. It was just something I did with a couple of old friends, cobbled together with stickers, printouts and a lot of patience. A labour of love, we didn’t have grand ambitions....just the hope that it might be useful to someone starting out in chess, especially Malay-speaking students in schools.

That it turned out to be the first local chess book in Bahasa Malaysia was, in some ways, secondary to the experience of making it. But now, to hear that someone in Kelantan picked up the game from this book nearly three decades ago, and still remembers it, is both humbling and gratifying. We never know which of our efforts will last or leave an impression. Sometimes, we just do what needs to be done at the moment. If it happens to light a spark in someone else’s journey, that’s a bonus.

So yes, CATUR might’ve started small, but it seems to have travelled far in its own quiet way. I’m thankful for that.

ADDENDUM: As can be read from the glossary in the book (glosari in BM), the translations of the chess terms from English to Bahasa Malaysia were fairly straightforward except for one term. What should we call the Bishop in BM? To us, Gajah (elephant) didn’t feel quite right, despite its historical origins. The modern-day chess piece clearly depicts a bishop’s hat, not an elephant. Even chess diagrams use the bishop’s mitre to represent the piece. So we decided to go with Biskop instead. We felt it would cause less confusion for the readers. And after all these years, I still wonder whether we made the right call.

Welcome sight

What a welcome sight! Last night's full moon at 10.03pm. I had thought that I would miss seeing the full moon again as I was at the Berjaya Penang Hotel where the window looked out in a different direction from the moon's current path in the sky. But now that I'm home, wow!

Raw passion

Finally, I’m back home after a really memorable 10 days of playing chess in the 23rd ASEAN+ Age-Group Chess Championships, and I think I’m already suffering withdrawal symptoms from the event! There’s that dull, hollow feeling that comes when the adrenaline drains away. I haven’t felt quite like this in decades. Being away from the family, it almost felt like going to camp: getting immersed in chess, surrounded by like-minded folks and just enjoying the company of friends. And when it’s all over, the mind aches a little. 

Impromptu meeting of the Arbiters and assistants before the Blitz event

I’d been staying at the Berjaya Penang Hotel, which also doubled as the competition venue. So thankfully, I was spared the daily commute from Bukit Mertajam. Even so, I was worn out at the end of each day, not least because of the long games and keeping people like Hamid, Miki, Berik and a few others entertained. Some days, we even ventured out for lunch or dinner despite meals being provided by the hotel.

I didn’t play in the Rapid event as I had an eye check-up scheduled at the Penang General Hospital. Something I absolutely couldn’t miss. Appointments like these are precious. This one had been booked since last year! The sheer volume of out-patients means follow-ups now stretch into annual events. But it was worth it. The medical officer said my eye pressure was excellent. The only catch is that my next appointment is in nine months' time!

After the check-up, I rushed back to the hotel and found that the Rapid event had paused for lunch after the three morning rounds. Play would resume at 2pm. Great, at least I’d be able to catch the remaining four rounds.

Halfway through the afternoon, the Tournament Director, Jonathan, came up and asked whether I could confirm helping with the Blitz event as an Arbiter. Of course, I was delighted to assist. So there I was, yesterday morning (Thursday), showing up as the Arbiter for the Seniors 65+ section. Were they surprised. Only two days earlier, I was playing chess amongst them. Only nine players in the field, which meant a straightforward round-robin format. The top four players agreed to draw quickly among themselves and focused on collecting points from the rest.

A disabled but brave Too Pi He playing in the Under-12 rapid tournament

I was slightly relieved that there were no disputes in my section except for one moment when Rico made an illegal knight move. He immediately admitted the mistake, so I just added one minute to his opponent’s clock. Nothing too technical to deal with.

