The Longest Shortcut to Bhaktapur: Dust, Gods, and Sarabanda

The morning began with misplaced optimism. After nine days of gravitational karma and asphalt roulette, you’d think we’d have learned something. But no — we gathered at the reception, our luggage once again carted off like offerings to the gods of broken suspension systems, and boarded the bus with hope. Foolish, vulnerable, Italianate hope.

Our descent from Bandipur into the valley resembled less a journey and more a trial — some ancient penance inflicted by the mountain deities themselves. The road, if we’re being generous, is aspirational. Half-finished, half-eroded, half-imagined. Yes, that’s three halves — Nepal specialises in breaking roads and basic arithmetic.

The supposed “shortcut” to Bhaktapur stretched endlessly, a paradox wrapped in potholes. Our driver swerved heroically through landslides, goats, and existential dread, while the air inside the bus thickened with dust, diesel, and just a hint of collective regret.

And then — salvation, in the form of cultural regression: a spontaneous game of Sarabanda. Somewhere between honking trucks and divine indifference, our group launched into a name-that-tune contest that turned purgatory into party. Classic Italian pop echoed through the chaos, accompanied by enthusiastic off-key duets and the occasional scream from someone nearly catapulted into the aisle. It was name-that-tune meets Himalayan road rage — highly recommended, assuming you survive.

Lunch was a buffet, its culinary merit eclipsed by the fact that it wasn’t moving and had a bathroom. At 650 Nepalese Rupees a head, it was a small price to pay for digestive security and a moment of horizontal serenity.

We hit the road again—or rather, it hit us. There were more potholes, traffic, and a brief pee break that felt like an intermission in a very long, dusty opera. Hours blurred, time warped, and at some point, we stopped hoping and started enduring. It was nearly evening when we finally arrived in Bhaktapur—weary, dehydrated, and emotionally exfoliated.

Bhaktapur: Where the Gods Whisper Through Brick

Entering Bhaktapur feels like falling into a time pocket. The streets narrow, the buildings lean inward as if to share secrets, and the air carries incense and frying dough. Our hotel, the Binthuna, stood quietly off the main artery, a welcome embrace after the vehicular trauma. But no rest yet—we dropped our bags and followed our gracious hotelier (part-time guide, full-time national treasure) straight to Durbar Square.

Yes, we paid for a pass. But Bhaktapur, dear reader, is worth every rupee. The square is a mosaic of temples, medieval architecture, and intangible magic. As the sun dipped behind the pagodas, lanterns flickered to life. Red bricks glowed like embers. And for a few suspended minutes, the city revealed its true nature: ancient, wounded, but unbowed.

Following a Lonely Planet “alternative” route — which is guidebook code for “you’ll get lost and love it” — we wove through cobbled alleys, stumbled into courtyards where children played beneath carved wooden windows, and exchanged nods with stoic elders who seemed carved from the same terracotta tones as the buildings around them. This was no tourist façade. Bhaktapur breathes its history like incense — slow, deliberate, unforgettable.

Dinner with Shiva (Well, Almost)

Our meal at the Shiva Restaurant (right on Durbar Square) was filling and oddly sacred. Maybe it was the view, the lentils, the way the square emptied when we stepped outside, leaving us alone in the glow of centuries-old architecture, the moon perched like a curious spectator above the rooftops.

Bhaktapur doesn’t seduce you. It just is. Ancient without needing to explain itself. Beautiful without needing to perform. And tonight, after a day of chaos and chronic suspension trauma, it felt like arriving somewhere, not just physically, but spiritually, like we had earned our place in its winding alleys and twilight shadows.

Eventually, Bhaktapur did appear, emerging from the dust like a reward at the end of a particularly cruel myth. We arrived shaken, stirred, and slightly deaf from musical nostalgia — but in one piece.

Or at least, in most of them.