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"Namaste" from Nepal! Roughly translated this greeting means "I salute the God within you" … but in practise, it means hello, and goodbye, and good day, and well … in my case, howzit.

So here I am. Kathmandu. And it is New Years Day. Year 1122. No seriously. And on Monday I watched a dead body burn, Wednesday saw me play cricket with a monk and Saturday I drank rakshi and toasted in the new year ... in the middle of the year. It has been an intriguing week. So I figured I would take you through my diary…take a backseat Bridget Jones…here comes Sam Reinders.

MONDAY started off like most of my mornings in Kathmandu: Oat-So-Easy at around 9ish. Working out of the dingy basement of my "home away from home" is a small kid with a bright orange beanie, maybe 8 years old, whose sole possession is a small gas stove and a rusty kettle. Every morning he boils water to make tea (which is served in glasses) to local businessmen as they open their stores in the tourist area of Thamel. (The manager of Tantric Second-hand Bookshop, the proprietor of "Om" Handicrafts and the security guard at Lama Tours and Excursions…you have to love the names…) Each cup goes for about 5 rupees (5p)…and even though I can go the full English breakfast route for about 50p more I support this little humble entrepreneur - by buying boiled water to make up packets of instant porridge. It makes me smile - and, you know, it is a good way to start a Monday morning.

I hailed a tuk-tuk (a 3 wheeled taxi equipped with, what sounds like, a lawnmower engine) and I headed for Pashupatinath - a temple complex about 5km northeast of Kathmandu. On the banks of the holy Bagmati River, it is revered by believers from Nepal and India as the holiest shrine of Hinduism. What the Vatican is to Christians and Mecca is to Muslims - Pashupathinath is to the Hindu world. Recognised by UNESCO as a world heritage site Pashupathinath is dedicated to Lord Shiva - both destroyer and creator in the Hindu pantheon.

What I witnessed here blew my mind and left me gob smacked - a typical Hindu cremation!

On the river bank, a dead body shrouded in orange and saffron cloth and covered with marigolds and sindoor (the red powder used for tika - a mark on the forehead which is a sign of a blessing) lies on a cremation ghat. (a concrete slab piled high with a pyre of wood and straw) A candle burns at each end of the body and little spirals of smoke drift from hundreds of incense sticks that are lit around it.

There is a constant flow of people - a collage of colourful characters. Vendors sell an amazing array of religious paraphernalia - from incense, (to clear the air) to beads, (to aid concentration) to different coloured tika powders, fruit and flowers used during puja's (worship services). Rows and rows of Shiva lingams (phallic symbols representing this God) and Buddha statues in every conceivable position are for sale

Mourners saunter among the trades people - and are, for the most past, far more retrained than those in the Western world. There is absolutely no outpouring of emotion. Just one boy sticks out - completely alone, sobbing just down river, no one noticing let alone giving him comfort. As a sign of respect a bereaved man, elbows on his knees, has his hair shaved - the razor dipped only in holy water, no soap allowed! A tika of ash is placed on his forehead. The "undertaker" and his helpers add to the crowd, constantly busy piling wood on the pyres. A flute seller plays on one of his flutes, a goat strolls past and a cow watches from a distance. A woman washes her hair in a communal water point while watching a cremation and a dread locked, trident wielding sadhu (a sadhu is a so-called "holy man", regarded as a guardian of Shiva's ways) displays his yoga skills. To add to the general melee cheeky baboons clamber everywhere, hurling themselves from temple roofs into the river with extremely impressive belly flops. All the while an awestruck tourist tries desperately to capture it all on film. (The phrase "Kodak moment" has never been more appropriate) Being a Hindu novice it was sometimes difficult to determine what was random and what was in fact tradition.

From the other side of the bank (only Hindus are allowed on the side with the ghats) I watched as the eldest son of the deceases, dressed in white, walked around the body of the deceased three times and, without much ceremony, lit the pyre - smoke bellowed towards the heavens and ash rained down. My Oat-So-Easy turned uneasily in my stomach. While smoke plumed from the burning body kids skimmed stones on the water in front of the pyre, monkeys stole the rice that had been thrown toward the body as an offering to the Gods and devotees dipped themselves in the Bagmati's "holy" water. There was a hiss, a small pop and an overriding smell of burning flesh.

There is absolutely no description on this earth to accurately portray what I felt as I saw this whole episode unfold in front of me at this holy site … my words as I read back over them, seem to have no meaning. I felt privileged, disgusted, emotional, happy, intrigued and, above all, very Western. All together and all-at-once. You definitely don't have to be Hindu to feel the deep spiritual resonance that lingers among this ancient architecture.