But elsewhere in the hall, where the kids were battling it out, it was total chaos, both on and off the boards. The blitz format, with just a few minutes on the clock, always brings out a different kind of energy. The younger players were all pumped up, hands flying, pieces rattling, clocks being slapped. You’d think we were in a market. Illegal moves, dropped flags, hands being raised to call the arbiters over, background noises from players whose games have finished and awaiting the next round. The arbiters certainly had their hands full. 

Still, beneath all the noise and flurry, I could see the raw passion. These kids took their games seriously. Some jumped up after a win, others sat frozen in disbelief after a loss. There might have been a few tears shed too. I could almost feel the energy radiating from the tables. It was messy, loud and at times overwhelming. But it was also exactly what the ASEAN+ age-group chess championships needed to close off a full 10 days of competition: fast, furious games and full of heart. Just very glad my section didn’t need babysitting.

All in all, I'm tired after all the excitement, but it's the good kind of tiredness.

Nepal 2025, Day Six (I: Swoyambhu mahachaitya)

Nepal offers a traveller three choices: to come as an adventurer, a pilgrim or a mere tourist. For me, the first is already out of the question. Ten years ago, maybe I could still have managed a bit of adventure — but now? No way. Those days are behind me.

In Lumbini, our presence was clearly that of pilgrims. For myself and the rest of our Nandaka Vihara group, we had come to visit the sacred sites associated with the life of the Buddha. But here in Kathmandu, the tone of our trip shifted. We could now allow ourselves to act more like tourists.

Our guide had already taken us into the heart of Thamel the evening before — that lively, colourful district packed with shops, cafés and restaurants. It was dinner and light shopping for us. I honestly can’t recall everything that Saw See bought — lots of soaps, I think — mostly as gifts for friends and relatives back home. 

As for me, I had my eye on a singing bowl. It was quite something to see the sheer variety on offer: from small palm-sized bowls to enormous ones you could stand inside; from factory-made items to finely handcrafted pieces. I eventually settled on a five-inch handcrafted bowl which set me back NPR3,900. A fair deal, in my opinion. And tonight, we would be heading back to Thamel again for a second round of last-minute shopping before returning to the Gokarna Forest Resort.

Even though we were now more tourists than pilgrims, temple visits remained firmly on our itinerary. This day was particularly packed. We had four major sites to cover: Swayambhunath Mahachaitya, Patan Durbar Square, the Golden Temple, and the Boudhanath Stupa. A tall order for one day — so best to get started!

If the name Swayambhunath Mahachaitya is a bit of a tongue-twister, just call it by its more familiar name, the Monkey Temple, which is rather fitting, considering the number of monkeys roaming about freely. One has to be cautious, especially with food. These monkeys are bold and not the least bit shy. One of our group members lost her ice-cream in the blink of an eye, snatched away by a cheeky monkey who looked rather pleased with himself.

The temple complex itself is perched on a hilltop west of Kathmandu and is one of Nepal’s oldest religious sites, dating back to the fifth century. It’s also a UNESCO World Heritage Site and still very much a living place of devotion. Entry was NPR200 per person, and from there it was a climb, all 365 steps to the top. Along the way, sweeping views of Kathmandu unfolded before us. It was a lovely, breezy day, and the city looked calm from that height.

And what a sight awaited us at the summit: the stupa, a grand white dome with a golden spire and Buddha’s all-seeing eyes gazing out in every direction. Flags in the Buddhist colours fluttered in the wind, and the air was filled with the scent of incense and the occasional chanting and accompanying bells. Surrounding the stupa were shrines, statues and rows of spinning prayer wheels. Souvenir stalls lined the walkways, selling everything from tiny Buddha statues to mandala coasters, prayer wheels, chunky bead bracelets and singing bowls. Bargaining was part of the fun — good-natured and expected.

Swayambhu Mahachaitya had everything: spirituality, scenery, shopping and cheeky monkeys. It’s a place where ancient tradition meets vibrant daily life. For all its colour, noise and movement, it still offered a feeling that stayed with you long after you’ve climbed back down those steps.