Blood, Butter, and Banter in the Kathmandu Valley

…in which I meditate in a cave, get politely kicked out of another, and end the day drinking rum like a well-meaning colonial ghost.

I woke up in Kathmandu on day three with the sensation that my legs had been sneakily replaced in the night by a pair of antique sewing machines—functional, but protesting every step. Not that it mattered. There was no real escape. We were off again, southbound, the bus snorting heroically through Kathmandu traffic’s permanent snarl.

The Divine and the Ritual: Unveiling Dakshinkali’s Ancient Traditions

Destination: Dakshinkali, where devotion wears red, sacrifices are still very much a thing, and Kali—the multi-armed, blue-skinned goddess of destruction and rebirth—waits somewhere in a green abyss.

After crossing a wobbly suspension bridge and a bazaar that smelled like mango, diesel, and hot iron, we descended into the gorge where the temple hides. It’s an ancient place, alive with ritual and the subtle suggestion that Kali sees right through you, especially if you’re just there to gawk.  Despite all the stories and warnings, I didn’t witness any live animal being killed at the Dakshinkali Temple. There were no bleating goats or flailing chickens. What I saw were coconuts split ceremoniously—the white milk symbolising blood—and garlands of marigolds laid gently on stone altars. But the air told a different story. A sharp, metallic scent lingered in the gorge, unmistakable and intrusive: the ghost-trace of recent blood, most likely from chickens sacrificed earlier that morning.

In this temple, animals are not slaughtered arbitrarily. Only male animals are chosen, and only if they “accept” being sacrificed—a strange yet sacred ritual in which the creature’s behaviour is read as consent, according to Hindu custom. The sacrifice is a complex choreography of faith, blood, and tradition.

Importantly, only the blood and entrails are offered to the goddess Kali, poured on the altar or burned as part of the ritual. The rooster or goat meat is taken home, cooked, and shared with family. In this paradoxical cycle, death is also an act of nourishment and community, both sacred and practical—a theology you can chew on, quite literally.

The cave

Then came the ascent to Pharping, where I entered the famed “Upper Cave of Yanglesho,” a sacred niche carved into living rock. There, I sat with butter lamps flickering and echoes coiling like incense smoke. And for once—miracle of miracles—I meditated. I mean really meditated. Not the performative kind you do on a yoga mat while mentally planning lunch. I sank into a deep stillness that felt older than anything I’d ever experienced, as if the stones were humming an ancient mantra beneath me.

That serenity, alas, did not travel well.

Next stop: Shesh Narayan. Another cave. Another shrine. But this time the spiritual vibe was interrupted by an entrepreneurial “guru” who, upon my polite refusal to purchase a small devotional candle (his price having doubled mid-sentence), decided that my presence was no longer spiritually harmonious with the environment. I was dismissed—not rudely, but with a firm, vaguely papal wave that made clear: no candle, no blessings, no cave.

From there, things got weirder—in the best way.

In Chobar, we visited the Adinath Lokeshwar Temple, a splendid three-tiered structure plastered in metal plates and spoons donated by hopeful newlyweds. The Temple is a three-tiered pagoda-style structure dating back to the 15th century, built in the distinctive Newari architectural tradition. It is dedicated to Adinath, a local form of Avalokiteshvara (The Bodhisattva of Compassion), worshipped by both Hindus and Buddhists—an excellent example of Nepal’s syncretic spirituality. The temple offers panoramic views of the Kathmandu Valley and is steeped in folklore and devotion.

One of its most peculiar and visually arresting features is the collection of metal pots, pans, plates, and utensils—some old, some gleaming—nailed to the wooden beams and walls. These are offerings from newlywed couples who come to the temple to pray for harmony and longevity in their marriage. The tradition, still very much alive, turns the temple into a shimmering monument to domestic hopes and shared meals. Think of it as a kind of spiritual IKEA wish-list in brass. Down in the square, elders played cards like retired kings, and the narrow alleys whispered of secret Buddhist monasteries—one of which, we’re told, doubles as a refuge for temporarily estranged wives. (Apparently, spiritual retreat is also a relationship strategy here.)

Curiously, this humble yet symbolic temple also gained unexpected media fame among our travel group: it is the official starting point of this year’s edition of “Pechino Express”, the popular reality adventure show now set in Nepal. The temple’s raw beauty, spiritual weight, and breathtaking setting made it the perfect backdrop for a modern televised pilgrimage—a detail many of our fellow travellers were more excited about than the ancient deities themselves.

Kirtipur: A Glimpse into Nepal’s Heritage and Hospitality

Kirtipur, a historic city just a few kilometres southwest of Kathmandu, is often overlooked by visitors, yet it offers a tranquil escape from the bustling capital. Known for its peaceful atmosphere, Kirtipur preserves the charm of traditional Newari culture while embracing modernity at a slow, respectful pace. Kirtipur has terraced hills, temples to Shiva, Parvati, and the fierce Bagh Bhairab, and an ancient stupa that still radiates 3rd-century calm. We ate lunch on a terrace where the clouds seemed to pause out of politeness and gazed down on Kathmandu sprawling like a fever dream below.

Historically, Kirtipur has been an essential cultural and strategic hub. It played a key role in the Kathmandu Valley’s development and witnessed the rise and fall of several dynasties. The city is famously known for its resistance against King Prithvi Narayan Shah’s forces during the unification of Nepal in the 18th century. Despite the military struggles, Kirtipur’s spirit remained unbroken, and today, it is a symbol of resilience and peace.

Architecturally, Kirtipur is a treasure trove of Newar-style buildings—the traditional architecture of the indigenous Newar people. The city is home to numerous temples, stupas, and pagodas, most notably the Chobhar Temple and the Bagh Bhairab Temple, both of which reflect the artistic and spiritual heritage of the area. The Adinath Lokeshwar Temple stands out with its intricate woodwork and religious significance, offering a peaceful space for reflection and prayer. Many of Kirtipur’s buildings are adorned with beautiful carvings, wooden windows, and delicate latticework, providing a glimpse into the craftsmanship of past centuries.

Despite its proximity to Kathmandu’s hustle and bustle, Kirtipur retains a serene and welcoming atmosphere. The local population, largely Newars, is known for its warmth and hospitality. They welcome visitors with open arms and a genuine interest in sharing their traditions. Whether it’s a warm cup of traditional tea or an invitation to a local festival, the people of Kirtipur go out of their way to make visitors feel at home.

The streets are alive with the sound of ritual chants, the clang of temple bells, and the vibrant colours of traditional dress. Despite the modern influence, much of Kirtipur’s lifestyle is still based on traditional values, making it an authentic reflection of Nepal’s diverse cultural landscape.

The Ritual of Rum

The night brought us back to Thamel, where our group joined forces with the other gang in a cross-cultural culinary summit of momos and mutual amusement. But the true diplomatic breakthrough came later, when someone produced a bottle of Khukri Rum—a robust, oak-vatted Nepali spirit launched in 1959 and now beloved by tourists for its colonial aura and warm, chest-punching finish.

Locals prefer their raksi—a fiery rice-based moonshine distilled at home and banned from store shelves, presumably because it could double as rocket fuel. We didn’t get our hands on that, though someone’s eyes lit up at the mere suggestion, and I made a mental note: next time, find the rice stuff.

We drank the Khukri like weary explorers, shared stories under flickering bulbs, and for a brief moment, the city outside seemed to pause, exhale, and agree that we’d earned this strange, beautiful day.