My mom told me that, and she was right. She was right about the pictures practically taking themselves and about the abundance of textiles and metalwork, and pottery at every corner; I would be tempted to buy it all. I didn’t know it yet, but when I embarked on a Community Homestay Network Circuit, I would understand what she meant. In Nepal, everywhere your eye lands, there’s something to see.
My journey started one Monday morning in June. I’d haphazardly grabbed my essentials: camera, sketchbook, journal. Outside my rented room in Lalitpur, I found the driver Ashok, or as they say in Nepal, road captain, standing by a Build Your Dreams car – still a novelty to me; we don’t have them in the United States. As I approached Ashok, my guide Anup hurried over from a nearby shop. He apologized for making me wait, although we were ahead of schedule.
Ashok navigated the car through ancient narrow streets, dodging speeding motorbikes and sleeping street dogs, while Anup asked me about myself. Where are you from?The United States. Are you a student?I was, but last month I graduated. What are you doing in Nepal?I’m not really sure—I guess we’ll find out. I’m here to learn about community tourism, but I can’t shake the feeling of being lost. It’s strange to feel anxious in a land associated with meditation.
Buildings spaced out, traffic eased, and the road opened as we left Kathmandu behind. Forty minutes later, we passed through a brick arch marking our arrival in Thimi, one of the oldest towns in the Kathmandu Valley; it’s surrounded by new development but holds onto an ancient form. Narrow alleys thread between brick houses with carved wooden windows, and shrines enclosing Hindu deities mark every corner. The old brick roads were too tight for the car, so Anup and I walked the rest of the way to the potter’s house.
Thimi has long been known for its pottery, a craft passed down through generations. Evidence of the neighborhood’s craft spills into its streets: rows of gray pots dried in the sun, and large lumps of clay, wrapped in rice sacks, slouched at the edge of the path like sleeping animals. Anup explained that this was raw clay, dug from the ground nearby. The green machines tucked between houses clean and prepare it.
Of course I was fascinated by the clay. How have I spent so much of my life molding clay without ever wondering where it came from? I’d seen people on the internet hiking into hills carrying Home Depot buckets to harvest clay, filming the whole thing in soft voices and natural light, aestheticizing the work. But in Thimi it was life, not a trend. Later, in Bhaktapur – another pottery town not far from Thimi – I asked Anup why the clay was so dark. He looked surprised by the question. “Because the earth here produces black clay.” He asked what kind I was used to. It comes in plastic, sealed in a box, ordered online.
In his studio in Thimi, the potter, Nara, guided me through a few small pieces at the wheel. I made a bowl, a handful of cups, and, indulging myself, I sculpted my own little elephant-shaped ring holder. The pieces weren’t perfect, but I was satisfied by my effort, and with my fresh appreciation for the potter’s own work, I purchased one of his mugs.
His wife sat nearby, cross-legged on a blanket and shaping tiny incense holders; small fish, turtles, and cows with curved backs and pinprick eyes. She used whatever she could find around the house to carve in details. Screws, clothespins, the tines of a fork. The potter had been teaching her to throw pots on the wheel, and for a few minutes she practiced making little cups while he stood close by, chatting with us and watching her hands. He offered quiet corrections when she faltered. Not impatient, just attentive.
Before we left Thimi, Nara led us down a narrow path outside to the community kilns. They were enormous, soot-dark ovens tucked beneath a sheet metal roof, where the town’s potters camecome together to fire their work. Half a dozen people moved easily around one another as they fed wood into the fire and stacked the next round of pots. Through Anup, the potter explained that the kilns were made by the community, and now, shared by the community.
Anup and I waited for Ashok in the BYD; he drove us a few miles to the city of Bhaktapur, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Like Thimi, Bhaktapur has narrow brick streets and traditional buildings, but it’s larger and filled with grand monuments – palaces, temples, and the famous “Peacock Window,” a 15th-century hand-carved wooden masterpiece set in the walls of an old residence for Hindu priests.
As Anup guided me through Bhaktapur, he recounted thousands of years of history, and spoke of the city’s ongoing efforts to preserve this heritage. We stopped at a school where students train for fifteen years to become master painters of traditional Buddhist mandalas. Their work follows exacting standards, using gold and natural pigments applied with brushes made from a single buffalo hair. The art of mandala painting is carefully preserved and protected, shaped by centuries of discipline and dedicated practice.
After leaving Bhaktapur, we drove into the hills of Nagarkot, where Ashok and Anup would leave me at a homestay. I tried to focus on the horizon, willing myself not to get motion sick – always a losing battle. Still, the view fought for my attention: terraced rice paddies flooded from recent rain, cows and goats ambling through intersections, roads dissolving from pavement into dirt. When at last we arrived at the homestay, I walked the final path on shaking legs. Rama, my host, greeted me at the entrance to her home, draping a patterned sash around my neck and placing a full red dahlia in my hands. I took them both, grateful and breathless.
