Clay, Dogs, Gods, and the Kings of Yoghurt

There are days on the road that feel like postcards. Today was not one of them. Today felt like wandering into the footnotes of a forgotten epic—dusty, crooked, surprisingly well-choreographed.

Breakfast arrived with the usual blend of Himalayan instant coffee and the mild existential dread of yet another coach ride. But our new guide materialised like a well-cast supporting actor—charismatic, informed, and with just enough irony in his delivery to earn our immediate respect.

Changunarayan: Where Vishnu Waits

We began with Changunarayan, a hilltop shrine dedicated to Lord Vishnu and widely held as the oldest Hindu temple in Nepal. It sits, stoically, atop Changu Hill, seemingly unconcerned with its UNESCO status and the mortal drama unfolding below. The pagoda-style architecture is intricate and stubborn, like a poem carved into stone. Wood beams that survived earthquakes. Elephants with lotus crowns. Carvings of Garuda that stare through you.

We wandered slowly and reverently and then inevitably bought a few “authentic” souvenirs from the eternal circle of smiling shopkeepers stationed just outside spiritual thresholds.

Thimi: Terra Cotta Tango

Thimi, the so-called “City of Potters,” feels like a town that ignored the 21st century and embraced the sun-dried rhythm of clay and ash. We walked through the alleys with Kovindra, past courtyards littered with bowls, urns, and vases, all basking in the sun like worshippers at a terracotta temple. Here, life is still sculpted by hand. Kilns breathe. Wheels spin. Children chase goats through a maze of drying amphorae.

It’s not life-changing, but it’s sincere. And in a country so layered in myth, sincerity has its own gravity.

The Street Dogs of Nepal

One of the most unexpected and touching presences during my journey through Nepal was the street dogs. They are everywhere—lounging lazily in the sun on temple steps, following you gently through the narrow alleys of medieval villages, or sleeping in the middle of the road, completely unfazed by the honking chaos around them. During the day, they seem docile, calm, almost meditative, like silent guardians of the streets.

But as the sun sets, the atmosphere changes. The same gentle dogs form into packs and take over the night. Their barks echo through the alleys, and their eyes glow in the shadows. At night, they are no longer solitary companions but wild creatures with their own rules and kingdom.

In Nepal, these dogs are not just strays. They are part of the landscape, the rhythm, and the soul of the place. Like street cats in Europe, they rule the streets—only here, the dogs dominate, while the rare cats keep to the rooftops, watching from a safe distance.

There’s even a special day in the Hindu calendar called Kukur Tihar, part of the Tihar festival, when dogs are worshipped. On that day, they are adorned with marigold garlands, offered food, and honoured for their loyalty and companionship. It’s a beautiful tradition — a moment when the invisible becomes sacred, and the ordinary is celebrated as divine.

Return to Bhaktapur: Rice Paper & The King of Yoghurt

We were dropped off again near Durbar Square in Bhaktapur, a city that grows on you like incense smoke. In daylight, the alleyways reveal more than shadows: ancient courtyards, carved lintels, old women gossiping in Sanskrit-sounding Newari. We detoured into a workshop making what they called “rice paper,” which involves zero rice. Instead, it’s produced from the Daphne plant, and serves as a perfect metaphor for Nepalese marketing—beautiful, poetic, and just a little misleading.

We passed temples, prayer flags, and dozens of statues all looking vaguely unimpressed. But it’s at Nyatapola Square—home to the majestic five-tiered pagoda dedicated to Siddhi Lakshmi—that you truly sense Bhaktapur’s power. This temple stands 33 meters tall, which is probably 32.9 meters taller than your average ego after climbing the steps.

Then came the yogurt. Juju Dhau, “the King of Yogurt,” is one of those things that briefly questions your loyalty to everything else you’ve ever tasted. Served cold in clay pots, it’s thick, creamy, sweet, and deserving of a crown. They say you haven’t been to Bhaktapur if you haven’t eaten Juju Dhau. By that metric, I now belong here.

The Royal Palace and Birthday Feasts

We passed through the famed Palace of 55 Windows, which is less about the number and more about the view into another time. Built by King Yaksha Malla in the 15th century, it’s a baroque love letter to the Newari sense of design: ornate, rhythmic, and obsessed with balance.

After parting ways with Kovindra, we wandered solo through the city’s labyrinth until dinner at Wathsala Restaurant, where two tour groups joined forces to celebrate a fellow traveler’s birthday. There was cake. There were toasts. Someone even sang something approximating pitch. For a brief hour, the candlelight and clay walls made Bhaktapur feel not like a city, but a shared dream.

The Newars: Brick, Blood, and Banquets

It’s impossible to write about Bhaktapur without invoking the Newars, the original inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley. They are Nepal’s cultural alchemists—blending Hinduism and Buddhism into a syncretic, highly ritualistic worldview. They were artisans, traders, and temple builders long before the concept of “Nepal” existed on paper.

Their architecture still defines the valley’s aesthetics: brick and wood latticework, carved struts depicting gods and demons, and a spatial harmony that somehow mirrors their social philosophy. Newars organise life into caste-based guilds, with each stratum preserving specific crafts and customs. They celebrate hundreds of festivals a year—seriously, there’s probably a parade happening somewhere in Bhaktapur right now.

Today, though integrated into wider Nepali society, the Newars remain proud, cosmopolitan, and deeply rooted. Without them, Kathmandu would be just another crowded mountain city. With them, it is a civilisation.