La place est immense et encombrée de temples, de statues, d'un musée, mais le temps présent y grouille lui aussi, avec ses vitrines d'artisans, ses passants affairés - ou non, ses guides à l'empressement nauséabond. "Hey girls, do you need a guide ? - No we don't, thank you anyway ! - But yes you need a guide ! - Er... No, thanks. - I will be your guide, not expensive, follow me. - Still not. - Come on girls, what do you think ? That we have never seen beautiful girls like you ?" Je ne cherche pas à comprendre... Le seul guide dont nous acceptons les services est a boy learned to air perched on a bicycle too big for him and us the inside details of a temple. The architecture of the place, designed like a huge conch, symbol of Vishnu, encloses multiple buildings separated by courtyards and ornate pool where a crowd gathers tight water jugs as we pick a rare flower. The palace transformed into a museum is also an architectural marvel, and well kept with it, there is the big difference with many monuments in India. So much that we decided to bend over to our budget and we pay a visit to the museum. Hindu and Buddhist sculptures corresponding to different periods and different techniques are crammed into suites of rooms subtly lit, the artisans of Patan and shone still shine for their apparently unique mastery of the delayed (technical details here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ repelled% C3% A9_and_chasing). Best memory of this great museum? The detailed explanations of the different mudras, symbolic hand position in Hindu and Buddhist religions, and finesse of these hands in all the statues. 
Ma dernière tâche à accomplir à Kathmandou ou plutôt Thamel-le-ghetto, c'est l'achat d'une laine de YAK et d'un couvre-lit avec un motif de mandala, deux articles convoités par moi-même depuis le début du voyage. Mais comme je sais exactement ce que je veux, jamais une couleur ne me plaît vraiment et cette chasse s'éternise au grand dam de Marine. Finalement je finis par demander à accéder à la réserve d'un des marchands pour voir TOUTES les couleurs qu'il possède. Des centaines d'étoffes s'entassent dans cet endroit confiné où je finis par trouver mon (mes) bonheur(s) ; mais vient le moment de la négociation. "1800 roupies. - What ?! - Yeah, good price for Two articles. - Are you kidding me? Anyway I'm a good customer and maybe The Last One for today, You Should Give Me a Better Price! - That's my price. - 1000 rupees. - No. - 1000 rupees. - Hmrfff ... 1600 rupees. - 1100 rupees. - 1500 rupees last price. - Too expensive! - Ok 1400 rupees and you win a daal bhat! - I do not want daal bhat I Will Have That in my hotel tonight. 1100 rupees. "And so on until" Ok 1200 rupees and you win a chai. Goal you lose daal bhat. "So we ended up closing the shop to drink tea with the family of the merchant.
The next day promised to be much more adventurous - not only that negotiations are the not but I begin to be rehearsed, hehe. And yes. We got ahead of us travel to Daman, a village perched at over 2300m above sea level, the only road is dangerous Tribhuvan Highway, in the hope of seeing the "Dramatic view" of the Himalayas certified by tour guides and all the inhabitants. It seems that this is the most beautiful sight of all the mountains in Nepal. Enticing. But in this case, why so few tourists they get there? The answer will not be long in coming. From Kathmandu already difficult to find a local bus to get to Naubise, lost a hole serving as a focal point between a few bus lines. We finally find one despite repeated "No bus today," "Dunno," "Where?" "That way!", "No way!". "We want to go to Naubiseeeee!". Someone finally understands and takes us to a minibus crowded and already crowned with multiple bags, packages and cages of chickens. The driver did move two people to allow us to sit down (convenient to be appreciated ... But it does not even seem to bother them and thanks even seem too bothered). We sat, serials guide, exchange ideas, we realize after quelque temps que ces coups secs, répétés et légèrement douloureux sur nos chevilles sont imputables au bec d'oies cachées sous nos sièges. Après une grosse heure de trajet on nous jette avec armes et bagages à Naubise. Quelques âmes, trois marchands de fruits, une gargote, des arrêts de bus. C'est tout. On attend. On attend. On attend. Il n'y aura pas de bus pour Daman aujourd'hui, je crois. Le monsieur attablé devant un tchai meurt d'envie de nous taper la causette, ce qu'il finit par faire quand il voit que notre attente est bien partie pour durer. Un petit jeune le rejoint et tombe amoureux de nous deux à la fois si on en croit ses regards émerveillés et son air béat quand nous parlons India, France, our trips. We groped in the field with few people in the neighborhood and eventually understand that we should not count on a bus for at least several hours. Last option: to catch a flying truck. What the chai-walla done for us, even our merchant financial contribution. So here we go for the big adventure in this colorful and whirring monster that leaps at once to the heights: Naubise is the junction for Tribhuvan Highway, which winds through the mountains. In behind the scenes, it is easier to understand why we say that we have 20 times more likely to die on the road in Nepal than in any country developed: the road is narrow like a corridor, trucks are outside the norm, the crosses are extremely difficult if not impossible - it is almost always one of two vehicles performs a risky reverse. The driver's eye on the road ahead and monitor the side that is still too close and too steep for my taste, and a second man is seated to the left of the cab and that he is also vigilant. I finally understand that it is indeed essential for driving in the mountains, he will supervise the dangerous curves, indicating the various obstacles, especially that determines if an overflow is possible or not. It also signaled to other vehicles faster than him and wishing to overtake when the road is clear. Like anything where there is no traffic writing a sense of survival leads to attitudes of real good sense. Okay, and then the road is dangerous, but what is beautiful up there ...
Arriving in Daman is well after 5h bringuebalage mountain. Daman is indeed no more than a village, a hamlet lost to 2322m above sea level with a promontory observation the Himalayas, and with the freshness that goes with such a high altitude. We créchons for the night in a barn more than rustic, with two bedrooms upstairs. We do not deal only with a large bed alone taking more than half of the small room closed by planks wet, poorly adjusted, but next to a cute balcony where we calibrate our quilts to enjoy the cool of the evening - wrapped up in my brand new yak, in my case. Soon the rain prevents us from even going out for a little tour of the village. No running water, toilets rudimentary in the garden, but electricity anyway. Meals are taken in another building a little higher in the village, daal bhat at will râblée served by a lady and charming. Regarding the amazing views of the mountains, frankly, it's totally missed: the mountains are embedded in the monsoon clouds to the point that sees the first hills below. While the trip has counted more than the destination ...
We should be disappointed to have so much road and a difficult path that is more, only to see clouds of monsoon. But we're not. Without doubt the experience single truck suspension travel in the mountains and return to the charms of country life for a night. This is the day that things are worse, when to back down by continuing Tribhuvan Highway west to Tansen, via Hetauda and Butwal, terrible cities bridge aggressive and noisy. At Hetauda, we are stuck for hours waiting for our correspondence, found in the heat of the Terai. In Butwal, too late, we are forced to spend the night. Arriving at night in a foreign city is never a comforting experience. But in Butwal, it approaches the suffocating nightmare. Insistent touts flock to the output bus; weight backpacks after hours of travel, length of the busy road at night along with placards screaming hotels but the rooms obviously empty hotels already locked the doors for the night, rooms dirty, dark , confined, high prices, not a woman, men, all men, and their eyes; cockroaches in the bathroom, the food terrible, and the power cut during the meal, and knowing glances that affect us. We start the day without asking our rest, or rather demanding schedule of the first bus to Tansen, as the happiest of chances we catch au vol à peine sorties de l'hôtel. On dirait bien que tout nous incite à quitter Butwal ! Direction Tansen donc, ville qui ne va pas tarder à devenir mon endroit préféré au Népal.
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