Rama’s homestay in Nagarkot was magical. After the stomach-churning drive winding into the hills, the view settled me. Bright yellow houses, each painted with bursts of red and blue patterns, clung to the hillside like a colorful tapestry, their terraces stretching out toward the Kathmandu Valley below. As the sun was setting, I could see the expanse of the city, rain falling on patches of neighborhoods, leaving heavenly light flowing in from the clouds all around. The air was still, alive with the hum of insects, birdsong, and a soft breeze; a welcome escape from the honking and chatter of the city.
That evening as I sipped a warm cup of tea on the terrace, the quiet was broken by the arrival of a man bounding into the house with a smile on his face and shaggy blonde hair on his head, his leather motorcycle jacket catching the fading light. Puppy, Rama’s dog, followed close behind. “I’m Lionel,” he told me, eyes bright. Rama followed him onto the terrace. “Coffee, Lionel? Tea?” Without hesitation, he said, “Chai, please.” Rama gave him a knowing, unsurprised smirk and soon returned with a glass of creamy, sweet chai. Lionel lives in Australia, but he regularly spends weeks and sometimes months here at Rama’s place. When I asked what keeps him coming back to Nepal, he said simply, “Meditation, yoga, motorcycle.” And indeed, mornings and evenings found Lionel and Vishal, an Indian yogi who also calls Rama’s home a sanctuary, moving through their meditations, clearing their noses with neti pots, and practicing yoga together.
I found myself swept up in conversations with the other guests. Rama and her husband were entirely at ease, amused by the vibrant blend of foreigners who pass through their home. Rama laughed as she told me about a couple who booked two days, and ended up staying ten months. It’s easy to understand why. If I ever become a digital nomad, Rama’s homestay would be my first stop: strong wifi, warm company, and a fresh climate, kinder than the smog and concrete of the Valley below.
The next morning, Rama led me to a temple at the hill’s summit. We threaded our way through corn terraces and around idle goats grazing in the shade until we reached a bench overlooking the Valley. Rama spoke of guests who come to this very spot to meditate, driven by the serene tranquility of the landscape. Then, as if on cue, the clouds peeled back. “Look! A Himalaya!” she said, eyes sparkling. I gasped, heart catching in my throat. I grew up in the Rocky Mountains. Mountains are home to me, but the Himalayas are something else altogether. There it was, a massive, steady peak piercing the sky, sharp and majestic, alive above the clouds. Rama explained that in fall, the skies clear completely, and the Himalayas crown the hills in every direction. My eyes stayed rooted to that spot, locked on the mountain until the clouds returned, covering it once more and returning the landscape to its former soft valley.
Later, Rama and I made bowls and plates out of leaves, traditionally used for rituals in Nepal. Usually they’re made from sal leaves or sometimes banyan leaves, stitched together with thin bamboo sticks. My hands fumbled at first. I consider myself an artist, and yet folding wet leaves, stacking them together in layers, and pinning them carefully with strips of bamboo proved a challenging feat. After a few tries, I got the hang of it. When Rama deemed my work acceptable, she filled our new vessels with popcorn and salad, reminding me with a smile that snacks are very important during work. And she was right.
During dinner preparation that night, Rama set a bowl of unfamiliar green plants in front of me. I’d seen these before. Women sit on curbs in neighborhoods around Kathmandu Valley handling these vegetables, but I’d never given them much thought. When I glanced at Rama in response, my discomfort must have been clear in my eyes. She smiled as she picked a hard, green stick and snapped it open, scooping its contents from inside. Small, white pearls. Beans. I spent the next twenty minutes breaking open the green pods, scooping out beans, and depositing them into a bowl, questioning how I’d lived twenty-two years on this planet, many of them casually vegetarian, without ever wondering where beans come from. Green beans, snap peas, edamame. Of course, beans grow in pods. And so I kept snapping them open, eventually tossing them into a pan to be cooked for dinner.
There is always something to see in Nepal. Pots stacked along brick streets in Thimi; ancient temples and shrines tucked alleys in Bhaktapur; goats grazing in the hills above Nagarkot, the Valley unfolding below. But what stayed with me most were the hands behind what I saw. Labor and craft defined my trip. Women wading through rice paddies with baskets on their backs; men shaping clay, carving wood, and painting mandalas; women snapping open bean pods or weaving bowls from leaves as they watch the street go by. Craft sustains life, and life sustains craft.
Moving between cities, I kept recognizing formal and informal craft side by side. In Bhaktapur, students train for years to paint mandalas, following strict, centuries-old methods. In courtyards and kitchens, people teach each other to throw pots, fold leaf bowls, and snap open beans for dinner. Grand traditions are carefully preserved, sometimes with UNESCO’s support, while everyday skills pass quietly from person to person, but both levels of craft remain steady in Nepali identity.
My mom warned me. In Nepal, everywhere your eye lands, there’s something to see. What she didn’t say, but what I learned, is that when you look closer, there’s something to see because of the hands shaping it. There’s quiet work behind everything, and once you notice, you can’t look away.