Obviously, although allowed, photography is frowned upon… but the good old photojournalist in Sam couldn't resist the odd from-the-hip-in-auto-focus-while-no-one-is-looking shot.

TUESDAY I went to Swayambunath Stupa, one of the most instantly recognisable symbols of Nepal and the most profound expression of Buddhist symbolism in the land. Set on a hill west of the city, the walk up to the "Monkey Temple" (so-called due to the absolutely thousands of monkeys that inhabit the hill and temple complex) is no picnic and the final climb involves breathlessly (well if you are me anyway …) slogging up 365 steps - each hand made and rounded by age, passing seasons and the millions of pilgrims that have walked them in order to make offerings.

But, let me tell you, every step was worth it because at the top I was rewarded with one of the most incredible sights I have ever seen. Set against the brilliant blue sky (a thousand times as dramatic with the flutter of pigeons and vibrant Tibetan prayer flags set against it) is a Buddhist stupa, newly whitewashed and glistening in the sun.

A stupa is a dome shaped religious monument worshipped by circumambulation. What the cross represents for Christians, the stupa does for Buddhists. It is a tangible symbol of the Buddha's enlightened mind. This one is topped by a square gold block with huge haunting eyes (belonging to the Buddha) painted on it. From the gold block a powerful spire consisting of 13 concentric rings towers toward the sky. These symbolise the 13 steps to Nirvana - which is represented by the umbrella structure at the top.

Set around the base of the stupa is a continuous set of prayer wheels (each containing the sacred mantra, om mani padme hum - translated as "Hail to the jewel in the Lotus") which are spun by circumambulating devotees. Prayer flags, also carrying these holy words, flutter from lines leading to the stupa's spire. Ancient tradition maintains that each turn of the prayer wheel or wave in the breeze carries these words to the Gods.

Each and every part of the stupa represents some aspect of the Buddhist faith. The qualities of wisdom, enlightenment, strength and purity, for example, are all symbolised in this ancient and enigmatic shrine.

There was a tranquillity and serenity up there that made me feel as if I was floating above the chaos and fumes of Kathmandu. I had a sweeping view of the entire crater shaped valley - with the white of the Himalayan peaks reaching above it. I could see planes landing at the airport and was jealous of the people who were only about to begin their magical Nepalese experience.

The temple complex consists of hundreds of chaitya's (small stupas), monasteries, giant prayer wheels, monuments, pillars, shrines and religious relics of every shape and size. As I weaved my way through them all (in a clockwise direction as per tradition) I saw red robed monks sauntering in silence, I talk with three beggar children (one if which left a lovely glob of snot on the eyepiece of my camera after looking through the viewfinder in amazement!) and I watched as an old pilgrim had her toenails cut, for what appeared to be the first time in many a year. Strange: Yes. Pleasant: Lets just say I have been exposed to more appealing sights in my time. I smiled as a cheeky monkey stole the bag of an unsuspecting tourist - much to her shock and I witnessed streams of people performing puja to the Hindu pagoda dedicated to Harati - Goddess of smallpox. This is evidence of the religious harmony and complex blending of Hindu and Buddhism in this country - a facet of understanding that I only wish could be exported to other countries around the globe.

Only a tape-recording of the sounds emanating from this stupa and its surroundings can do it any justice. The truest of silences is broken only by the shuffle of devotee's shoes as they circumambulate the stupa - and the occasional bell as they are rung. The only other sounds are of the occasional giggles of young monks and sqeals from monkeys as they break into squabbles over territory or food.

I entered a monastery when a ceremony was in full swing and I felt like I had stepped into another land. One far away. It was dark with beams of light sneaking in through cracks in the window shutters. Monks, aged 5 to 95, knelt in thick red robes - only their faces lit by the light of hundreds of butter lamps (their flames, apparently, symbolically dispelling the darkness of ignorance) Ancient looking scriptures lay in front of the austere monks.This visual feast combined with the smell of yak butter and incense and with the sonorous ritual music (droning chants alternating with the groaning of long horns, clanging of cymbals, shrill from trumpets made from conch shells and the steady bass thump from hanging drums) made for a powerful and emotional experience.

As the sun set and the lights of Kathmandu began to flicker I strolled down the hill and back into the bustle of the city that never sleeps…. well the dogs and roosters in my neighbourhood anyway…

WEDNESDAY I trekked out to Boudhanath - about 7km east of Kathmandu. Simple, powerful and massive - this stupa (similar in structure to Swayambunath … but the size of a football field!) is acknowledged to be the most important Tibetan Buddhist monument outside of Tibet.

