Back when he was funny, Gallagher had a line something like "Why do they call them buildings when they're done building them? They ought to call them 'builts.' Or maybe 'crumblings.'" That pretty much describes the most common architectural style in Katmandu. Most buildings are made from lightly mortared brick or cinder block, three or four stories tall, and look to be falling apart. The bricks look battered and there are tiny gaps here and there. The effect is magnified by peeling and fading paint on signs, asphalt in poor repair, the occasional completely collapsed or abandoned building, dusty sidewalks (where there are sidewalks at all) and patches of rubbish liberally distributed all along the way.

But the strange part is the feral cows. Travel around Katmandu for any length of time, and you'll run into a cow aimlessly wandering the streets. The Nepalese, being very fond of cows, are content to let them do so. Indeed, cows have considerable legal protection. For example, if you injure a cow, you're responsible for its care until it recovers. If you kill a cow…well, best not to. And, of course, Katmandu is also inhabited by Goldie and Boots, a pair of temporarily Asian carnivores.

Twice in Katmandu we have dinner at the Yak and Yeti. Despite the peculiar and frivolous name, it's actually a large, elegant hotel complex (converted from a nineteenth century palace) and home to Nepal's largest ballroom. The first time was tasting their buffet menu, which will be served at the Marine ball in a month or so. Four of the Marines from the embassy show up, and they all have names that start with a J. I resist asking "Mind if we call you Bruce to keep things clear?" The second time was on Callee's birthday (John Lennon would have been 60 that day), when we ate at Naachghar, a lovely, lovely restaurant in the hotel.

The food was probably the best we had on the entire trip (much naan was eaten) and started off with the local booze, roksi. Unlike the local booze in Africa, which was a weak beer, roksi is white lightning, pure and simple. The local wisdom is that if you can stick your finger in it and light it, it's good roksi. Roksi is served in low, unfired clay cups, and the good stuff is supposed to eat through it. Still, it's remarkably smooth. The best part of the evening was the entertainment. There was a program of Nepali dances, which seem less stylized than the dancing in India. The most charming, though, was when a guy dressed in a white fur suit (think gorilla suit, only white) did a lurching little dance from the back of the room up to the stage, where he was joined by two guys in a big pile of fur with horns. There are very few places where one can see a yak and yeti dance, but this is one of them.

A sacred river runs through Katmandu. Along its banks is a temple complex named Pashpati. This is where funerals take place. Bodies are brought to landings on the riverside and burned on pyres. There were a few of those going on while I was there. The picture below is of the opposite bank; I figured I shouldn't turn somebody's important family event into my tourist attraction. Farther up the hill are a number of other temples inhabited by nice little monkies.

Another of Katmandu's important religious sites is Bhodi, a big, big stupa.