Proof that sometimes you should just ignore famous monuments and take some time out to pay the little things (and people) some of your valuable time.

I was on my way up to Kathmandu's famous monkey temple, Swayambhunath, when I saw a teenage boy flying a kite. I followed his eyes and only then did I realize that perhaps the birds I had been seeing flying above the frantic city were not in fact birds at all but kites. Focusing on his kite, I saw ten or fifteen others, mere specks that moved like birds, taking advantage of the winds. He had a giant spool of thread resting loosely on a short wooden stick, which he tugged on sharply when the kite began to sag and let reel out when it caught a nice current. The line was very thin, which is typical, essential even, for kite fighting. For those of you who have not read The Kite Runner, you understand this competitive game. Two kites will fight in the air, its flyers trying to cut their opponents line. In the past, lines would be armed, covered in crushed light bulbs or broken glass. When the kite is cut, the flyer has lost, and the kite continues to float on the breeze. I saw attached kites and cut kites, and then noticed that this flyer has a veritable army of kites in case his was cut. Later that day, with my search of kite flying heightened, I saw a tough group of fourteen year old boys, cigarettes hanging from the side of their mouths, eyes intent, participating in an activity we only associate with small children. This is not a childish game, though, make o mistake about that. I remember flying giants birds, aerodynamically designed to stay up for as long as possible. Kites in Nepal cost three rupees ( about four cents) are made of very thin paper (perfect for making small holes to change the flight pattern) and bamboo, and they are damn near impossible to fly, I found. With my eyes now searching the skies, I now discovered evidence of the immense affinity for flying. There are shops which only sell different kinds of lines, and trees are a graveyard of kite corpses. When I finally did make it up to the temple, I payed a little more attention to the kids I saw. More games that are not really games at all. Monks in training, no more than six, shaved heads, deep crimson robes, playing charum. I may have mentioned earlier that charum is like table pool, and the flick of the finger serves as the cue. The board has four pockets on the corners, and the pucks slide over white powder.Under the flying prayer flags, these boys had collected a group of older men who watched them dominate the board as silently as spectators at Wimbeldon. The two looked up briefly at me, and I saw that the front of their robes and small spots on their face were dusted with the powder. Other boys still were playing soccer barefoot in a small square surrounded by temples dedicated to a long list of both Hindu and Buddhist deities. A dangerous game, considering the long drop over the edge of their "field" to the city far below. The ball bounced off the prayer wheels carved with Tibetan mantras and occasionally sounded the large bronze bells at the entrance of the shrines. In Nagarkot, a magnificently slow moving town that reminded me of a hilly, Nepalese Lake Tahoe ( for those of you who know it), I was constantly being bombarded, attacked even, if being attacked was wonderfully pleasant by huge groups of schoolchildren. I have loads of pictures, which I will be posting later, but I am short on time, seeing as I leave the day after tomorrow for the enigmatic Tibet. See you then!