Whereas yesterday's breathlessness was due to the 365 steps I had to climb - today my breath was simply snatched form lungs, as my mind tried to comprehend the sight in front of me…

Having become somewhat of a magnet for exiled Tibetan pilgrims, especially since the Chinese revolt of 1959, the area is awash with everything Tibetan and I feel like I have stepped into a the country itself - its national flag whipping in the wind and its people dominating life in this part of Kathmandu. From national dress, to national food, to age old Tibetan traditions, Boudhanath is a flood of raw beauty.

Reams and reams of pilgrims circled beneath the stupa (doing Kora - the Tibetan word for circumambulation) in a steady stream of murmured prayers and creaking handheld prayer wheels. Many were in full Tibetan regalia, with years of wrinkles and sad eyes but smiles on their faces.

The colours and sounds at dusk, specifically, were unforgettable. Shadows of hundreds of prayer flags swayed on the whitewashed dome of the stupa as the sun sets behind the valley walls and deep booming sounds filled the air from the long horns being blown at the monasteries that encircle the stupa.

Monks are everywhere…they out number ordinary civilians. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, thin ones and, lets say, ones with varying degrees of austerity: Some are prostrating (throwing themselves to the ground in worship - quite a frightening sight if you are not suspecting it!), some are e-mailing in the local Internet café. Some can be seen in deep in meditation, minds concentrating wholly on their faith - while others are chatting on a cell phones. I got a great photograph of a group of teenage monks window-shopping at a shop simply called "Happy Buddhist Things". Ha ha

I explored the monasteries that surround the main stupa and it was here that I came across a group pf young monks playing an enthusiastic game of cricket. On sighting me watching them, the ball was thrown to me and, with a flurry of excited hand gestures, I was invited to bowl to the little monk at the crease. I am afraid to say that I may have let South Africa down in this regard and I was knocked right out of the park .. or in this case .. the monastery walls.

THURSDAY, a little "templed out", I decided just to walk around Kathmandu. I wanted to soak in the atmosphere of daily life - and, in some small way, become a thread in the wonderful garment that is Kathmandu. Two things dominated today. First of all: complete and utter sensory overload and secondly, my genius at getting horrifyingly lost - not because the route wasn't clear but because it was impossible to resist detours. Being lost was, in this case, a good thing.

I found a city dripping in temples, tradition, superstition and beauty, and filled to the brim with the most hospitable and beautiful people I have ever met. Everything here sticks out - like the girl in Schindlers List with the red dress - the only colour in an entire black and white movie.

There is an explosion of colour and constant action. Beggars in bandages, piles of pomegranates, a statue of Buddha and a shrine to Ganesh, a sacred cow, rickshaws, dentures on display, the Sinus Cure Centre, garlands of marigolds, momo's, spice merchants and sari shops, a thanka salesman, the Kumari - a living Goddess, the local "haat" and washing draped over dusty, century old temples - all flood my retina. It would take an entire volume of books to even begin to describe each of these in detail - let alone their accompanying religious or national symbolism.

Complementing it all was an orchestra of sounds: hooting, mooing, shouting and whistling. On top of this you hear the whirl of embroidery machines, hypnotic Buddhist chanting and insistent sales men - selling everything from tigerbalm and Thai massages, to flights over the Himalyays, to hashish. Add to this the most amazing array of smells and tastes and you feel captivated, hypnotised.

Life here beats to a different drum. Daily rhythms are set to an unhurried pace - all but obsolete in today's whirlwind world.

There is one sense that I haven't yet described and that is the sense of touch. And it is this sense that was most brutally captivated today. The part of my body that was touched: my heart.

In Kathmandu the magic swirls in the dust and music on the wind. There is a beauty and bounty here that I have never seen or experienced anywhere else - and experience no postcard can capture. The only thing that lasts is memory. The memory of being captivated and taken hold of by a kaleidoscope of colour and happy people. I felt like a 4 year old in a sweet shop with a bottomless pocket of money. It was a good feeling.

FRIDAY evening blew, my already struggling, mind. Festival time had swept over Nepal and its people. The specific festival was Tihar - the festival of lights. Celebrated over a 5-day period (each day dedicated to the worship of a different animal or deity) the eve of the 3rd day, Laxmi Puja, is the most endearing and delectable sight of the festival as well as New Years Eve for the Newars. (people of the Kathmandu Valley)

Kathmandu pulsated. It throbbed. It transported me with its energy of ancient rituals and sparkling people.The fabled city exploded - in colour, in light (I have never seen so many candles in all my existence), in atmosphere … and, well ... in firecrackers that put any Western Guy Fawkes to shame!

