Monks, Mud, and Meditation: A Day Above the Clouds in Namobuddha

Rain has a peculiar way of compressing time. It stretches the minutes in a hotel lobby like taffy, makes the already questionable Wi-Fi even more metaphysical, and turns our trekking plans into a Netflix binge of collective staring. By mid-morning, the clouds part just enough for us to remember we are still in Nepal — a country where time is measured in landslides, and goats often stop progress.

Skirting Sanga, Embracing Dhulikhel

We were meant to stop in Sanga, but our gargantuan tour bus — a beast more suited to the ring roads of Milan than the uphill mudslides of the Himalayas — waves the white flag. The streets, soaked and battered, won’t have us. So we continue directly to Dhulikhel, a town in Newari where the sun makes a shy reappearance, as if embarrassed about its earlier absence.

Dhulikhel is a mosaic of past and present, with temples dedicated to Vishnu, Shiva, and Kali tucked between colonial-era buildings and sudden outbursts of colour in the form of prayer flags. The statues stare back at you like they know something you don’t. They probably do.

Upward to Namobuddha

After a brief taste of divinity, we’re back on the road, this time toward Namobuddha, one of the holiest Tibetan Buddhist sites in Nepal and the kind of place that makes you question why you own so many socks. A peaceful stupa greets us, but our less enlightened stomachs protest. Lunch is slow, perhaps intentionally so—a meditative waiting period to prepare us for the real climb.

The Trolley Tragedy and the Monastery Above

With bags in tow (and here I must pause to ask: why, dear fellow travellers, must you all bring wheeled trolleys the size of weaponised furniture?), we begin our pilgrimage up a 600-meter climb. The Namobuddha Monastery, perched like a dream above the valley, welcomes us not with incense but with falò — smoky fires burning near the prayer halls to keep mosquitoes at bay in the most compassionate, nonviolent way possible. No squashing here, just gentle redirection through smoke.

We’re staying the night at the monastery. The rooms are surprisingly modern — clean, wide, and with windows that would make any Scandinavian architect sigh with relief. In contrast, our previous hotel in Bhaktapur might politely be described as ripe for spiritual rebirth.

Chants, Coca-Cola, and Compassion

The afternoon unfolds under a broad tent where monks chant in a cadence that seems to stretch time itself. Plastic bottles of Fanta and Sprite are offered to the divine — a postmodern twist on sacred offerings. We watch, fascinated, for an hour before drifting out like respectful heretics. The ceremony, of course, continues long after our attention spans have fled.

The Child Monks of Namobuddha

One of the most striking aspects of Namobuddha is the presence of child monks. Most of the young faces you see around the monastery are no older than ten — some look as young as four or five. Dressed in the same maroon robes as their elders, they walk through the temple grounds with a seriousness that feels ancient, yet their small frames and sudden bursts of laughter remind you just how young they truly are.

These boys live in the monastery until the age of eighteen, unless they choose to leave earlier, though for many, the decision isn’t entirely theirs. Some are brought here by their families, others arrive with older brothers who also become monks. Their families come from all walks of life: some are from remote, impoverished villages; others from urban, well-off households. The wealthier parents occasionally visit, bringing protein-rich snacks and home-cooked food, aware that the monastery’s daily meals — mainly rice, vegetables, and thin soups — are far from ideal for growing children.

And so, a quiet question lingers in the air: Is this a chosen path or a life imposed? Some children seem at peace, even joyful. Others glance at visitors with a flicker of curiosity, a trace of longing. In the stillness of Namobuddha, among chants and prayer wheels, their stories unfold—silent, complex, and deeply human.

Dinner in the Refectory

Dinner in the monastic refectory is a delight: a delicate mushroom soup, fragrant vegetable rice, and the rhythmic cadence of young monks chanting before the meal. They start eating at the sound of a bell. Exactly fifteen minutes later, the bell rings again and the room empties with military precision. It’s the first time we’ve known exactly what to do all day.

Clouds, Meditation, and the Search for Peace

At sunset, we climb to the rooftop, hoping for a glimpse of the Himalayan peaks, but the clouds remain jealous gatekeepers. Still, the pinkish hue over the valley briefly makes us feel that we’ve earned this moment.

Later, eleven of us join a meditation session where a young monk explains that his goal is not to become a Lama but to reach peace- the kind of peace that doesn’t require coffee- the type of peace you only find when you stop trying to photograph it.

One Last Cup Before Silence

We end the day sipping warm drinks in a small bar just outside the monastery gates. Tomorrow will bring more roads, more temples, and — most likely — more dust. But for tonight, everything is still.