The streets of Kathmandu are narrow, potholed, dusty and crowded. Pedestrians jostle for space with cows, buffalo, stray dogs, touts, cycle-rickshaws and the odd taxi – on the pavements to bypass the congested street traffic. Not that there are pavements per se, just a curb of road space traditionally reserved for those who travel on foot. It’s chaos.

We push our way through the traffic, fighting for road space, inching our way to the Tridevi temple just outside the tourist area of Thamel. We pass shops selling Tibetan Buddhist prayer wheels, thangkas (Tibetan traditional paintings of deities on silk), and Hindu trinkets. We pass travel agents, touts, souvenir stalls, air freight company offices. The shouts of touts mingle with the blare of hooters in the traffic.

The Tridevi – “tri” being three and “devi” being goddess - temple complex stands just off the road. The three, three-storied pagoda-like wooden structures form a single line of wooden beams and square, sloped roofs down a side wall of a major tourist shopping centre. Once inside the gates, however, the crazy sounds of Kathmandu end. It’s beautifully quiet.

The three goddesses of the temples are Dakshinkali, Manakamana and Jawalamai. Devotees are cleaning the temples when we arrive. They sweep out rotting offerings of marigolds and fruit, a mound of dust and dirt. The pungent smell of dying flowers lingers across the courtyard. A metre-high statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god of wisdom, stands in an enclave near the gate. His forehead is a swirl of yellow, orange, red tikka paste.

We brave, again, the chaotic streets of Kathmandu. We flag down a cycle-rickshaw – a large tricycle with a seat on the back for passengers. We move up the Kathmandu street hierarchy. It’s easier to brave the chaos in something bigger than a human body.

The cycle-rickshaw peddles frantically through the congested streets. We pass beautiful ancient buildings. Nepali architecture is traditionally three-storied, square brick and wood structures. The wooden doors are ornately carved with deities. The windows, traditionally built three in a row, are wooden wonders. The wood is intricately carved into tiny details of gods, peacocks and, occasionally, erotica.

Durbar Square was where Kathmandu’s kings were once crowned. From here, the kings ruled. They built their palaces here, their temples, their statues of gods. It is a place crammed with Nepali architecture dating from the 1500s. A warren of brick paving runs around each temple. Storekeepers set up shop on once-wide temple steps. Women sell vegetables from the pavement of once-great palaces. Vendors tout souvenirs from the beautifully carved doorways of 400-year-old wooden temples.

Durbar Square is noisy, chaotic and a great place to watch the world go by.

We climb up the highest steps we can find for a grand view of the warren of brick paving below. The steps are part of the Maju Dega temple. It was built in the late 1600s as a single storey – even though it is roughly 20m-high. We sit on the last step of its nine-step brick base. Its white-washed walls are splattered with wood carvings, most featuring couples in athletically erotic positions. The wooden doors leading into the temple are locked with bright new padlocks.

Below us a cycle-rickshaw driver and customer attempt to load a cycle-rickshaw with boxes, holding each large cardboard box carefully as more are piled on. The boxes tower over the two men, teetering at an alarming angle. Undeterred, the men stack the load higher.

A cobbler has opened up business on the steps of another temple. He spreads his tools on a sheet of plastic, puts up a brightly-coloured umbrella, and settles himself into a long wait.

Nepali devotees wander the labyrinth of temples. They make offerings to the still-worshipped gods, bypass the temples of gods no longer in use. The bright colours of the women’s saris stand out against the drab brown and red of the buildings.

The sun is bright and hot. Back on the ground we walk around the square. I am fascinated with the details of the Shiva-Pabati temple. Two massive iron lions guard its entrance. The front façade is a mass of beautiful detail. Most of the carvings are no bigger than my hand.

We find the famous statue of Hanuman, the Hindu monkey-god, just outside the old palace of the king (the palace was moved to a more modern location about 100 years ago). The statue is clad in a red cloak lined with gold tinsel. It is unrecognisable as Hanuman. Years of devotional offerings of tikka-paste, moulded onto the statue, have made the statue a lump of orange.

Around the corner is the wrathful Kal Bhairav. The statue was found in a field north of the city and bought to the square by King Pratap Malla. It is Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction, in his destructive manifestation. I find it erringly scary, and move on as quickly as possible. A gaggle of sari-clad women walk up to the stone for blessings.

At the end of the square is the Kumari-ghar, a massive wooden and brick palace built by King Jaya Prakash Malla in 1757. The building is three-storied and rectangular. Beautiful wooden carvings decorate the windows.

Kumari-ghar is the home of Nepal’s living goddess, the Kumari Devi. The Kumari is said to be a reincarnation of the goddess Taleju. Legend has it that there was once a king who liked to have sex with pre-pubescent girls. One of the girls died as a result. The angry goddess appeared to the king and frightened him into reforming. She has manifested herself in a pre-pubescent girl since.

The girl-god is usually chosen at the age of four, and remains a goddess until her first period. She can recognise items belonging to her predecessor and is not frightened when placed in a dark room while men in the masks of wrathful gods dance and scream at her.

Just off the courtyard of the Kumari-ghar is Freak Street. In the 1960s, Kathmandu became the end of the overland hippie trail from Europe. The hippies congregated in one particular street in Kathmandu, naming it “Freak Street”. Most of the hippies are gone today, replaced by souvenir shops, upmarket hotels, and reminiscing tourists. Or maybe not. Down a side-street, an old man in colourful trousers and a mass of long, bushy grey hair smiles at us.

We brave, again, the chaotic, noisy, dusty streets of Kathmandu, walking back to the tourist area of Thamel. The streets are potholed and often untarred, waves of packed dirt. It makes for slow walking, dodging cows and touts and pedestrians. When the cars and motorbikes adhere to their patch of road, that is.

We catch tantalising glimpses of courtyards at the end of narrow dusty alleyways leading off the roads of the city. We decide to explore one, and come across the massive white dome of the Kathesimbhu stupa.

“It’s awesome,” whispers my partner, Alison, of the 20m-high stupa. The white bulbous structure is ringed with Buddhist prayer wheels. A sprightly old man in a traditional box hat spins the wheels as he walks round and round. Red, white, yellow, blue and green prayer flags flutter off the gold pillar-crown and onto the stone statues of Buddha below. Monklets from the nearby monastery run out the buildings beautifully wrought gates.

The noise of the streets of Kathmandu cannot be heard here. Monks chant slowly, the sound wafts over the prayer flags and into the air. The air changes colour with the evening sun, filtering through the flapping prayer flags. Kathmandu is noisy and crowded and chaotic. Here it is beautiful.

(Accepted by the Saturday Star, September 2008)