Before I selfishly ramble on about my feelings and leave you in the dark as to what exactly is happening…let me explain what transpires before the eve of Laxmi Puja - and give you a better idea as to why Kathmandu was alight …

Each day of Tihar is different. On the first day the crow is worshipped. Considered the messenger of Yama, the God of Death in the Hindu pantheon, the crow decides the fortunate and unfortunate rebirths of all who pass through Deaths door - and is, quite understandably therefore, a favourable animal to worship. On the second day it is the dog (canines ease the souls passage at the gates of Death) that gets all the worship and praise. I laughed yesterday when I saw mangy and matted dogs - used to being kicked and screamed at - with huge red tika marks on their foreheads, lying, stomachs full, in the sun, enjoying a day or rest and relaxation.

Today the cow was worshipped. These beasts, already the most sacred and revered animals in the land, enjoyed even greater attention and worship - some people even crawling under their bellies in humble acts of worship!

But enough about animals. Back to Laxmi Puja. On this night the Goddess of Wealth (Laxmi) is said to circle the globe at midnight and visit and bless those households that have prepared for her visit. And ready them they do! No expense too much and no effort enough.

To do this - people scrub their homes with red mud and cow dung. Lamps are made ready and garlands of different colour flowers are hung above windows and doorways. Tiny candles (little ceramic bowls filled with a cotton wick and mustard oil) are set near the roadway from where a pathway leads across the barren earth, moistened with holy water, to guide her to the door. Outside each front door beautiful mandala's (sacred geometric designs symbolising the universe) are designed using different coloured powders, flower petals, fruits, oils and candles. Hours of effort go into the making of these circles - about as big as a soccer ball. These alone are a sight to behold - so simple, yet so intricate and unique. From the door to the place where the family valuables are kept, a lacy white pathway is made on the floor with a blossom dipped in rice flour paste - thereby sanctifying every spot where Laxmi will tread.

I watched people buzz everywhere. I felt like I was an actor in a foreign movie that was left on fast forward. There was constant activity and flurry, added to by song, dance, firecrackers and laughter. Happiness transcended everything - age gaps, caste differences and gender stereotypes. It was overwhelmingly beautiful.

Even more vendors emerged (something I never thought possible) selling the festival essentials of tinsel, candles, crackers, and flowers. Firecrackers exploded above my head and under my feet as I walked - always accompanied by giggles and shrieks of laughter - the sound of pure childhood bliss! Shop salesmen even abandoned their cries of "lookie, lookie" and greeted people with smiles and asked them to come into their shops for tea. Rakshi (rice wine) flowed freely.

At midnight, in a pub called the "Tom and Jerry", I sipped from a bowl of rakshi (fowl stuff) and toasted in the New Year of 1122.

SATURDAY: The fever of festival rolled over into Saturday and continued, full steam, even when I thought it couldn't possibly go on for another minute.

In the evening I watched as groups of children went from door to door sing carols - called the deusi and bhailo - in exchange for sweets and money - which in the festival spirit is given freely. Processions of hundreds of people danced through the labyrinth of Kathmandu's streets - banging on drums, playing on flutes and singing at the tops of their voices.

I escape to the quietness of a restaurant…set in an outside courtyard … to try and digest it all and to write these words. The restaurant was empty except for myself and one other German tourist. As I order a group of kids come in and I expect them to start singing one of their traditional carols. Instead they give a tape to the waiter and ask him to play it. On goes the music - and instead of a traditional Nepali song the Swedish pop sensation, the Venga Boys, (of all sad things …) blasts from the blown speakers. They excitedly jiggle and jive around and then motion for the German and I to join them dancing. He points at me and says "she will" and I point at him and say the same…we smile, realising that there is no getting out of this one … and get up to dance. And so it is that on a chilly evening, on the first day of Year 1122, I find myself dancing with a group of ten year old children, a German tourist and a gap toothed Nepali waiter - to the Venga Boys. (Music video material!) What can a girl do but smile.

If you can imagine Christmas, Halloween, New Years Eve, Guy Fawkes and the biggest birthday party you have ever had all together at one moment -for two whole days … then you can have a small idea of what gripped Nepal, and me, over the last 48 hours.

It is SUNDAY and it feels as if all of Kathmandu is hung over. Although it is still officially a festival day, today's ceremonies take place within the family home and an eerie silence transcends over the dusty warren that makes up Kathmandu's streets.

I can't believe it is the end of the e-mail and I still have SO much to tell you. SO much I have left out. It is so frustrating!

I will leave you will this though - Nepal might be considered a Third World country…and perhaps in traditional respects it is. But in terms of human compassion, hospitality, generosity and beauty it is, undoubtedly, a First World country of incomparable magnitude

Miss you all and wish you were here to experience this with me
All my love
Sam

P.S. I have attached a couple of photographs so you can see the magic for yourself. Enjoy …